I Watson - Director's cut

Still downhearted Mr Lawrence said, “And what are these?” “A bit of Adam, to use an old-fashioned term, that's all. Down them with your wine.”

“All of them?”

“Go on, be an old devil.”

“Well, perhaps this once, and only because it's been such a dreadful day. I'm not a druggie, you know? I’m not one of your long-haired surfers from Newquay.”

“Come on, Mr Lawrence, take me home. Let me tuck you in and blow out your candle.”

“I have electricity. It’s back on, no thanks to my lodger.”

“Yes, he told me about that.”

“How about a cup of coffee and a brandy and we'll leave it like that?”

“As you like. It's all paid for anyway.”

“Where does Paul get his money?”

“Who knows? Why do some birds hop and some birds walk? Why do some birds come and some birds can't? Who knows? But I have enjoyed talking to you. Maybe, one day, you could teach me to paint. I would love that. There is something about watching an artist work, you know, painting, that's really like, a turn on. I don't know. Understand?” Perplexity pulled down his hairline. He said, “No. Not a word of it. It sounds like balderdash. But it doesn't matter. One day, Laura, I will teach you to paint. But you have too much living to do first.” As though she hadn't heard him she continued, “It's like, creating. That’s it. Going after perfection. You should paint me, Mr Lawrence for I'm as close to perfection as you can get.”

“I know that, Laura. My goodness, I can see that. But you're the wrong colour. Only the members of the Caucasian race can be perfect

– pale white-skinned people. People like me. God made us in his own image and he was white, wasn't he? Sunday school teachers don’t tell lies. Whiter than white with flowing blond curls and a perfectly trimmed beard. And his only forgotten – begotten – son, was even whiter, even after forty days in the wilderness. And no matter how I look at you, and in what light, you’re not white and you certainly don't have a beard.”

“Oh, Mr Lawrence, you've been looking in the wrong place.” He chuckled. “I've no answer to that.”

“You might have later, if you play your cards right.”

“That's the problem. I've never been a card player.”

“Well, there you are then. They say unlucky at cards lucky in love.” He was pleasantly drunk and so was Luscious Laura. Her eyes were black and intense.

“I have another confession to make,” she said coyly. The pretence made her even more delicious.

“What was your first? Remind me?”

“Paul, for goodness sake. That we didn't meet by accident.” “Oh yes, all these confessions. I feel like a priest.”

“Those pills, they wasn't all disco biscuits. It was Paul's idea. He said you'd need them.”

“What have I been fed, exactly?”

She blew out her cheeks and eventually admitted, “Two were adams, and they'll get you all loved-up, but the other two were Viagra, Mr Lawrence, and they'll keep you up all night.”

“I'll probably have a heart attack. I can feel something throbbing even as we talk. You’ve deceived me, Laura, and I should be angry but I’m not.”

Everything was outrageously funny: the total on the bill presented by a puzzled waiter, the look on a flattened duck's face in the window and the sign hanging on the huge brick Pentecostal walls opposite, the one frequented by Mrs Puzey and her brood, which read CHRISTIANS, SING

Even the sting of the night air could not dent their gaiety and it came as a surprise when he suddenly said, “I hate Christmas.” But the twinkle in his eye gave him away. “It reminds me most of chocolates in bright sparkling wrappers and the orange and strawberry creams that are always left in the tin?”

“I like strawberry creams,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “I thought you might.”

Between the brandy and the coffee was the colour of her skin. Colours seemed deeper, all of a sudden. She wasn't going to go; she made him lock the shop door and turn out the shop lights and then she peeled off her green pants.

“Buttons! Mr Lawrence you’ve got buttons!”

“I’m an old-fashioned man, Laura. No till, no TV, no computer, no wireless and definitely no zips!”

“What’s a wireless?”

She fiddled with his buttons then said, “Oh, Mr Lawrence, look at me now, I’m playing the mouth-organ. I’m following my old man into the music industry.”

“But he disappeared, Laura. I hope you don’t disappear.”

“Like the missing women, you mean?”

“Exactly, but my goodness, you’re right. I can hear the music. I’m finding it quite stirring, even patriotic in a strange sort of way. A bit like going into battle, I suppose.”

After a while she stood up and licked her lips and he noticed that her pubic hair was different; to begin with there was more of it, with isolated tufts floating upward toward her navel, tiny tropical islands on a sea of rich Robot City tea. It all looked silky soft but felt quite coarse. The skin around her tight stomach had lost some of it's pigment: a harsh stiff-haired brush would do it; burnt sienna over West Indian sepia.

He was, nevertheless, looking into a black hole. And that was dangerous. Back in 1979 when Margaret Thatcher was in power and the USSR invaded Afghanistan, Disney had lost a fortune looking into a black hole but their special effects weren’t nearly as good as these. But as Einstein had calculated, some time back, there was no escaping it. So Mr Lawrence didn't try. Not really.

“I can't. I can't,” he said, not really trying.

“Yes, you can. You can. There, didn't I tell you you could?” She was a furnace, a slippery furnace. And he was sweating. All at once sounds seemed louder. He could hear the rustle of her hair, a little moaning from her lips, the slip-slap of things farther south.

“Let it come,” she said with burning breath. “It doesn't matter. Feel my stomach against yours,” she whispered against his ear and he felt it turn wet. The sensation wasn't altogether pleasant. Water found its way into his ears very easily. For that reason he never went swimming or put his head under in the bath. Luscious Laura went on, “Feel my thighs against yours. Feel my perfect breasts with their perfect nipples brushing your chest. Tell me if you can, that all this isn't worth twentyfive quid!” And then quickly, like someone selling insurance, she added breathlessly, “No hidden extras. VAT – vagina, arse and tits – included in the price, and there’s ten percent off for pensioners.” He laughed out loud.

“What is it? Is it something I said?”

She settled back against his arms, the hint of spearmint and wild flowers quite agreeable.

But the spit in his ear was still giving him trouble.

He said, nevertheless, “You know, Laura, without speaking of looks, you are very beautiful.”

“Yes, I do know that, Mr Lawrence.”

She snuggled closer and closed her eyes, safe. Her breath was soft and warm.

He fell asleep thinking that he ought to kick her out before he did. When you are older courtships should be longer. It takes time getting used to waking next to a nightmare: open mouth slobbering and spitting, zoo noises rattling, breath corrupted by life. Younger things smell younger and taste fresher. Older people should get out before falling asleep. It saves the younger people unnecessary brain damage in the morning.

And yet, and yet, it was too late now, for he snored a satisfied snore.

His erection woke him for it was so unusual. Pounding. Detached. Sweat poured from him and collected on his chest, a salty pool, another Dead Sea. He felt utterly wrecked. The sex tonic was taking its toll. There is always a price to pay, old timers would tell you, and they knew a thing or two. If it happened again – and you never knew for even this chance came out of the blue – he would stick to walnuts and red peppers and what was it? Ah yes, Heinz baked beans with sausages in tomato sauce. An old-fashioned tin that needed a tin-opener; razor sharp lids that could slice off a finger and often did.