I Watson - Director's cut

Life is so…grey, without the red.

He heard his own voice. “My Goodness, what's happening?” The dark vixen leant across him. “It's all right. You had a dream. You shouted out. Golly gosh, Mr Lawrence, what horror world do you sleep in?”

“I'm all right. Just a dream, as you said. I disturbed you. I'm sorry.” “Don't worry. It's only four. Only half way through my shift. Shame to waste it.”

She was still glued with him and her, more of him, than her. “Did you hear it, in the night?”

“Hear what?”

“It sounded like a baby crying.”

“It was probably a cat. They sound just like babies, in the night.” Her breasts brushed over him, her nipples traced cool ticklish paths across his chest, through the pool. Her hand pulled him gently against her curls and she whispered, “We can try something else if you like. I can turn over if you like and you can try it that way or, if you like, I can eat you.”

“Gosh, a second coming, and some say I am not a religious man. But that's the trouble with Chinese food,” he said, making time while he made up his mind. “You want to eat again so soon afterwards.” He gave in to her first suggestion, that dark taboo. Perhaps because it housed that tighter place and tightness was the thing. And pain, of course, for there it lay. That fine flame-throwing moment, that swift stab of bliss, for just an instant, too short an instant, and then it was gone and then, only indulgence mattered.

But it wasn't easy, even with Luscious Laura, whose stumps had been shattered by a thousand googlies. But the pills she'd fed him had produced a wicked leg-break, and she squealed quite loudly, loudly enough for him to worry about the neighbours on the growing Richmond Park council estate.

His concern for the neighbours ended abruptly as an explosion of light from a large torch held them in its silver beam. Behind it the dark outline of a huge man was just visible. The stocking on his head rounded his shape even more. As the giant figure approached Laura yelped and dived beneath the sheets. But she could still hear his voice, filled with muffled accent. It might have come all the way from Leeds, or some other God-forsaken place.

“Where is he? The two-timing bitch!”

The sheet was ripped away leaving them cowering, quite defenceless. The heavy torch rose above them and the crazy beam zigzagged across the room before at last settling on Laura, first on her quivering breasts and then on her quivering curls. A giant hand reached down to part her legs and the beam focused its full intensity on her sticky wicket.

“It's a girl!” The muffled voice was full of surprise.

The torchlight went out. They heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, then someone falling and cursing and then movements in the shop below and moments later the brass bell ringing out the slamming of the shop door.

“Blimeeey!” Laura sighed her relief. “Who was that? Did you know him?”

Beside her, Mr Lawrence breathed his own relief. “No, I didn’t.” They crept down the stairs to the shop. The blinking neon opposite, red and green, threw the shadows of the ballerinas in the window on to the far wall. They danced. The paintings gathered the light and the painted faces glinted grotesquely. Their bodies glowed red and then green and the green picked up the muscle tone and deepened the hollows.

“How did he get in? I saw you lock the door.”

“These thieves of the night crawl through the crack beneath the door. Even the trusted brass bell let me down tonight. We need garlic, lots of it. It won't keep out the burglars but we can throw it at the cats!” He threw the bolt on the door and turned back into the shop. She'd perched herself on the counter. Her legs dangled. The volcanic light poured in, framing her in its glow.

“Everything's so red and fiery down here,” she whispered. “Just like hell.”

“It is hell, my dear. You can smell the sulphur, hear the clank of chains…” He pointed to the faces in the paintings and then up to the overhead tackle. “See!”

The red turned to green and she became a corpse and her slick became a rotten streak of pus. He shivered at the unholy sight which, of course, was holey too, and he held his breath, waiting for the light to turn again and fill her veins with blood. As the red took hold she smiled at him, wistfully. “Come on, Sir Lancelot, you’ve frightened him off, whoever he was. Bring your helmet and, if you think you need it, your shield, and let's go back to bed.”

The grey December light crawled in with the dawn, adding its gloomy touch to the bedroom. The windows were frostbitten even though the central heating had banged throughout the night. The bedroom was warm and stuffy. In her sleep she had thrown off the bed covers and lay naked, face down. Her breathing was gentle, her sleep untroubled by the creeping light.

He wondered whether he'd snored and checked his chin for froth. His hand remained dry and for a while he lay there pleased with himself.

She looked paler, mixed with buff-yellow. From the hollow of her back the curve of her behind was breathtaking. There could be no finer single line. Stroking it seemed natural. His stalk was still alive, stabbing at the air, made immortal by nocturnal witchery and a handful of pills. He wondered how many men had been inspired by such delight, how many had been led to disaster while drunk on such abandon. He was, nevertheless, aware that the circadian clock was ticking. He was feeling jet-lagged from his ride with Laura, or it might have been the pills, or the unlikely excitement of the night. Whatever it was, with the exception of his dong which was out of control, he was beginning to flag. Even the bedroom door opening made no difference to that.

Paul's face appeared, bright and early, his happiness reaching through the specks of dust held in the heavy air.

“I'm home, Mr Lawrence. Let out early for good behaviour. Gosh, Mr Lawrence, you should be proud of that! A Kodak moment, without a doubt.”

The spell faded slowly, leaving Mr Lawrence befuddled. He tried to smile politely but it wasn’t easy. One of his hands rested on Laura's behind, the other was full of his enthusiasm for it.

Paul looked from right to left then settled on the bed again. Mr Lawrence said, “How in God's name do you people get in? I bolted the door!”

Paul winked. It was obviously a trade secret.

The day before Paul discovered he had not much in common with Michael Faraday or Georg Ohm, DC Anian Stanford stood in Jack Wooderson's office in Hinckley Police Station.

“Why me, Guv? I'm part of the team.”

The Inspector liked the Guv bit. It tickled him. He also liked the fact that Anian Stanford was standing before him looking faintly manhandled and fragile. He enjoyed the moment, stretching it out. He flicked a speck of white from his uniform. It might have been dandruff, but his face was flaking too. The dark blue threw up everything that was wrong.

“I'm sure we'll manage, Anian,” he said, not even trying to conceal his delight.

She looked over his desk piled with paper. Muddled, disorganized, it mirrored the man. She sat down without invitation and smoothed her skirt over her knees. A defensive move. The thought annoyed her. She said, “That's not what I meant.”

Wooderson wanted a cigarette and thought about a walk to the garage. He said, “There's someone out there who doesn't like women, that's all I know. You must have heard.”

She nodded. Of course she'd heard. Half the world had heard by now. One woman had a breast cut off and another needed fifty stitches to keep hers on.

“And then there's the bomb. They're stretched, calling in all the spare. We'll give it till Monday. If nothing breaks by then I'm afraid you'll have to go. It's out of my hands. DI Cole is due in this afternoon. I'll confirm it with him.”