I Watson - Director's cut

Ticker noticed his right-hand man's uneasiness and relented. “I'm sorry, Breathless, but this shit is getting to me. I never realized how much I'd miss her. Christ, I feel like someone's gutted me. Look, take a couple of guys and throw some weight about in Avenue Road. Let them know we're serious.”

Breathless Billy nodded. “OK, Boss, I'll do that. But what you said there, before, you heard something?”

Ticker said slyly, “Maybe, maybe I have. It's more than you lot have. You and me, we're going to have a look around an art gallery. You in to art? Picasso, Raphael, Flaubert? Flaubert said that one must sense the artist everywhere, but never see him.”

“Fuck me, Boss, I didn't know that. I thought Flaubert was a writer. You know, that Bovary tart. Just shows you, doesn’t it? Never see him, eh? That is interesting. They probably hide behind the fucking screen, the easel, when they're fucking, you know, doing the business, with the paint.”

“Well, do you like the paintings?”

Breathless pulled a face. “I can take it, you know? The Tate. Never been there, mind. Fucking don't, do you? Fuck that. Walking around with a stiff neck. Pay to get in. Half the cunts don't make fucking sense. I can't see it. Painting half black, half white, call it black and white and bung a fifty-grand tag on it. And the women in the pictures. Fattest fucking tarts I've ever seen. And they're floating, right? In fucking heaven or some place, with fucking angels. Little fat fucking kids with wings that wouldn’t hold up a fart-filled balloon, right? I'm telling you, Boss, these artist people have got their brushes up their own arseholes. Sooner have a dead fish stuck on the wall.” “That's art!” Ticker pointed to the painting of Helen.

“Yeah, it's something. That's for sure. This ain't a criticism, Boss, no fucking way, but no way would I have my missus on show like that. Not so's anyone else would get to see it anyway. I mean, that's real. Any closer and you'd be giving it a tongue job. With respect, that is.” “I ain't got a problem with that. Helen didn't either. If you've got a problem then it's your fucking problem.”

“Right. I was just saying – ”

“No! No you weren't.”

“Boss, it's a fucking turn-on. Do you want other geezers walking out of here with a fucking cruise missile sticking out in front of them? That's the question. If it was me, I'd want to keep it all to myself. For fuck's sake, I mean, the cunt's either made a smudge or that's the clit hanging from here to Southend.”

“You always were a selfish cunt, Breath. You probably got Scottish ancestors like that fucker Brown.” Ticker grinned. “Only kidding. Even you ain't that tight! Come on, let's go and look at some other paintings.”

“I'm with you, Boss. Always have been, you know that. But I hope it's scenery, like trees or wild animals, tigers or ducks. Ducks is good. I ain't into all these acres of skin. Puts a shiver up my arse. Brings back memories of when I didn't have to pay for it.”

“We all pay for it, Breath, one way or the other. We all fucking pay.”

“Ain't that the fucking truth?”

Breathless looked at the painting of red bricks and said, “See what I mean, Boss? That’s a bunch of fucking building bricks, right, and the bastard’s put a grand tab on it. Now what the fuck is the world coming to?”

The heavy old-fashioned blade of the guillotine came down and left Lawrence's index finger on the table. The three men stared at it for some moments. It moved. Some little nerve ends were left alive, or a tendon flicked back like a piece of elastic. Breathless Billy let go of the handle of the guillotine and took a pace back and said, “Fuck that!” But Ticker Harrison had moved his gaze to Lawrence’s face. The old bastard had felt no pain, he was sure of it. He was simply staring impassively at his finger.

Ticker said, “If you don't talk to me, sunshine, then you're going to end up with no fingers at all. That ain't actually going to improve your painting, is it? Now I'm a fucking art lover and I hate to do this, but one way or the other, you're going to fucking talk to me.” “If we could negotiate.”

“Negotiate? Where the fuck are you coming from? Negotiate? You ain't actually holding a very good hand at the moment.”

Breathless chuckled. “That's good, Boss. That's fucking funny.” “Breath, that wasn't a fucking joke.”

“It sounded like a joke. It was funny enough to be a joke.” “The cunt wants to negotiate. He thinks I'm a fucking Arab or something. Al fucking Fayed. He's losing his fucking fingers and he wants to negotiate. What sort of fucking world are we living in? Forget the fucking finger. Take off his fucking arm!”

Lawrence said calmly, “I was merely going to say that I'm bleeding rather badly. If I could have some tissue to stem the blood, then I'll be quite willing to tell you whatever you want to know. It was never a secret anyway. You didn't have to do this.”

Ticker seemed upset. “You should have fucking said.”

“You never gave me a chance.”

“Breath, for Christ's sake find some fucking tissues.”

“Got one here, Boss, in my pocket somewhere. But it's been used.” So Ticker Harrison discovered that his wife had a lover and was enjoying a romantic liaison in Spain – winter sun, Thompson, something like that – and she was going to phone Lawrence once she returned home, but that was still some days away. He had, during their sessions, become her confidant.

In the car Ticker Harrison kept shaking his head. He was stunned. Uncertainty had been nudged aside by anger. For the first time since Helen had gone missing, he was in charge again. Now he was working on how to pay her back for causing him such grief. He'd take her lover apart, no doubt about that, and to teach her a lesson he'd probably make her watch. What he was going to do to her he hadn't quite decided but one thing was certain, Helen Harrison wasn't going to enjoy it.

“You OK, Boss?” Breathless asked. He was still shaken by the old guy's detachment. There had been no scream or shout or cry. No reaction that you usually got. Fact was, Breathless Billy had noticed a smile on Lawrence's face as his finger came off. Now that was fucking scary.

“I'm fine, Breathless. I need to get my head around it, though. I can't understand how a fucking woman could leave me, that's all.” “I can understand that.”

“What the fuck’s that suppose to mean?”

“I didn’t mean…the fucking women leaving you. I meant I could understand how you feel about it.”

“They call that empathy.”

“Do they? Fuck me. What’s that mean exactly, Boss?”

“It means that you’re a soft bastard.”

Breathless Billy pulled a downcast face.

Ticker went on, “Some time alone. A little bit of space is what I need. Going to play the old Matt Monro records. Maybe some Dean Martin. My old man used to know him, you know? When he was on the buses.”

“I never knew Dean Martin was on the buses.”

“No, Matt Monro was on the buses. Dean Martin was with Jerry Lewis.”

“Right, I remember the movies now. Great fucking movies they were. Black and white. Can't remember the titles though but, Dean, he was all right.”

“ Little Old Wine Drinker Me, remember that?”

“Do I.”

“One of my favourites.”

“And Rio Bravo, remember that, Boss?”

“Fucking remember it! When I was a kid I knew every fucking word. John T Chance. Angie fucking Dickinson, and she was a good looking tart in those days.”

“Were you a John Wayne fan, Boss?”

“Yeah, still am, but don't spread it around.”

“I won't say nothing.”

Ticker nodded. “Now, like I said, I need some space to get my head around this shite, so I'm going to leave Avenue Road to you. Get some people together and get over there. I think we've had enough fucking blood for one day, don't you? So just give them a scare, right?” “I get it. I know where you're coming from. I'll do that. Not a fucking problem. You can leave it to me. And Boss, I know this has hit you hard, I know that. For fuck's sake, I want you to know that if you need someone to talk to, like, fucking, a fucking shoulder to cry on or something, I'm always here for you.”