I Watson - Director's cut

“I know that, Breath, and I'm fucking grateful. Maybe you should have been a fucking social worker. But right now I want to sit in my bathroom. Is that all right with you?”

The big guy nodded and reached for a tissue to blow his nose, then remembered he’d left it changing colour on what was left of the old guy’s finger, which wasn’t very much.

The Gallery had been filled with police officers, some of them in white overalls and calling themselves SOCOs. They carried the tools of their trade – ground-penetrating radar handsets, Hoovers and copies of the town planner's drawings. There were also a couple of springer spaniels straining on leashes. Paul heard some of their handler’s conversation but it didn’t make much sense to him. They were talking about how these dogs were different to your average police sniffer dog, how they could detect the scent of human remains through concrete. They were going on about something called NPIA and scientific training techniques and then, later, that the dogs couldn’t work in the stink in the cellar and that they had got over-excited by the dead rodents, the decomposing cats and rats. One of them suggested that they bring in the local authorities, that there must be a law against dead cats in a cellar. That was just before they sent out for some breathing apparatus. To Paul the coppers looked more like dentists than policemen and perhaps that was why he was so unsettled.

The search was completed long before Mr Lawrence arrived home. Paul was waiting for him by the stairs. Still spook-eyed and trembling it was clear he needed the gentle touch. He blurted, “What was it, Mr Lawrence?”

“A mistake, dear boy. They were on about missing women and stolen property.”

Paul's eyes grew even wider, ready to pop. Mr Lawrence’s explanation had not done the trick and he pointed an idiot’s finger up the empty stairs. “They went in to my room.”

“Is your gear stolen?”

“Well…”

“My goodness. Well, obviously they weren't interested in it. I think it was more likely artwork that they were after.”

“Like the ballerinas?”

“Did they take them?” Mr Lawrence turned to check but there they were, still dancing. “Did they take anything at all? Did you make sure they signed for whatever they took?”

“Just your books. That’s all they took, apart from little plastic bags of things they picked up with tweezers and things. And they used Hoovers too, small Hoovers. They used them in every corner and on every surface and on some clothes. There were kozzers everywhere, upstairs, my room as well. They even unscrewed our bathroom cabinet. Why would they do that? And they took the cistern to pieces. They spent ages in the cellar, with their tape measures. And in the studio. They looked at everything, even the floorboards. They looked behind all the pictures. I thought they'd never go. It was humiliating, Mr Lawrence.”

“Yes, I’m sure it was. They think we've got a hidden stash of artwork. Someone's put them up to it, no doubt. Probably someone from The British. Probably Albert. There is something odd about Albert. I know he’s Jewish, but there is something else beside.” “I'm worried, Mr Lawrence. Kozzers worry me even when I ain't done nothing. And I’ve always done something.”

“No need to be. They have nothing to go on. Nothing at all. From now on, we have to be a bit careful, that's all.”

“I've tidied up a bit, especially in the studio. And I’ve put up some more tape around the cellar door. The smell was coming through something awful.”

“But the studio is out of bounds, Paul.”

“I know you said that but…”

“Yes, the circumstances. Given the circumstances, just this once.” “They left a mess. All your boxes were on the floor.”

“The Clingfilm?”

“Yes, your boxes of Clingfilm.”

“I use it to wrap the paintings. It keeps the damp away.”

“I guessed that. I guessed that's what you used it for.”

The subject was good enough: an island of trees giving the illusion of a suspended mass, an object and its reflection bathed in light. During the last week or so Mrs Unsworth had made experimental dabs, changing this key and that value and yet was still puzzled by its lack of depth. Mrs Unsworth was seventy, fragile, her tiny frame warped by arthritis. A widow, she had been coming to class for four years, making use of her enforced independence.

“I've told you before that you can't have the paint too thin where the light is weak. You've been skimping again. I know that paint's expensive but better to use a smaller canvas and get it right.” “Oh, I know, I know. I blame my husband, God bless his soul, but I've become so used to frugality. He used to boil the carrot tops, you know, you know? To put it another way, Mr Lawrence, he was a tight bastard. Right up to the day he died. It caused his death, you know, you know? We were in Sainsbury's, the meat section, when he saw the cost of lamb chops and died on the spot. Caused quite a commotion, I'll say. He went just like that. He saw the price per kilo and hadn’t got a clue what that was, then slowly he converted it to English money, pounds, and then slowly shook his head in wonder and then, very slowly, he dropped to his knees. For a moment I thought he was praying but then, he slipped sideways and went all the way. I remember it so well, you know, you know? So very well. I just stood there watching. I couldn't move. His leg shot out and hung in the air for a moment, kicking, waving. Waving goodbye, maybe. And that was it, you know, you know? His final wave to me. Gone. After thirtyfive years. Gone. And you know, you know what the funny thing is? He was a liver and bacon man. Liver, bacon, mash and fried onions with thick lumpy gravy. He never even liked lamb!” She shook her white-haired head. “It's always amazed me, though, when I see the news, the farmers on the news, when they say they have to kill off their lambs because they're not worth the money. You tell me if you can, if the farmers are getting pennies, you know, you know? Then who is getting rich, eh? Eh?” And with that, with a slender arthritic finger, she poked him forcefully in the arm.

Rubbing his arm, he said, “I wish I had an answer. Someone is, and that's for sure. Maybe the wholesalers, perhaps the owners of the abattoirs, or the hauliers or perhaps, more likely, those villains who own the supermarkets. Whoever they are, I'm sure their religion is not Church of England. I'm sure that pork scratchings are not on their menu. But, nevertheless, you have used that excuse before.” “Oh I know, I know. But time flies when you get to our age. Not that you’re as old as me. But doesn’t it just? How many days in your life can you actually remember? How many weeks? How many months? Such a waste, I think. And you know, you know, you never think about the waste of time until you’re running out of it.” “You’re so right, Mrs Unsworth.”

“You can call me Dolly, Mr Lawrence. I think we’ve known each other long enough to end the formality. I was beautiful once and once you would have wanted to paint me.”

“I have told you this before Mrs Unsworth – Dolly – my preference is for landscapes.”

“I know. I know you have, I remember, but you know, you know, on a young woman’s body, Mr Lawrence, are the most wonderful landscapes that you will ever find. And I’ll tell you something else, for if you look closely so that you see beneath the weather-beaten surface, you’ll find those same landscapes on an old girl too.”

In the class there were six others beside Mrs Unsworth.

Mr Lawrence coughed for their attention. It was not an easy thing to hold. With the older members it tended to wander. And with the youngsters it was never there in the first place. But for the moment the group turned as one. “Now, because it's our last meeting before the festive break I've arranged a little something special. This evening we'll be concentrating on the figure. I suppose we could call it still life. At least, that is what I am hoping. We have a model.”