I Watson - Director's cut

(Off camera)

Fuck that for a living. Don’t ask me to do that again. Yeah?

Deleted Scene.

Saturday. Early. A time for nurses and milkmen and baker s and insomniacs when the rest of the world was asleep, when Friday night and no alarm clock in the morning had got the better of the rest, an ethereal time when silly thoughts took on immense profundity and last night’s problems were less severe. For the plods the long night was drawing to its close. They’d dozed in their secret places, of course, but it wasn’t the same.

First Year Probationer PC Simon Thomason had started his shift the previous evening, showing a presence to the local teenagers. He was twenty-two. He’d left college with A-levels, passed the interviews, the physical and psychometric tests, and joined the force in August, the month that produced the worst crime figures. The schools were shut for their summer holidays during August but the experts will tell you that this is just a coincidence. Other experts will tell you that the hot weather is to blame. Members of the general public, less expert in such matters, would wonder why the yob culture had not spread to the countries where the sun shone relentlessly. The experts would tell you that it had nothing to do with the fact that in those countries the prisons were such that even prison visitors did not want to visit. PC Thomason faced a two-year probationary period, combining classroom studies in law and procedure with on-the-job training.

He’d been at Sheerham a week but it seemed longer. It seemed like a lifetime. He worked under the guidance of an experienced officer, sometimes a sergeant, more often than not a PC father figure. But last night he’d been let loose for the serious crime was drawing all the manpower. So he’d been plodding, waiting for calls, showing some uniform. He’d dealt with someone’s scratched car and moved on a bunch of kids using a shop window as goalposts. But for him the night had died young. Perhaps they had forgotten he was out there.

Dawn was fading in and he was looking forward to a healthy copper’s breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausage, black pudding and fried bread, when the shout came through.

The operator said wearily, “A disturbance at Robot City, you should be close.”

He responded, “Just round the corner.”

“CB1 is on the way. There will be flashing lights and a loud siren. For your information, just in case you’re a career copper, the lights and siren are known in the trade as blues and twos.

Try not to miss them.”

It was far too early for sarcasm and it flew unnoticed over Thomason’s head.

First Year Probationer Simon Thomason arrived before CB1 and the supermarket manager, Mr David Solomon, collared him at the door.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” the manager said, tapping his Disney watch and straightening his Mickey Mouse tie. He carried a walkie-talkie to let everyone know how important he was.

Flustered, the first year probationer said, “Sorry, I was round the corner.”

“For what do we pay our rates? For law and order. If I were late the shop wouldn’t open, then what? Pensioners would go hungry, women would have nothing to do, nowhere for them to bring their disgusting sticky-fingered children to leave their sticky fingerprints all over the stock. My stock!”

Mr Solomon tugged at Thomason’s arm and all but manhandled him through the revolving door. Breathlessly he explained, “One of the models has gone missing.”

The probationer narrowed his eyes and asked, “Is she pregnant?”

The manager paused and threw him a strange look then rushed ahead, a thin short streak of black flapping jacket and baggy pinstripe trousers. l. It was here that Mr Solomon was waiting impatiently for him and where other members of staff in their green Robot City uniforms stood in small groups to watch, their expressions dark and serious. This was obviously a serious business.

The probationer asked reluctantly, “Can we have the name of the missing…?”

“Name?”

“Yes Sir?”

The manager shook his head and pointed to an empty stand between the shelves of flimsy bras and pants. Thomason made an O with his lips and left them open.

Eventually he composed himself and uttered, “A model, a mannequin, a dummy. I see.” He took out his notebook. “When did you notice its absence, Sir?”

“This morning. An hour ago.”

“Is there another one that I can see, Sir?”

Solomon looked horrified. “Each one is unique. That is what this boutique is famous for. Individual styles that are affordable.”

“And this one, the one that is missing, what did it look like? Was it a full figure like that?” He pointed to another dummy at the end of the row. “Or just the bust, like this?” His pointing finger moved to the bra counter.

“Full figure.”

“Dressed, Sir?”

“Of course, in our new designer range for the sophisticated woman. We sell all sizes between 8 and 12. Make sure you note that in your report. We don’t want anyone accusing us of not catering for the fuller figure.”

“Underwear?”

“Yes.” The manager wagged a thoughtful finger. “But wait a moment. I do have something to show you. In the stockroom. Came in last night. Something very similar. You will notice that these models share a likeness with Keira Knightley?”

“Yes, Sir. They are very thin.”

“Not thin, perfect. Perfect for our new range of lingerie.”

“Like a coat-hanger, you mean?”

The manager paused, then continued on to the stockroom. In a rush he opened a single door and ushered Thomason in. Before him lay cages of unwrapped goods and shelving that went on forever. “This is the one,” the manager said, halting before a partially dressed mannequin. “As near as damn it.” Beneath the model a soft-covered book had been left open on the shelf. The manager pulled a dismissive face. “What’s this? Atonement? McEwan? Never heard of it, or him.” He sighed. “I wish the staff wouldn’t use the stockroom for their tea-breaks.”

“I see what you mean. She is like Keira. Saw the film, just last week. She was in a football strip, poking through, gorgeous. What was it called?”

“Pirates of the Caribbean?”

“No, no, not that one.” Thomason shook his head, trying to shake back the memory. It came out of nowhere. “Bend it Like Beckham, that’s the one!”

“Didn’t see it,” Solomon confessed. “Football strip, you say? I’ll get the DVD. By golly, thanks for that.” A woman in green poked her head around the door. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr Solomon, but we have a problem.”

“Right,” the manager snapped in his efficient mode. “Be right there.” He turned to the probationer. “Make notes in your notebook. Be back in a mo’.” He paused, for Miss Knightley had made all the difference and they were now a brotherhood, and added, perhaps in confidence, “It’s probably the lottery. It causes more trouble than it’s worth.”

Then he was gone and the door, a fire door that swung shut automatically, swung shut. And First Year Probationer PC Simon Thomason was left alone in the stockroom with the mannequin that looked like Keira Knightley and, come to that, a dozen other stars that graced the silver screen. He made a few notes, height, colouring, no obvious blemishes and so on and his closer insp ection got closer still and, given the circumstances, to obtain a complete picture, he pulled aside her pants. And that was when the door swung open and Mr Solomon, the manager, and the occupants of CB1, PCs Wendy Booth and Carrie Jones, stood framed in the doorway. The manager raised an ominous eyebrow, the brotherhood forgotten instantly, and together, as one, the PCs burst into uncontrollable laughter. Shit street. There’s one in every town.