At the rear of the studio a door opened on to a small yard of black sterile earth where even the weeds would not take hold. To the right of the door stood a rotting wooden shed. Its roof had fallen on to a rustswollen lawn-mower. A cracked concrete path led across the yard to a blistered gate where two galvanized bins stood. The heavy gate hung off its hinges and scraped the concrete path. An arc of scraped-clean concrete indicated that it wouldn't fully open, but the opening was sufficient for the bin men – the waste disposal executives – to manoeuvre the bins through.
The gate opened as far as it would go on to a back road that ran behind the shops. It was an empty road save for the parked cars and an occasional lorry that would stop to make a delivery to the back of one of the row of shops or restaurants. At such times the narrow road was blocked to any other vehicle and for that reason most deliveries were made in the High Road. Across the road a line of silent offices stood in various states of disrepair. Most of the dark windows were cracked. At some stage, before Mr Lawrence's time, the road had been a place of industry but now the offices were mostly unused. The few that did flicker with light were dark again soon after for it meant that smackheads had broken in and were cooking with candles. Next to the row of offices stood a row of garages with corrugated roofs covered in moss. There was only one shop front in the road, and that was farther along, opposite the rear of the barber's shop, and it sold dolls. Dolls and dolly paraphernalia: doll's houses and cots and clothes and dolls of all description. It was called the Doll's House.
In that forgotten road the shop window stood out, dressed in white lace. An old woman dressed in long dark clothes and woollen shawls owned the shop but she was rarely seen. And customers were few. With Christmas coming, the only concession in the unchanging window was a single gold star that hung from a white suspended ceiling. A mangy black cat lived in the window and curled up on the cots. Its tail flicked over the plastic and porcelain skins and the beady lifeless eyes. Perhaps it looked content because it thought it had smothered a baby.
Mr Lawrence didn't often use the road for it was a depressing place, a throwback to an older time when grey was the colour and soot rained from belching chimneys. He saw it when he closed the yard gate on the mornings the bins were emptied. The executives always left it open. Only occasionally, when the gangs of youths were particularly boisterous, would he use that way to The British.
He'd noticed the gangs earlier as they left trails of lager cans behind them. It was interesting, Mr Lawrence considered, that these hard men of the time could not stomach bitter. And perhaps that was the difference between men and men who needed to be in gangs. The British was full of office workers on their Christmas night out getting in the way of the regulars. They were loud and noisy, making the most of their once-a-year excuse, expecting other people to join their revelry.
How he hated Christmas with its merrymakers in their cheap office suits and last year’s skirts that were now two sizes too small. How he hated the youngsters with the futures they didn’t deserve.
Smoke drifted in thin layers. Cigarette butts were crushed on the carpet. Lager dribbled from the bar.
An older man in a worn black suit and yellow tie was being served. He was obviously a director or the owner of the office to which the merrymakers belonged for he had bought a round of drinks and was now dithering about his own. “A real ale, please. An IPA, or something like that. Double Diamond or Red Barrel”
His tie or the drinks he had bought left the bargirl in her tight black skirt unimpressed. “Sorry, never heard of them. Have some of this schoolboy’s piss like everyone else.”
On the bar was a collection box for Rasher and the colonel. People edged away from it. It was the only place, a yard either side, where you could get served without queuing two deep. The thing is, apart from Rasher and the colonel who had sadly departed before being excused, the collection boxes were a reminder of what Darwin might have pointed out, that it is charity that holds back the future. That keeping the weak and the beggars alive to spread their what have you with the strong, is messing with evolution. The doctor or the double-glazing salesman was there.
He asked, “How are the voices?”
Albert and Sid the Nerve shuffled closer to listen. The barber's ears twitched.
“I'm afraid they're getting worse.”
“That's not good.”
“He's been watching the news, the famine in Africa.”
“It could be worse.”
“Could it?”
“It could be in a country we cared about.”
“I see what you mean.”
“But it's not good.”
“Why is that?"
“Famine in any country isn't good, is it?”
“Well, there’s China, I suppose, or India, or any one of the Arab countries. But I see what you mean. But Paul, is Paul mad?” “Mad? Madness is a state of mind. We all go through periods of madness, when we're angry or in love or chasing money in a slot machine. Insanity is different. Only if we're mad all the time are we insane. But if we're insane we can be mad some of the time.” Sid frowned.
So did Albert as he nodded thoughtfully.
So did the barber. He pulled at his right ear, searching for loose hair.
“But it's getting worse. What can I expect?”
The man bunched his shoulders, as though it helped his concentration. “Does he dress up? Perhaps as a woman? Like, for instance, Norman Bates?”
Roger the manager heard the name and edged over.
“I haven't seen him in woman's clothes.”
“Well, watch out for it.”
“It's not something I'd fail to notice.”
“You'd be surprised.”
“Anything else?”
“Reminiscence.”
“He's got a good memory. He knows lots of chess openings.” “Not memory, old boy. It's a medical term used to describe inhibition dispersion.”
Sid the Nerve said, “Right. Nice One. I remember. It's the String Theory, right? Yeah. Wormholes. Know where you’re coming from.” The salesman shook his head and continued, “Most of our actions are inhibited by negative thoughts – boredom, lack of motivation, understanding and so forth. In the normal person a short break, a rest period, from a given task will give renewed vigour. With the psychotic this isn't the case. Basically, he picks up from where he left off. The rest period has made no difference. The reason is that the psychotic needs a much longer rest period for his inhibitions to disappear. Slowness, therefore, is a definite sign.”
Roger said, “So we're talking about politicians, Gordon Brown and Jack Straw in particular?”
“Anything else?”
“Extroverts, watch out for the slow extrovert.”
“What can be done?”
“Pills. Lots of them. Phlebotomy for the politicians.”
The street door opened and a blast of air shot in, followed immediately by Mrs Puzey. She waded in with her considerable bulk and people were flattened against the bar. She waved a threatening umbrella.
“You led my little girl astray!”
The crowd at the far end of the bar turned to look.
Mr Lawrence swayed this way and that as a professional boxer might have done, keeping well away from the point. He stuttered, “I beg your pardon?”
“You! You! You evil man! My little girl was innocent until she met you!”
He tried to pacify her by throwing up his hands in his best gesture of geniality. Mr Lawrence knew all about body language, the language of management. Keep eye contact, keep your knees pointing toward the opposing genitals, lick your lips and leave your tongue hanging – that sort of thing. She saw the streaky bandage and was momentarily distracted. Albert ducked out of the way.
“Calm down, Mrs Puzey, for goodness sake. No one is leading your daughter anywhere.”
“She lives in your house of sin. I know. Don't you try to tell me otherwise. All them filthy pictures on your walls. I can hardly bring myself to clean them. Oh, sweet Jesus, what am I to do? My little girl is at the mercy of this… this…”
Roger helped her out. “Pervert,” he suggested.
Mrs Puzey said, “Exactly. Pervert!”
Roger's smile spread out and spread to the others. Within moments the hilarity reached the far corners.
Such bracing acerbities were too much for Mr Lawrence and in a weighty and determined voice which was most unlike his and had the others that knew him quite nonplussed, he said, “Listen to me, woman!”
The shock of his sudden stand had her backing off but she managed, “Don't you make none of them clever excuses to me.” “Mrs Puzey, Laura is staying at the shop for a while until she can sort herself out. I have laid down strict ground rules. She has to be in at a certain time, an early time, and she can have no one back at any time. She has given up all her other activities. What is more, she is serving in the shop and I am teaching her about art. She stands on the verge of a new career. For goodness sake, have her back. Come and get her things. I thought I was doing you all a favour. I'm certainly not putting up with this nonsense.”
She seemed flustered now, at once concerned that she had reached the wrong conclusion and that it might jeopardize her cleaning contract.
“Did I say that, Mr Lawrence?” She turned to Albert. “Did I say I wanted her back?”
Albert, crouching almost, shook his head. Dandruff took off. The air was still unsettled by the waving umbrella. The layers of smoke spiralled this way and that.
She turned to Sid the Nerve. “And you?”
Nervous Sid said, “I didn't hear you say that.”
“There you are, then. What’s all this about? How could I know she was learning to paint the pictures? You didn't tell me that. I thought she was in them filthy pictures!”
“No. Good Lord, no. I wouldn't have her in the paintings, Mrs Puzey.”
“And why not? Are you telling me my little girl isn't good enough to be in them pictures, just because she's black? Is that what you're telling me?”
She turned to Albert again. “Did he say that? Did he?”
Albert beamed and nodded. “It sounded like it.”
She turned back to Mr Lawrence and said, “I take you to Race Relations.” She stormed to the door, muttering.
Mr Lawrence wiped perspiration from his forehead. Sid shook a large drink and some of it made his lips.
Roger said, “Bloody hell.”
The salesman said, “Now, that is madness and not insanity. You see the difference?”
With no little endeavour Roger gained a little composure and addressed Mr Lawrence. “Mr Lawrence,” he said. “You might think that on account that I have a couple of South African wines on my wine list, that this place resembles that place in South Africa where Michael Caine beat off the Zulus, but you would be mistaken. You might think that VCs are easily earned in here. But you would be mistaken. If I have any more trouble with the Zulus or anyone resembling a Zulu, then you are banned along with Liverpool supporters and the singing of Ferry Across The Mersey.”
Mr Lawrence thought about an appeal but instead shook a defeated head. er pants.
The mannequin in his shop window was different. She looked a little shop-worn. A few black strands sprouted from her panty line. Mr Lawrence thought he was seeing things and put it down to the drinks in The British and the cold night air.
Susan, the freckle-faced girl from the art class, looked worried when she walked into the shop shortly after it opened. It was drizzling and her fawn-coloured raincoat was freckled too. With her was a muscular man in jeans and dust-covered T-shirt. He looked like a builder. She looked worried and he looked angry.
“Mr Lawrence, you haven't seen Sandra, have you?”
“Not since the class, my dear. Why?”
“Sandra never came home.”
“My goodness. Have you seen her, Paul?”
From behind the counter Paul shook his head.
The man said, “Come on, we're wasting time.”
Susan explained, “This is Sandra's husband.”
Mr Lawrence thought about shaking hands. Instead he shook his head and offered them a grave expression.
Sandra's husband said, “We'll have to report it to the police.” Paul grimaced. “The police?”
“Got to. She's pregnant, you know?”
Mr Lawrence put in, “No, I didn't know until Paul told me, yesterday.”
All faces turned to Paul who shrugged, “She must have said.” “Bloody worry that is. I've had to take time off work. Don't get paid for it. And my dinner wasn't cooked three nights running.” The man shook his angry head. Leaning closer he took them into his confidence and said in a whisper, “Last night was steak-and-chips night. I ended up with Chinese – all that fucking salt. What do you think of that?” “Not good. Between you and me I’ve been worried about the Chinese for some time. But what about Sandra? You've left it this long?” Mr Lawrence raised his eyebrows.
Sandra’s husband stepped back from the perceived rebuke. “I thought she might have gone to her mum's.”
“Does she often do that?”
“Only on Saturday afternoons when she takes the kids. I meet her there, after the racing. We all go for tea. Always have. Isn’t that right, Sue?”
Susan nodded.
“It’s not much,” he said gloomily. “Always the same – ham and salad, and the bread’s always stale.”
Susan turned to the door and said, “C’mon, you’re right. We’re wasting time.”
Mr Lawrence wondered whether women with freckles knew just how attractive they looked. He asked, “The last time you saw her, was it at the studio?”
They turned back from the door. Susan's eyes filled up as she nodded. “I was meeting my husband. I left early, remember?” “I do, yes. Now I remember. You didn't clean your brushes. I've told you about that before.”
Once they had gone Paul sidled across, a sideways crab-like movement. He picked up a duster and began dab-dabbing. It wasn't necessary. Mrs Puzey and her gang left the shop spotless. His mind was clearly on other things.
“I'm worried. I don't mind telling you. Things seem to be ganging up on me.”
“Nothing's as bad as it seems.”
“But if Sandra's missing.”
“That's not a problem. We've got a waiting list for the club.” He shook his head. “That's not what I meant. The police will be back, Mr Lawrence. The police! What about the gear, the gear?” “Oh, don't worry about that. They won't be looking for stolen property. Not now. They'll be looking for Sandra. You don't have a problem.”
“I do have a problem. Friday is coming.”
“Oh yes, your gentleman friend.”
“He's not so gentle.”
“You're right. I can still see the fist marks from his last caress.” “And on Friday he's coming back.”
“I told you before that I will think of something. Don't you worry about that either.”
Paul nodded, more confident in the knowledge that Mr Lawrence had not forgotten him.
“Now go and make some tea, and take a cup into Laura. She came in very late last night.”
Paul tut-tutted the idea. “That girl will get herself into trouble one of these days.”
“I think she's on the pill.”
“I didn't mean that, Mr Lawrence. I meant that she'll meet some nutter. A real…nutter!”
“No. She's very choosy. She doesn't sleep around. Or stand around either, come to that.”
“I don't know. There's an awful lot of nutters out there.”
“So long as they're not in here. That's all that really matters.” “By the way, Mr Lawrence, I heard the cats again last night and they were crying again, like before.”
“Yes, something must have upset them.”
While the kettle boiled, Paul went back to his room and carefully, so they wouldn't crease, he replaced the baby-growers on the hangars and placed them in the wardrobe. They'd been left in a pile on his floor.