Director's Cut Read Online Free PDF Page A

beyond the security bars, open-mouthed and puzzled at his inability to gain entry, the young
man peered in. His features were flattened grotesquely against the glass.
    Mr Lawrence groaned. Oh God, it hadn't been a dream. He really had invited him
to stay. He threw back the bolts again and opened the door to the young man's
wide grin. The young man waited until the old bell finished and then quickly
moved forward as though afraid that Mr Lawrence might change his mind. His leading
foot skidded in a puddle, the plastic bag he carried was projected forward and
ended up in Mr Lawrence's arms and the young man, Paul, Paul Knight, ended up
sitting in the wet.
    “Stone the crows, Mr Lawrence,” he said as his finger hovered just below his
nose. “Some dirty bastard's pissed in your doorway!” He paused, then: “There’s
a fire out there. The sky’s turning black. You
    can smell the smoke. It might be the end of the world!”
    “Hey! Like it! What's it do?” Paul reached up to a steel hook and chain that
extended from a ceiling runway.
    “It carries the crates from the back of the shop. At one time we carried a range
of sculptures, some by Henry Moore…”
    “I know. I Know. Don’t tell me! He was the geezer who had his head…You know,
by the king? Religion, innit?”
    “I think that might have been Thomas More who wrote Utopia.”
    Paul stuck out a wagging finger. “Utopia, yeah, that's the geezer.
    These old sculptures then, they were pretty old, eh?”
    Mr Lawrence raised a blown eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose so.
    Anyway, they weighed a ton, hence the block and tackle.”
    “Nice word, that, Mr Lawrence. Tackle. I like that.”
    Mr Lawrence felt the plastic bag. “Is this all you've got?”
    “Left some at the squat. I'll bring it round.”
    “What about clothes?”
    “Still got to go shopping, see? In the squat there's no point in
having anything. You have to sleep with your shoes on in there.”
“My goodness, it sounds like a dreadful place.”
    “Yeah, that's it.”
    Mr Lawrence led the way. Paul followed, unsticking his jeans as he
went.
    “Like the Tate, innit?” He paused to admire one of the cast bronze
ballerinas and stooped slightly to check out her underwear. He showed
no sign of disappointment as he followed Mr Lawrence to the stairs.
“I’m a bit surprised, with respect of course, that you are acquainted
with the Tate Gallery.”
    Paul threw him an off-the-shoulder look and a smile made his lips
flutter. “It is a bit surprising, I suppose. But me and the Tate, mate…”
“Through there is my studio."
    Paul followed the line of the older man's finger to the closed door at
the bottom of the stairs.
    “It's out of bounds. No entry. Strictly no entry!”
    “No sweat. Perfectly understood. Don't come to you with the best
of references. I know that. We've got to learn to trust one another.
Right?”
    On the stairs Mr Lawrence paused to consider the statement and
Paul stumbled against him.
    “Trust, that's the main thing.” He stood on the stairs carrying his
Robot City plastic bag. “Don't nick nothing from no one who does you
a turn. Ain't that it?”
    Mr Lawrence narrowed his eyes. Too many negatives, too many for
a Sunday morning, anyway. He went onward and led the youngster
through the flat.
    In the sitting room Paul stood rooted, shocked.
    “There’s no streamers, Mr Lawrence, and no Christmas cards!”
“I didn’t get any cards this year. A couple came addressed to the
shop but they weren’t personal, simply prints of old favourites and
nothing to do with Christmas or the birth of Christ. One had little girls
in tutus and the other was a scene of the Thames before the London
Eye. It might even have been before the fire of London.”
    “There’s no glittering balls and no fairy on top of your Christmas
tree. Oh, Mr Lawrence, you haven’t even got a tree!”
    “No, no tree and no…fairy.”
    “But everyone has a tree. It isn’t Christmas without a