Anian placed a coffee on his desk.
“You’re going to have people talking.”
“We’re the only ones left, apart from the front desk. Sad people, aren’t we?”
He tasted the bitter coffee and pulled a face then said, “You should be at Hinckley or on sick leave. I’m surprised the North Mid let you out so soon.”
“Unless you’re dying you’re kicked out at Christmas, you know that Guv. I’m all right, honest. Even the counsellor agreed, said it was the best thing for me.”
“For God’s sake, Anian, you weren’t keen to come here when you were needed and now we can’t get rid of you.”
“Hinckley’s on holiday. There’s a notice on the door saying that in an emergency contact the Sheerham desk.”
“Is this an emergency?”
She held his gaze for an instant too long.
“You should be at home putting out mince pies and hanging up your stocking.”
“I don’t wear stockings. I thought you might have noticed.”
His smile was unexpected and warm and his blue eyes caught the overhead and sparked. “Well, this is an emergency, Guv. You can tell me to go if you like.”
He said eventually, “I was just off to the boozer. I don’t suppose you’d fancy a pint?” She gave him a little cat’s grin. “I was hoping you were going to say that. I don’t want to be alone tonight. It’s Christmas Eve and my flatmates have pulled duty.”
“Nurses, who’d have them? Their shifts are even worse than ours.”
“They drew straws and got New Year’s Eve. It’s always one or the other. Now Geoff’s gone I was wondering if I could use your spare room, or even the sofa?”
His pause seemed to go on forever before he said, “It’s probably not a good idea.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “You’re probably right.”
“On the other hand, if you know how to cook a turkey…”
A sudden smile lit her face. “You’ve actually got a turkey?”
“Well, not at the moment, but there are people will open a shop for me at any time day or night.” “You’d have to get the trimmings too. Brussels sprouts and Christmas pudding and pigs in blankets and crackers and…chestnut stuffing -”
He was about to respond with a Rick Cole line that was as good as you’d get on a dark December night when a case had been put to bed and a Teacher’s beckoned with its promise of fool’s gold, when a distant rumble had him turning back to the window. It took him a few moments to realize it was another bomb.
He shook his head and in almost a whisper said, “I wish I knew who was doing that.” “Kids,” she responded. “You’d think they’d have something better to do on Christmas Eve, wouldn’t you?”
He considered telling her about the house that had been demolished and the two accidental deaths that had been reclassified as murder but decided it could wait for another time. “Come on,” he said instead.
“Get your coat.”
From outside came the sounds of shouts and car horns and distant sirens and, above them all, a lone drunken voice: “Happy Christmas everyone! Have yourselves a very happy Christmas!”
Deleted Scene with director’s commentary
Deleted scene: Director’s commentary.
“Hello, I’m Julian Foster Grant. I don’t normally do these director’s cuts because I think my movies are brilliant to start with. All these director’s cuts are doing is putting hardearned money into the pockets of distributors and studios.
Now what you’re doing is giving more money to the fuckers who didn’t want you to see my original version in the first place. Or, even if they did, they realize that by picking up some shit from the cutting-room floor they can sell it to you again.
(Whisper off camera)
That was a joke, right? Ha, ha, ha. That wasn’t true.
Anyway, I thought Jude and Nicole were brilliant in this and, er, I was really sorry to have to lose it. Unfortunately it held back the, er, er…
(Whisper off camera)
…pace, that’s it. What I was trying to do, was explore the, er, er…
(another whisper off camera)
…fundamental differences, about passion, which there weren’t any and that’s why we had to cut it. (another whisper)
About, er, you know, that passion doesn’t, er, you know, as you get older, that it’s the same for the old gits as it is for the young people. It’s just that the old gits can’t do anything about it. And I think that really comes through. Like I said, I thought Madge was excellent… Sorry, didn’t I say that? Anyway, I was really sorry that she ended up, er, ended, er, on the cutting room floor. So was she. In this scene, right, as we enter the supermarket, Robot City, the camera swoops over the rows of tins of Heinz Beans and Batchelors Peas and Princes Tuna
Steaks and the lighting picks up Del Monte Fruit Cocktails and double cream and all the cheeses and then slowly we track up to the lingerie section with the models. I mean, we built this big dipper near enough, so the camera would go up and down and over the rows of food, mile after mile of the stuff, pizzas and puddings, blancmanges and curries, Bakewell tarts and macaroons and then…then we come to the models in the bras and knickers and suspenders, the women’s underwear section. See? See the point? (another whisper)
Well the point is…that if you ate all that fucking food you wouldn’t be able to get into any of the fucking knickers. Anyway, that scene was my homage, if you like, to Michael Winner who used a similar take in Death Wish Two…
(whisper)
Sorry, wrong film, wrong director. It was Antonioni’s La Notte. You’ll notice the close-ups. Wink, wink, yeah. In the trade we call them Sergio Leones. I want a Sergio Leone I’d say, and everyone would know exactly what I meant. See what I mean? That’s movie-maker’s speak, like, you know? Anyway, like I said, er, Madge was brilliant as the dummy. My mate Quentin suggested some sixties music over the scene but I said no, no, sixties music was overrated, just like your films. What I wanted was an Ennio Morricone score as we swept over the rows of cans and chocolates and cakes. This scene takes place shortly after Mr Lawrence discovers the dummies in his shop window. See what you fink. Er, er, that’s it.
(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.