The Restoration of Otto Laird by Nigel Packer Page B

One of these, Otto noticed, was singed around its base. Charcoal and other debris, the remains of a small fire, lay close against it.
    He saw that scaffolding had been erected across the middle storeys, but he struggled to establish its purpose. Perhaps there was some issue with the lifts on this side of the building.
    Chloe stepped forward and spoke off-camera.
    â€˜What do you think?’
    Otto, who had forgotten momentarily that she was there, glanced at her.
    â€˜It doesn’t look good,’ he said, composed and thoughtful, but with no great wish to expand further. ‘Not too good at all.’
    He set off on a tour of inspection, carefully studying each side of the building in turn. The picture was uniformly grim. He stopped now and then to disturb with his cane the loose piles of litter that surrounded its walls. Burned pieces of tinfoil, cartons, food wrappers; a crumpled copy of a lifestyle magazine, the smiling face of the celebrity on its cover scratched out by a fingernail or coin. Patches of weed sprouted here and there, in an area that had once been carefully landscaped.
    Returning once more to his position before the entrance, Otto turned on his heel to survey the whole scene. The gritty breeze tugged at his coat and trousers. From behind one of the columns, a couple of children peered out, their faces half curious and half hostile.
    Otto looked over at the one-time sculpture garden in a corner of the grounds. It was clearly no longer a garden, serving instead as a dumping ground for unwanted mattresses and cardboard boxes. It also lacked sculptures. Just two of the original eight remained. They were balletic, humanoid figures in the style of Henry Moore, and their heads had been sawn or broken off with what must have been considerable effort on the part of those responsible.
    Having absorbed the picture as best he could, Otto turned to look at Chloe, who was watching him from out of range of the circling camera. He appeared lost.
    â€˜Okay, cut,’ she told the film crew. ‘I think we have enough for the establishing shots.’
    Chloe walked over to Otto, who was staring up once more at the façade.
    â€˜That was excellent, thank you,’ she said.
    â€˜Really?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes, really.’
    She was already anticipating the final edit, some plaintive classical music, piano or harpsichord, the circling viewpoint, running counter to the swirling of the litter. Otto, shot from below, his noble face pensive, elegant in his overcoat and homburg, his cane pressed into the ground before him, turning now himself, to a different tempo, and surveying the crumbling ruins of his Utopia.
    â€˜Would you like to take a break?’ she asked. ‘There are some chairs in the van, and there’s coffee, too, if you would like some.’
    â€˜I would … thank you.’
    â€˜We’re just going to set up elsewhere, and then, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask a few questions about your first impressions.’
    â€˜That sounds fine.’
    â€˜We’ll then take you up to your flat, but please let me know if you feel tired at any point. We want to make this experience as pleasant as possible for you.’
    â€˜I feel okay at the moment, but if that changes, I’ll let you know.’
    They were walking towards the van, Chloe with a woollen hat pulled down over her ears. She disappeared inside while someone brought out a chair and a coffee for Otto.
    Lowering himself down and warming his hands around the mug, he noticed that several of the film crew were texting or talking on their mobile phones. As someone whose grip on technology had steadily loosened with the years, Otto felt increasingly bewildered by the gadgets he saw around him. With every new development of the past three decades, he had fought an uphill battle to keep pace with all the changes. From microwave ovens and Betamax videos to compact-disc players and digital televisions, each