by Oscar Turner
Another groan.
‘Who is it?’ mumbled Seymour.
‘It's me, Tracy. Are you all right?’
She heard a creaking sound, a thump, another groan, then the door unlocking. She waited a moment expecting it to open. It didn't.
Slowly opening the door she looked inside and there was Seymour, sat on his bed, still dressed in his suit, drops of blood speckled down the front of his shirt. He looked up.
‘Oh. Hi Trace.’ Said Seymour attempting to sound pleased to see her.
‘How did you get on last night then?’
‘Oh fine, yeah, fine.’
Tracey cocked her head to one side. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Oh . . . I just got a bit of a nose-bleed that's all.’
‘And the black eyes?’
‘Black eyes? Oh yeah . . . I walked into a door I think.’
‘You think you walked into a door?’
‘Yeah, I was sort of a bit drunk.’
‘Oh right. Sort of a bit drunk, eh? So are you setting up today or what?’
‘Uh - yeah, right . . . yeah . . . s'pose I'd better. What's the time?’
‘Tennish, come on. I'll give you hand, we've left a space for you.’
Seymour dragged himself up, banged his head on the roof of the caravan and sat down again.
‘Uh. Right. I'll just get myself together Trace, I'll be out in a minute.’
Tracy laughed, ‘Come on, get your ass in gear. There's buckets of punters about, and there was some bloke asking about you earlier. He was banging on your door. Didn't you hear him?’
Seymour looked blank and shook his head.
Tracey slipped out and grabbed Seymour's trestles on her way.
Seymour picked up a shaving mirror, looked at it, closed his eyes and dropped his head.
A few moments later there was a tap at the door, Seymour looked up to see a small suited man with strict hair, wearing an expression that suggested to Seymour that he wasn't about to buy a painting.
‘Mr. Capital?’
‘Uh . . . yes.’
‘My name’s Mr. Blake, Assistant Chief Inspector of Works from the Brighton & Hove Council, Department of Engineering.’
Seymour struggled to take in the man's impressive title.
‘It's about last night.’
‘Last night?’
‘Yes, exactly. Last night. Where were you last night, Mr. Capital?’
Seymour thought hard for a moment.
‘I . . . er . . . was here. Asleep.’
‘Asleep? You must be a very sound sleeper, Mr. Capital.’
‘Yes,’ laughed Seymour, ‘Always have been, like a baby.’
‘So you didn't hear the police trying to wake you?’
‘The police?’
‘Yes, Mr. Capital, the police. There was a disturbance on the pier last night. Some drunken youths were trying to get onto it. You don't know anything about it?’
‘No. I must have . . ..’
‘One of them fell and broke his leg. You didn't hear the ambulance?’
‘Well, no I....’
‘The whole point of you being here, Mr. Capital, is to keep watch in case of events like this. And we have also been informed that you have been running a retail outlet without a licence just outside on the promenade. Is that correct?’
‘A retail outlet? Well it's not exactly a.....’
‘You know that you’re breaking the law don't you?’ interrupted Blake. ‘This is a position of trust, Mr. Capital, and you have betrayed that trust. Somebody could have been killed last night and if they were . .’
Seymour sat staring at Blake, his mouth hanging open. This man was on a roll and enjoying it, and nothing Seymour could say or do was going to shut him up. He reminded Seymour somewhat of Mr. Hanson, his old headmaster years before when he was expelled from school for playing truant, Seymour's first real taste of irony. That same droning, tedious, unchallengeable self-righteousness that had made Seymour's eyes glaze over, was having the same effect. Blake's voice seemed to fade into a blurred mumble in the background as he thought of Polly, wondering what had happened after he had left that morning. That moment when she had launched herself across the table at him - was it just the booze and drugs that had made her do it? Or was it the booze and drugs that had exposed her true desire for him? No doubt, either way, it was the best night he'd had since Madeleine's mum. Why does fun always seem to hurt so much?
‘Mr. Capital? Are you listening to me?
‘I . . . uh. - yes, of course.’
‘Well, so what do you have to say for yourself?’
‘Um. Sorry?’
‘Sorry indeed, Mr. Capital. I have been instructed to relieve you of your duties forthwith.’
Seymour, shocked, sat bolt upright.
‘But, but, my stall, it's all going so well!’
‘If you would like to gather your - ’ Blake looked around the interior of the caravan and screwed up his nose, ‘ - things, I will give you your outstanding wages, as if you deserve them.’
‘But I - ’ mumbled Seymour.
‘ - good day, Mr. Capital.’ Blake disappeared from the doorway.
Seymour shook his head.
Disbelievingly stuffing his worldly possessions into a bag, he eventually stepped outside the caravan to find two uniformed policemen standing in front of the stalls. Arms crossed, they were watching Tracy and the rest of the stall holders packing up their things. Several other official looking characters looked on, probably talking about football.
Tracey, fully loaded up with her table and chairs was just about to leave when she turned and screamed ‘Fascist bastards!’ before storming off.
Her anger impressed Seymour. He could never do anything like that. Never could. Possibly because people were always so angry with him, he never had the chance.
Seymour caught up with them all later, sitting on the beach nearby, swigging on a dubious mixture of cloudy urine-coloured liquid in a crumpled plastic mineral water bottle. Seymour struggled up to them on the pebbles, his few remaining paintings tied together and stuffed under his arm, dragging his bag behind him.
‘Bastards,’ hissed Tracy.
‘Yeah, bastards,’ grunted Sean.
‘Bastards,’ said Seymour, dropping down beside them.
‘Did they fire you, then, Seymour?’ said Tracy.
‘Yeah. Bastards,’ said Seymour, unsuccessfully attempting to match her fury.
‘I canny believe ut,’ shouted Sean angrily, taking a huge gulp from the bottle, ‘A fuckin' try to earn a few extra quud ta gi ma sel a wee bitta pleasure in ma life be weldin a few fuckin' bolts tagetha an tha bastards kick ya down back in tha fucking gutter. . . I'll git the bastards. . .Just you wait an see. The fuckin' bastards.’
They all looked at Sean. He looked at them.
‘Well can ya fuckin' believe ut, eh? I worked all ma fucking life. Payin' ma fuckin' taxes. I pay those fuckin' bastards' wages. Ya know that? And then they fuckin' crucify me for fucking trying to make a few extra bob. It's fuckin' ridiculous that's what ut is.’
Tracy reached across and touched his arm.
‘It's OK, Sean, don't take it so seriously, at least you got a pension. We've got fuck all. You could probably get a permit. Piece of piss, we can't: we'd lose our dole.’
‘Why the fuck should I?’ said Sean.
Everyone looked out to sea.
Tracy murmured, ‘I knew this would happen.’
Everyone looked at her.
‘Then why the fuck didn't ya tell us?’ barked Sean.
They all looked out to sea again.
As night fell and the temperature dropped, they went back to Tracy's squat, a grotty but spacious ex-bus station garage. They drank more of what seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of the high octane liquid which Tracy, it transpired, distilled from supermarket throw-away fruit.
‘You can make booze from old socks if you know how,’ Tracy had told them later. If socks had had a use-by date, she pro
bably would have done.
Tracy was a 'freegan,' someone who only eats found food as a matter of principle. And it was true, Seymour, in the short time he had known her, had never seen her spend a penny on anything she consumed, except coffee, which according to Tracy, didn't count. Seymour had put this down to her being either mean or just plain broke. But in fact it was a philosophy that had sustained Tracy for over five years. She was in perfect health and presented fantastically cooked food for anyone at the squat, food which would put many a restaurant or cheeky chappy TV chef to shame. She quietly did this with not a whiff of preaching pomposity. If anyone chose to give her money for her excellent meals, she would accept it and put it in her hidden 'stash,' along with her Tarot card takings and dole money, which she would one day use to buy a camper van.
Tracy had not so much a dream, more a plan, to travel to Spain for the winters. Her mother, who died when she was just ten years old, was Spanish, which explained her strong Latin features and scary man-eating character. She would do it, there was no doubt. Tracy had no time for flippant dreams.
Seymour, now homeless, spent the next two weeks at Tracy's squat, building up his stock, inspired by the sparking energy that now surrounded him. He was amazed by the people in the squat, some twelve of them, living together, but each with their own garage bays. Tracy seemed to be well-respected in the squat and was some sort of a leader, not through a contrived democracy but by a natural selection measured by wisdom. It was just accepted. She was boss. If there was any problem, Tracy solved it. If the police came, which they often did, it was Tracy who would handle them, and they would leave almost apologizing for taking up her time.
They were fringe dwellers living an urban tribal life that worked. They lived in a sub-world, a fully functioning dynamic society smelling of incense and diesel.
Tracy and Sean, determined not be beaten by the oppressive, capitalist, fascist state, returned to the pier a few days later and set up shop again. Seymour, on the other hand, content with his new surroundings, a nice wad of cash in his pocket and inspired by the whole bizarre episode, chose to keep on working.
One evening, Tracy came home and took Seymour aside.
‘That tart, Polly,’ said Tracy, ‘she's been coming down every day to the pier to see if you were there. Finally plucked up the courage to ask me where you were today. I didn't tell her, wasn't sure if you wanted to see her again, especially after the last time. Here's a note from her. Take my advice, Seymour, steer clear of her. She's trouble, that one. Anyway . . . it's up to you.’
Tracy watched him opening the envelope, his eyes lighting up and that stupid grin appearing, a grin reserved only for whenever he spoke about Polly and 'that night,' which was endlessly.
‘She wants to see me!’ squeaked Seymour.
‘I know,’ said Tracy
‘There's a phone number! My God, she wants me to phone her!’
‘I know,’ said Tracy
‘How do you know?’
‘I saw it in the cards. And because I steamed it open.’
‘Why?’
‘I was just checking.’
It took some time for Seymour to discover how exactly one makes a phone call from a public phone box. The last time he had done so, it was a matter of putting coins into a slot. Now it seemed one had to first buy a phone card and then put the card in a slot before you could make the call. An 85 year old lady waiting outside, whilst he fumbled around trying to stuff a two pence piece in the card slot, had showed him this amazing advance in technology. It struck him as an unnecessary extra transaction and more evidence of the oppressive globalisation that Tracy and her mates at the squat had been ranting on about. He was beginning to see what they meant.
‘Hello. Polly?’
‘Yes, speaking. Oh. . . Seymour is that you?’
‘Yes. How are you?’
‘I'm fine, well fine-ish. You got my note then?’
‘Yes, must say I was a bit surprised. I thought, well you know.’
‘Yes it was all a bit messy the other night, wasn't it.’
‘Yeah, well, a bit. So what happened after I left?’
‘Oh, nothing really. He just ranted on for a while, called me a whore, you know stuff like that. I suppose it would have been more normal if he'd just beaten you up or something, bloody wimp. I think he was scared of you. Anyway he didn't believe a word I told him, of course.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘The truth.’
‘The truth? Why?’
‘That's just the kind of gal I am Seymour. Anyway you'd have to be a bloody politician to get out of that unscathed. It was a bit obvious wasn't it? I think he was more pissed off that we'd used up all his coke than anything else. Still. I've moved out.’
‘Oh. I see. Sorry about that.’
‘Don't be, it wasn't your fault. You did me a big favour really. I can't be with a man who doesn't believe the truth. It's OK, in some ways I think I sabotaged it all anyway, just like you talked about.’
‘I did?’
‘Don't you remember? You told me that we all subconsciously destroy things that aren't what we really want, but feel we just need.’
‘Oh yes. I remember. Yeah, that's right.’
‘‘Mmmm . . . liar. Anyway, I think that's exactly what I was doing.’
‘Right. So where are you now?’
‘I'm at a friend’s place in Hove. Quite lucky really, she's gone away to the States for a few months. She offered it to me a while ago. Well, anyway, that's all history now. So . . . ’
‘Oh, right. So. . .’
‘Well?’
‘Well. What?’
‘So what have you been up to then Seymour?’
‘Oh you know. Bit of this, bit of that. Doing some more paintings. Trying to build up some stock.’
‘Oh good. Have you been selling more work then, somewhere else? ‘
‘Uh well, not really.’
‘Why did you leave the pier?’
‘Time to move on, I suppose.’
‘You sound a bit vague Seymour. Has something happened?’
‘Happened? Uh. No. Well yes, something always happens.’
‘Would you like to meet for coffee or something?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes. Of course. Where? Love to.’
‘Are you busy tomorrow?’
‘Uh. I'll just have to check my diary, uh, let me see. No, bugger all happening tomorrow.’
‘Good. How about we meet at Donacello's at around ten. You know Donacello's?’
‘Uh yes. In the Lanes isn't it?’
‘Yup. Well, I'll see you there, then.’
‘OK. Right.’
‘I promise it won't hurt so much this time. Bye . . . oh Seymour? Are you still there?
‘Yes.’
‘Do you really have a diary?’
‘No.’
‘Good. ‘Bye.’
Seymour gently replaced the receiver and grinned a grin that threatened to lock his jaw.
Polly replaced the receiver and smiled to herself. She had hesitated to contact Seymour ever since 'that night' and had gone through mental acrobatics to work out exactly what had actually happened. She had come up with numerous conclusions, each with their own sound logic. These ranged from a magic chemistry between them, to a perfect device to get her out of an increasingly uncomfortable relationship with the manipulative Kevin, which would relieve her of actually having to make the decision to leave. After the chaos that followed that night, her life had been turned upside down, and not for the first time. The drugs that had been a large part of her life with Kevin had now dispersed and things were feeling clearer. This was a watershed. She had declared several times in the peace of her new home that that was it, no more, never again. She was going to build a new life, independent of well-heeled men who wanted her as an accessory to colour up their dull male egos and show her off to clients. No more. Never again.
They met at Donacello's, had coffee, then a long wine- s
oaked, giggling lunch, and walked along Brighton beach, their arms intertwined like a ring puzzle. Later, back in Hove, they returned to Polly's friend's converted clothing sweatshop, made spine-arching love and hadn’t spent a day apart since.
Within days, they were married at a registry office in Hove.
So much for no more, never again. But this was different.
There was no doubt. Seymour Capital had shaken Polly's tail-feather like no man had ever done before, without the aid of copious amounts of cash. Gone were the false smiles and duty sex that had paid her way before. No more false glee for the unwanted gifts she had been showered with in the past. Nothing but the unadulterated pleasure that only honest, toll-free passion can give.
Seymour too felt an inexplicable satisfaction in Polly's company. He felt completely relaxed with her. No false gestures of affection to earn his keep, no avoiding talking about his dubious past for fear of sabotaging his future, no lies to keep the peace or the struggle to remember them, no more covert handbag rifling to buy tobacco and hashish that he had to pretend not to smoke.
No, this was completely different from any relationship he had ever had before.
Both of them were swimming effortlessly in an infinite sea of calm, blue love.
And yet the word 'love' was never said, possibly because both of them had said it falsely too many times in their pasts. But to all intents and purposes, what they had, however long it might last, was love. To declare it would have possibly killed it.
But two weeks later, just after Seymour had brought over his easel from Tracy's squat and moved in with Polly, reality kicked in.
It suddenly occurred to them - to Polly at least - that they actually had no money, nor the prospect of any.
Their heads resting on someone else's pillows, on someone else's bed, drunk and exhausted from passionate, wrestling sex, the loving couple tried to find a way to survive the cruel world surrounding them. Somehow, Polly had declared that she would work to support them both, enabling Seymour to continue with his work. She would then, when the time was right, try to find a gallery to show his work.
In the past, in a brief spell as an art dealer's mole, Polly had witnessed obscene amounts of money changing hands for what she considered to be crap with a concept. Seymour's work was certainly not crap, that she did know, and, as far as she could make out, it was concept free. But having heard various pompous artists talk about their work and its conception, which to her seemed unrelated until explained to nodding, chin- massaging heads, concept was just an idea. Polly was sure that the concept of Seymour's work could be made up – once the painting was finished.