Paint. The art of scam.

by Oscar Turner

  ‘OK Polly, I’ll look forward to..... Oh.’

  Polly was out of earshot before Rita had time to finish her parting words. Quickening her step to match her excuse, she headed down toward the East Pier and set off West along the promenade back home to Hove. She was in no hurry; she still wasn’t quite ready to see Seymour. Bumping into Rita like that had thrown her; regurgitated something, as if it were a reminder of the last time she had barged into other people’s lives and caused mayhem. Am I doing the same thing again? she thought. Am I really that bad? Suddenly, Polly was feeling like shit about herself: guilty of something, and it was Rita that had put her there. How can she do that? She’d always disliked Rita; right from the start and it was mutual. Kevin’s family were Jewish. They wanted Kevin to find himself a nice Jewish girl: not some flighty tart like Polly. They had made that perfectly clear many times at ridiculously formal family get-togethers by using some sort of coded innuendo delivered in a mechanical language that made Polly grimace. Kevin had always said that he was above all that Jewish family shit and for her not to worry about it; but he always kept that yarmulke handy, just in case. Shit, even now, that fucking family are making me angry! That’s what people like Rita do, they make themselves feel good by making everybody else feel like shit!

  Polly ambled past the old West pier: no Sean, no Tracy, nobody. She was relieved in some way. That day, when she had first set eyes on Seymour and felt that strange tingle, was firmly imprinted on her as one of the strongest moments of her life. To see Tracy again would have been strange, awkward. Why? She wasn’t sure. Seymour often talked about Tracy: her inspiring power, her wisdom, her honesty; an honesty that she lived by and from. Seymour told her that Tracy had changed his life. It was the tarot reading. He swore that Tracy had entered his head and flicked a switch that had changed his mind. He couldn’t explain it, but, given that he is so cynical that he thinks conspiracy theories are just a conspiracy theory, it sounded credible and she had certainly affected him in a big way. Polly smiled, I wonder what he was like before?

  Polly sat on a bench, staring out to sea, watching the sun edge its way down to the West, sending a rare, but glorious, ever changing light show across the horizon. Pounding joggers thumped past with measured, hissing breath, vagrants shuffled past, checking bins, cheeky seagulls swooped and lovers caressed on the pebbled beach.

  ‘Polly?’ came a voice behind her. Polly, startled, jumped from her thoughts and looked around to see Tracy standing there: bulging canvas bags in each hand.

  ‘Oh. Hi. Tracy? How are you?’

  ‘I'm fine, how are you doing?’

  ‘Um. I'm fine. Yes fine. Gosh. Haven't seen you for ages. Not since um...’

  ‘Since you gave me that note for Seymour. How is the old fool?’

  ‘He's great, yes great.’

  Tracy looked at her with an amused suspicion, dropped the clearly heavy, near to bursting bags and sat down next to Polly on the bench.

  ‘Not interrupting you am I? You looked like you were miles away.’ said Tracy, pulling out a pack of tobacco.

  ‘No, not at all. It's good to see you again. So what have you been up to?’

  Tracy nudged at her bags with her foot as she rolled her cigarette and licked at the paper.

  ‘Just a spot of shopping, supermarket throwaways.’

  Polly looked puzzled for a moment then remembered what Seymour had told her about Tracy's ‘freegan’ philosophy and looked at her bags.

  ‘That's amazing.’ said Polly. ‘You mean they actually throw away all that stuff.’

  Tracy lit her neat thin roll-up and took a satisfying drag, exhaling a fine thin jet of smoke skywards. ‘Yup. Bloody stupid isn't it. Still, suits me.’

  Polly looked at Tracy. She admired the simplistic aura that radiated from her, her proud uncorrupted composure.

  ‘So, are you two shacked up together then?’

  ‘Yes. Yes we are shacked up together.’

  Tracy cast a sideways glance. ‘Fuck me. Well done. What a catch.’

  Polly wasn't sure if Tracy was being sarcastic but let it go.

  ‘Seymour told me you even make wine from the stuff you get.’ said Polly, feeling the need to change the subject.

  ‘I don't know if I'd call it wine, but it does the trick. So what's Seymour up to then? Still painting is he?’

  ‘Oh yes, he's been doing some beautiful stuff lately.’

  ‘Talented boy old Seymour, shame he's such a knob head.’

  Polly looked at her: taken aback. Seymour had always spoken highly of Tracy: she assumed their feelings about each other were mutual.

  ‘You know what I mean.’ said Tracy, ‘I love the bloke to bits, but fuck me, can't tell his ass from his elbow when it comes down to it. It's like all talented people I s'pose. Fucking artists. Life's just one big argument.’

  Polly thought about Tracy's words and although she was initially affronted by them: she was right.

  They both looked out to sea for a few moments in a peaceful silence.

  ‘How about you Tracy, are you still doing your Tarot readings?’

  ‘Yup.’ said Tracy taking another drag of her roll-up.

  ‘Seymour told me about the reading you did for him, it really affected him.’

  ‘Oh yeh, I remember it well, it was a good one. So he's on good form is he?’

  ‘Yes. Yes he is.’

  ‘Good.’ Tracy leant forward, stubbed out her roll-up on the pavement and put it back in her tobacco pouch ‘Well, better be off then. Nice seeing you Polly and give Seymour a hug from me won't you.’

  Tracy stood and hoisted the bags up, their contents threatening to burst them.

  ‘Tracy?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Um...Will you give me a reading?’ said Polly, slightly embarrassed.

  Tracy looked down at Polly and studied her for a moment. ‘You?’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘Ok.’ said Tracy. ‘Here grab one of these bags, me bus is just up here a bit.’

  ‘You’ve got a bus now? That's great! Seymour told me you always wanted to get a bus. He'll be so pleased.’

  ‘Yeah well you're bloody lucky to catch me, I'm buggering off to Spain in a few days, come on you silly cow.’

  Polly leapt to her feet and joined Tracy, clumsily picking up one of her heavy lumpy bags.

  ‘Spain? You going to see your family? Seymour said you were Spanish.’

  ‘Nah, we've all lost touch over the years since me mum died, never really knew them anyway.’

  ‘And your Father?’

  ‘Could be anyone...Mum was a party animal see, real character, brought me up single handed, bless her.’

  I was born here see, the only connection I got with Spain is a fat ass. I just want to get away from this hole Polly. Need some sun, sex and cigarettes.’

  ‘Oh.’ said Polly, struggling with the bag to keep up with her.

  ‘Well, here it is.’ said Tracy as they approached the dilapidated old bus and dropped her bag. It was larger than Polly had expected and had clearly seen better days. Tracy went around to the windscreen, ripped of a parking ticket taped to the glass and dropped it in a close-by litterbin.

  ‘Do you have to pay that?’ said Polly innocently.

  Tracy winked at Polly as she opened the side door and beckoned her in. ‘Sit down there. Fancy a cuppa?’

  ‘Yes, yes that’ll be lovely thanks.’

  Polly sat down at the rickety table and looked around at the interior of Tracy's camper, a converted community bus she'd bought at an auction and converted, by her, using fork lift truck pallets and, as to be expected, anything else she'd found. It had a pleasant atmosphere and although roughly finished, had a homely charm about it. Tracy opened the back doors; the wheelchair lift -that still worked and now served as a balcony overlooking the sea. The curtains were made from dyed potato sacks, the carpet from sample squares and in the kitchen area; a full size stainless steel sink and 70's G-plan fitted cupboards. All rescu
ed in the dead of night from various skips. While Tracy made the tea she gave Polly her pack of Tarot cards and told her to hold them and shuffle them, get them warm, whilst thinking about her question.

  ‘I don’t know what the question is.’ said Polly.

  ‘Then it must be a fucking big one.’ said Tracy.

  Tracy was right.

  By the time Tracy had made the tea and sat down, Polly was feeling nervous, having looked through the powerful images on the cards. Some looked horrific, others just strange: all disturbing.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Tracy as she slurped from her chipped mug.

  ‘Yes, yes I think so. They look quite dark.’ said Polly handing the pack to Tracy; who nodded, knowingly. She felt them and looked at Polly, concerned.

  ‘I said get them warm, not cook the bloody things.’ said Tracy dryly, as she placed the pack face down on the table. ‘Now cut them.’

  After some hesitation, Polly cut them and watched as Tracy gathered them up; holding them tightly in her hands for a few moments, eyes closed in concentration. Tracey looked into Polly’s eyes as she lay the cards face down on the table in neat formation. Two cards crossed in the centre, surrounded by four others and alongside them, to the left, a vertical row of four. Polly’s eyes jumped between the cards and Tracy’s eyes, unsure of what she was supposed to be doing. Tracy said nothing, as she turned the first card in the centre that crossed another, then turned the rest over one by one; her eyes fixed on Polly’s without a blinking.

  Polly looked down at the cards spread on the table in front of her. They drew her in, the strange medieval characters and icons disturbed her. At last, Tracy’s eyes slowly moved down to the cards.

  ‘Mmmm.’ said Tracy, her eyes occasionally darting up to Polly’s again.

  Polly waited. Tracy was studying each card intensely as she leant on the creaking table with her elbows.

  ‘Well?’ said Polly.

  Tracy didn't reply, but waved her index finger for silence. Polly looked up at the entrance to the driver's cab at a small painting of a smiling Tracy, definitely a Seymour Capital.

  ‘Right!’ said Tracy, laying her hands flat on the table either side of the cards, looking Polly squarely in the eyes.

  Polly held her stare.

  ‘You are in for a tricky time Polly.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Yup and you know it. Something is happening to you, something you engineered and you are going to have to deal with it. I don't know what it is and I don't want to know. All I know is that you are going to have to be really careful if you want to survive it.’

  Polly looked down at the cards again.

  ‘Can you explain?’

  Tracy looked down at the cards then back at Polly.

  ‘There is evil in your life Polly, there has been for some time, but you now have the chance to rid yourself of that evil once and for all.’

  ‘But I don't understand.’ said Polly. ‘How can you tell? I mean which card tells you that?’

  ‘They all do Polly.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘But. God. You're frightening me Tracy. Please, stop it!’

  Tracy raised her eyebrows and smiled compassionately.

  ‘Would you rather I lied to you?’

  ‘No. No. But at least, well you know, explain how a bunch of cards can lead you to say something like that.’

  Tracy leant back and stretched her arms.

  ‘Ok Polly, I will explain. These cards mean nothing on their own. Not a toss. You might as well do the lottery. You can buy hundreds of books that will tell you what each card in the pack symbolises in whatever position they are and you know what? It's all bollocks.’

  ‘So. How? You mean it's all a big con.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘That's awful!’

  ‘However.’ said Tracy leaning forward and zooming in on Polly's eyes. ‘If you put me, you and the cards together. Then they mean something. It's how you react to the cards Polly that tells me what's going on. You are telling me what you are thinking and what you are thinking is what will determine your future. Nothing else. Because you Polly Capital are a liar.’

  Polly recoiled back into her seat. ‘Now hang on a minute Tracy!’

  ‘Don't worry Polly,’ said Tracy, ‘you're in good company, it's a human trait, we are all liars, that's why humans are so fucked up.’

  ‘Sounds like you've been talking to Seymour, he says that sort of stuff.’

  ‘That's why Seymour is so special Polly, silly bastard that he is. That's why he might appear to be so lost, that's why he has trouble placing himself in this life thing. That’s why he smokes so much hashish, because, deep down, he is honest. That's why you fell in love with him. Why else? He ain't exactly good husband material is he, you know what I mean? When you see the cards Polly, your instincts immediately react, for a brief moment mind, that's when I pounce.’

  Tracy gathered up the spread and sorted them back into the pack.

  ‘You mean the cards are like some sort of lie detector.’

  ‘No. A truth detector.’

  ‘A truth detector?’

  ‘Yup....Humans are just bastardised apes, nothing more, nothing less. Apes have instincts and they use them, humans have lost sight of them. To survive they have to lie, because they make so many mistakes. We all have two sides Polly, one is animal and the other is totally artificial. Some need to lie more than others and that depends on how rich you want to be.’

  ‘And you Tracy, do you lie?’

  ‘Nope...Take a look around you Polly,’ said Tracy gesturing to the inside of her camper, ‘I didn't get where I am through lying.’

  Polly laughed.

  ‘But seriously. You be careful Polly. I know you can sort this out and if you are clever, the outcome will be good. But make sure you learn from it. OK?’

  Polly stared at Tracy, drawn in by her sincerity, then slowly nodded.

  ‘Ok.’

  As Polly watched Tracy carefully putting her cards back into their well worn velvet bag, she suddenly knew what Tracy meant; that unstoppable grin that appeared on her face in the mirror felt explained: as did her eyes. Eyes, that, she had felt, several times in her chaotic past, belonged to someone else.

  ‘Is that it then?’ said Polly.

  ‘Yup. That'll be a tenner.’

  ‘Oh. Of course, hang on.’ Polly reached into her bag for her purse.

  Tracy laughed. ‘Nah, only joking. Fuck me. You're living with Seymour Capital! You need every penny you got.’

  Polly smiled and looked down at her lap, feeling humbled by Tracy's honesty.

  ‘Would you like to come back to our flat, I know Seymour would love to see you. It's not far. Just down at Hove.’

  Tracy slowly shook her head. ‘No thanks, just give him my love. OK.’

  ‘OK. I will. And good luck with your trip.’

  ‘Luck? No such thing Polly. But we won't go there.’

  Suddenly there was a tap on the door. Polly looked around to see a traffic warden standing there, his head peering in.

  ‘Come on Tracy, for Christ’s sake. Can you move? Please?’ said the warden. ‘Me supervisor’s giving me stick about you.’

  ‘Alright Ted, I’m going. Why the hell did you give me another ticket? You know it’s a waste of time’

  ‘That wasn’t me, that was him. Now come on Trace, please?’

  Polly watched the exchange between them with amazement. The warden seemed to have respect for Tracy, almost with a matriarchal fear.

  ‘Alright, alright. I’m going, for God’s sake.’

  The warden left with a tut. Tracey looked at Polly.

  ‘You see what I’m up against?’ said Tracy smiling. ‘Now you take good care of Seymour Polly. He could be your key to get you out of your cycle.’

  ‘Cycle? I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Bollocks you don’t. It ain’t often you find love Polly and when you do, it’s a gift, you shou
ld be grateful and take good care of it.’

  Polly nodded. ‘Yes I know. Have you ever been in love Tracy?’

  Tracy stood up and offered her hand. Polly took it.

  ‘Yes, now bugger off and remember what I said OK?’

  ‘OK.’ said Polly, detecting a momentary sadness in Tracy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A change of heart

  Polly gently opened the lead light front door and closed it as carefully as possible. The old wooden stairs creaked as she climbed up, breaking the silence she was trying to maintain. She had the cheap but acceptable bottle of fizzy white wine, that she wanted to be champagne, in a carrier bag. She was going to smuggle it in, pop the cork and seduce him.

  As she entered the room her body froze. The whole place was immaculately tidy. Even the bed was made. Seymour's clothes were gone from their usual place on the floor; the washing up had been done and put away. It was an eerie sight.

  There were two definite parts to the room, separated by a huge but usually drawn burgundy velvet curtain. One side was Seymour's, the other Polly's. Polly's space was always well- organised, tasteful and aesthetically pleasing. A beautiful old four -poster bed dominated the space, its grandeur suggesting it played an important role.

  Seymour's side, on the other hand, was usually a mess and would have several paintings scattered around in various stages of completion: an easel, a chair, a table full of discarded objects that once had a use, half-full cups, overflowing ashtrays, odd socks and multi-coloured rags, stiff with dried paints.

  But now even Seymour's area was neatly ordered, and standing there, in the middle of the room, was his easel and on it stood The Vase Lady. It was as if The Vase Lady had just finished cleaning up: her proud, smug grin, those elegant handle arms perched on her curvaceous hips, her piercing eyes.

  Polly looked at her suspiciously.

  ‘Seymour? Are you home?’

  She checked the bathroom. It was immaculate, even the toilet bowl.

  ‘Oh no,’ she whispered as she went back into the main room and slumped down in the old armchair. Her eyes panned the room. Its neatness and silence sent a shiver down her spine.

  ‘Shit,’ whispered Polly, her eyes moistening.