Paint. The art of scam.

by Oscar Turner

  The sound of a key scratching at the door lock made her jump. Seymour wandered in, kicking the door shut after him.

  ‘Seymour! What happened, where have you been?’

  ‘Oh . . . Polly – shit - I didn't think you'd be back yet. I . . . um.’

  ‘Seymour. Did you do all this?’ she asked, standing up.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Um. Well. I thought, well you know - um. - I've just been down the road to get a paper. You know, to look for a job.’

  Seymour looked across at Polly. Her expression was unreadable, a mixture of surprise, confusion and possibly anger.

  ‘It’s - um - not too late. Is it Polly?’

  ‘What?’

  Seymour suddenly realised the consequences of talking to himself.

  ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘For - um - you know. Us?’

  He waited for an answer.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘I'm going to go out there, Polly, and I'm going to get a job!’ declared Seymour, ‘I just . . . can't stand to see you like this anymore.’

  ‘Like what, Seymour?’

  ‘Honestly Polly, I've decided. You're right. I've been unfair. I'm going to change. Right now.’

  Polly wandered across his studio space. Seymour felt uneasy with her silence.

  ‘I can't believe it Seymour. It's so tidy in here and you've been working. The Vase Lady, she's so beautiful.’

  Seymour sat down at the table, his hands nervously wrestling with each other.

  ‘Oh, yeah, well, I thought I'd better get it finished. You know, before I um, get out there and, you know, get a job. Won't have time you see, what with overtime and everything. If I can get it that is , probably do Saturdays as well. You know, you get time and a half on Saturdays. Double time on Sundays. Some bloke told me down at the Job Centre. He's just got a job in the Underground in London. Cleaning. You don't need any qualifications or anything! Might apply myself. There's loads of work out there, Polly. Even Hogarth's are looking for labourers. Wouldn't that be a gas!’

  Polly's mouth dropped open.

  ‘You've been to the Job Centre?’

  ‘Yes, very helpful. Nice people.’

  ‘Seymour, what on Earth are you on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Seymour indignantly.

  Polly crossed her arms as she approached the easel.

  ‘Seymour, The Vase Lady is beautiful She's changed so much! She's amazing, truly beautiful.’

  Seymour shrugged his shoulders. His mind was running through scenarios of some hideous heavy industrial workplace like an aluminium smelter or a car factory. It was unknown for Seymour to turn down the chance of glory, but Polly's compliments were like distant voices trying to break through the sound of heavy machinery as he swept the factory floor. He could smell it. Maybe he could work behind a bar or something. No, he had tried that once: didn't work out.

  Polly was still staring at The Vase Lady, mesmerised by her.

  ‘Oh Seymour. We've got to do something with your work.’ She walked over to him and caressed him from behind, her eyes still fixed on The Vase Lady.

  ‘I'm sorry, darling,’ said Polly

  Seymour's eyes crossed involuntarily. What on earth was she talking about? He screwed up his face and whispered, ‘That's OK, darling. That's OK.’

  ‘I'm just, you know, pissed off, with the job and everything. I can't stand it anymore. I've been feeling such a shit after all the things I've said to you over the last few days. I'm really sorry.’

  ‘It's OK.’ mumbled Seymour, unsure if he was being tricked, ‘I understand, but you're right, I don't do nearly enough to help out. But I've decided, from now on things'll be different, just you wait and see.’

  It occurred to him that he had just quoted a line from an Australian soap he'd watched a couple of days ago. Still, she wasn't to know that. Polly kissed his head.

  ‘You watch too much television,’ said Polly as she slid her hand down to his crotch.

  ‘Seymour . . . Seymour. Wake up.’

  He did, slowly. Polly was shaking him.

  Her voice had an aggressive edge to it. She was serious. He sorted through his mind for a clue that would account for this rude awakening. The night before flooded back. With a head full of not so acceptable cheap fizzy wine, several hash joints and exhausted from writhing sex, Polly had agreed to stay on at Hogarth's until the end of the year, providing that was, that her campaign to get the sack that day failed, which was likely with Mr. Arnold on drugs. In return, Seymour was to play the role of househusband.

  How fucking modern, he thought, as he rolled lazily on the pillow and looked across at Polly. She was waiting, arms crossed.

  With a sudden burst Seymour sat up and scanned the room, his eyes fighting to focus.

  ‘Oh my God, what do you do? How do you make breakfast?’

  Polly punched him playfully in the ribs. Seymour slipped out of bed as gracefully as he could and wandered over to the kitchen area.

  ‘Eggs?’

  ‘Mmm, that would be lovely,’ said Polly, watching him smugly.

  Seymour took two eggs from the fridge examined them carefully. Polly glanced at her watch.

  ‘Oh shit! Look at the time! It's nine o'clock. I've missed the bus. Shit, shit, shit!’

  Polly sprang out of bed and ran to the bathroom.

  ‘Right. OK. Eggs. Right. What else? Toast, coffee, right,’ he muttered, clattering various utensils that were a mystery to him.

  As Polly came out of the bathroom, Seymour started to whistle the theme tune to Neighbours, to hide his displeasure. It wasn’t that he objected to making breakfast for Polly, it was just that it seemed contrived and uncomfortable somehow. Duty never worked well with Seymour.

  In no time Polly was dressed immaculately, slurping down a cup of warm cloudy coffee as she gathered up her bag and slipped on her shoes.

  ‘What's the hurry, Polly? It isn't the first time you've been late. Come on. Sit down, relax.’

  ‘I can't, Seymour, I was doing my best to get the sack yesterday. Shit, shit, shit.’

  ‘What? You mean, but you said last night....’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry: I've got to go.’

  ‘No! Sit down Polly, I've just done all this stuff for you, toast, eggs, another fifteen minutes won't hurt. I'll phone the office for you. I'll tell them we got really stoned last night and you had your eyes shagged out. They'll understand. Come on. Please?’

  Seymour gently grabbed her by the shoulders and eased her down into a chair at the table. Returning to his own chair, he watched her as she picked at the toast. He felt strangely primal and satisfied. It was something about seeing her eating food he had prepared or something, he wasn't sure, but whatever it was, it made him want to take her there and then. He looked across at the bed and secretly worked out the logistics of picking her up and throwing her on it. He would stand there for a moment then slowly bend down and begin to kiss her toes. He would look up to her bulging crutch and see it gently moving up and down. His hand would slide up her legs; his fingers would feel the heat radiating from her. He would touch her dampness and then she'd gyrate those wonderful hips. His kisses would move slowly up her legs, a bit at a time, to join his hand and take over, his hand would then journey up to her breasts. Pulling her panties to one side with his teeth he would enter her with his tongue and....

  ‘Oh shit - it's no good. I gotta go!’ said Polly as she lurched out of the chair and kissed Seymour on the cheek.

  Seymour sat there, dazed, as Polly left. He looked down at his erection, then at the door.

  He wandered across to the bed holding his erect penis, gently working at it. Climbing into the bed he lay his head on Polly's pillow, sniffed it and began masturbating.

  Suddenly the door flew open. Polly dashed in, ran over to her dressing table, grabbed her handbag, headed back to the door and took an umbrella from the hat stand. She stopped
for a moment, looked at Seymour and smiled.

  Seymour was frozen in mid-stroke.

  ‘Bye, darling,’ whispered Polly, as she blew a kiss and disappeared, closing the door, very, very gently behind her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A Bad Day at the Office.

  The wind gusted around buildings, driving the rain near horizontally, making Polly's umbrella pointless as she made her way to the bus stop. Waiting in the shelter, snapshots of the night before popped into her head. She smiled to herself as she watched people walking briskly, crouched under and battling to control their protesting umbrellas.

  On the bus, Polly's amusement at her last sight of Seymour quickly faded as the day ahead began to haunt her. She'd missed the number three and was now on the number nine. The bus stopped outside a grim old shoe factory, which, a month before, had threatened to close its doors to give job opportunities to ten year olds in Portugal. The protests by the unions had threatened to bring the company to its knees. The company revoked its threat, in exchange for the dismantling of union demarcation practices. The workers were jubilant at the decision and were now serving a life sentence of hard labour.

  The whole episode had disgusted Polly at the time. Compulsory redundancy was the only thing she wanted to achieve in her career. She dreamed of Hogarth Heavy Industry throwing in the towel, out-priced by some Chinese monster that cared less about pollution than Hogarth cared about its consequences.

  Everybody on the bus got off, except for Polly. This happened every time she got the number nine and it was a moment she relished. This was the only moment in the day when she could be alone, apart from in the toilets at the office. She only had two stops in which to enjoy her solitude but she always made the most of every precious second.

  She looked around the bus to check that her experience was complete. It was.

  The bus stop was a few metres from the entrance to Hogarth Heavy Engineering. The smell instantly sent her spirits into a nose dive.

  As she stepped from the bus onto the pavement, trying to open her pathetic cheap umbrella, she felt sick. The wind had dropped and despite the pouring rain the usual acrid smell of oil and hot metal was thick in the air, making breathing an unpleasant necessity. They had told her when she first got the job that she would get used to it, but she hadn't, nor had she any intention of doing so. For a second she had to remind herself of why she was doing this. The answer was the same every day. Money, to live with Seymour. And a sound concept it was: last night, drunk.

  The bus pulled away. As she emerged from the parting belch of bus diesel smoke, she saw a figure walking toward her. It was Mr. Arnold. She checked her watch and grinned sadistically.

  As they walked towards each other, Arnold's eyes were fixed to the pavement ahead like dipped headlights in the fog. He was embarrassed, thought Polly. How humiliating. Busted by Polly -Sorry I'm late- Capital.

  They reached each other at the factory gates.

  ‘You're late Mr. Arnold’ said Polly brightly.

  ‘I am not late, Mrs. Capital!’ growled Mr. Arnold, suddenly looking up, his words spitting like a pump gun.

  ‘Oh,’ said Polly, disappointed.

  ‘If you must know, I had a doctor's appointment.’

  ‘Oh, sorry I'm late then,’ said Polly smiling, trying to keep things light.

  ‘You are always late, Mrs. Capital, and that is nothing to be proud of!’

  Polly was never surprised at Mr. Arnold's inability to find things amusing, but this time she could see a weakness in him. He seemed to be struggling to maintain his authority, as if he'd had his strength disabled. She even felt a strange compassion for him, a feeling she had never had before.

  Passing through the gate, the security guard immersed in his comic, Polly allowed Mr. Arnold to walk ahead of her, in the hope it would make him feel somehow stronger. Mr. Arnold pushed through the main doors to the office block with his full weight and staggered over to the opposite wall, his hands grabbing a hot radiator. The shock of the heat on his hands seemed to straighten him out for a moment and, although dazed, he was able to collect himself and clumsily close his umbrella. Polly pushed hard against the closing door, cursing Arnold for his lack of courtesy. ‘Dick head,’ she whispered, as she struggled to hold the door open with her foot, and sidle through. The door pushed her inside the corridor as soon as she removed her foot. The outer handle caught her bag strap, ripped it from her shoulder and poured its entire contents to the floor. She stood there a moment, furious. Among the scattered mess of her belongings lay a small chunky bottle of Dior perfume in two halves, the thick glass cleanly broken and lying in the tight pool of perfume. It was the last icon of her former, more affluent days, a gift from someone whose name escaped her.

  Polly yanked hard at the bag strap, the door opened slightly then slowly pushed shut again, cutting the strap cleanly with its aluminium strip draught excluder. She kicked it hard. Pausing for a moment, she drew a large breath and looked at the door. It stood there like a thug. She kicked it again to provoke it. She yanked her umbrella shut, looked down at the floor and bent down to pick up the mess.

  Mr. Arnold's highly-polished sensible shoes appeared next to her. Polly looked up. He seemed to be fighting to keep his composure and was wavering slightly as he nudged a pack of cigarettes over to her with his foot and shook his head.

  ‘You should be more careful, Mrs. Capital.’

  ‘Quite right, Mr. Arnold,’ said Polly, as she inspected the broken bottle with sadness in her eyes. She gently wrapped the two halves in a tissue, placed them in her bag and piled the rest of her belongings on top of them. She stood up. Mr. Arnold looked down at the pool of perfume and touched it with his foot.

  ‘Better get a mop and clean it up before somebody slips up on it. Perfume will stain the floor. Disgusting stuff.’

  ‘What a great idea. Thank you Mr. Arnold!’

  Mr. Arnold, accustomed to Polly's insolence, again shook his head before wandering off. As he walked down the long gloss corridor his pace seemed to falter. He suddenly stopped to steady himself against the wall. Polly looked up, saw he was in trouble, threw the last few items in her bag and ran up to him, grabbing his arm.

  ‘You OK?’

  Mr. Arnold was struggling to maintain his balance, but pulled away from Polly's hold. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he straightened up and headed for the next set of doors to the offices. Polly, left standing there, watched him as he lightly bounced twice against the wall en-route.

  Arnold pushed himself through the next set of doors and disappeared. Polly waited for a moment, choosing to give him enough time to get far enough away to negate her responsibility for him, but not long enough for her to miss witnessing the mass of crawling clones in the office who would come to his aid when he staggered in.

  Polly fought the self-closing doors again, this time with more vigour. Once through them, she saw Mr. Arnold had stopped again, resting against the wall just before the office door, his head bowed. He saw her coming towards him and straightened himself again, then pushed the office door and stopped, holding it open. Polly smiled.

  ‘Well, thank you Mr. Arnold!’

  ‘Fucking freeze!’ bellowed a male voice from inside the office.

  Polly couldn't see everything until Mr. Arnold fell, his skull crashing against the floor with a dead thud. A neat toupee cart-wheeled off his head like a dustbin lid, settling about a metre away.

  Polly froze.

  ‘Put your arms up, bitch!’

  She slowly raised her arms and scanned the room. Three men stood in various positions around the office, their heads covered with stockings. One particularly heavy-looking man pointed a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun at her. All of the office staff were slumped over their desks unconscious, some snoring peacefully. Polly looked down at Mr. Arnold. ‘Jesus.’ she whispered involuntarily.

  ‘Who the fuck is you?’ said another man.

  Polly looked up and saw a smaller man. Even throug
h the stocking she could see his big bug bespectacled eyes waiting for an answer.

  ‘What the fuck's wrong with him? ‘ said the little man, panic in his voice. Polly looked down at Mr. Arnold's limp body.

  ‘He's , . . he’s . . . I don't know . . .’

  ‘Well, get down there and look at him then, you stupid bitch!’ barked the man with the gun.

  Polly slowly knelt down at Mr. Arnold's side.

  ‘What do I do?’ she muttered, staring at him, unable to move. Her mind flashed to Seymour for a second.

  ‘Check his pulse for fuck's sake!’

  Looking up, she saw the shotgun still aimed at her. She grabbed Mr. Arnold's right arm, and went through the motions of checking a pulse. She felt nothing.

  ‘I think he's dead,’ said Polly, dropping his limp arm, her voice breaking up.

  ‘Fucking great,’ said the armed man. ‘Let's get the fuck out of here, come on, fucking move!’

  The gang sprang into action, gathering what money they could from the desks. Another gang member stuffed bundles into a sack from the safe in Mr. Arnold's office. Polly stood up, shaking. All the men were panicking as they started heading for the back door, clumsily pushing each other out of the way. The little man grabbed her by the arm and tugged her toward the door with him. The big man with the gun grabbed him.

  ‘What the fuck are you doin'?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Fucking leave her you fuck head!’

  ‘She's comin' with us all right!’

  ‘No she fucking ain't!’ said the man with the gun, and pushed the barrel into the small man's throat. He pulled back and staggered, catching the stocking covering his head on a coat hook, pulled it clean off.

  ‘Oh for fucks sake!’ said the man with the gun as he darted out of the door. The little man looked at Polly. Polly looked at him.

  He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her towards him. Polly struggled to free herself and took a swing at him with her umbrella, hitting him across the face with a pathetic clatter. Unaffected, he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her head to his.