by Oscar Turner
‘One fucking sound out of you lady, and you're fucking dead. Understand?’
Polly frantically nodded, repulsed by the foul stench of his spitting breath. Her eyes flashed everywhere as she was pulled out of the door. Rushing through the back entrance, the little man dragged her into a waiting Transit van parked against the door, throwing her to the floor at the other two men's feet. Then he jumped in as the van screeched away: the third man struggled to close the door.
‘Fucking slow down as we go out the gates!’ yelled the man with the gun.
The security guard's hands nervously clenched the war comic: Squadron Leader 'Bunny' Warren was about to be attacked by that bastard Stuka. It was sneaking up from behind and Bunny was too busy fighting with the joystick to control the Spitfire after a close shave with an anti-air craft shell. Flight Lieutenant 'Jingle' Bell saw the Stuka and went after it, climbing up hard, pushing the Spitfire’s airframe to its limits to get it from above before it had a chance to get Bunny. The Security guard knew that Bunny would make it - he always did - just in the nick of time. But that didn't matter, it was still exciting. The van slowed and Polly felt the jolt of the speed bumps. She was tempted to scream. A pair of feet pushing down on the small of her back and the metal of a gun barrel on her neck persuaded her otherwise.
The van gathered speed. Polly felt the pressure of the feet lighten a little. After a few minutes, someone grabbed her hair and pulled her up.
‘Get up lady.’ It was the voice of the little man again. Polly slowly got onto all fours. Someone grabbed her arm and pulled her up to sit on a wooden box between two of the men.
The eyes of all three men were burning through her. The van was half full of wooden crates blocking her view of the front.
Polly was sandwiched between the little man and the huge ape with the gun. The third man, sitting opposite her, seemed calmer and was smiling. He looked her up and down. The van accelerated.
‘What a fuck-up. Oh yeah, I got it all worked out, piece of piss. You fucking dick head, Bruno!’ said the man with the gun.
‘Great, now she knows my name. What's your name darling?’ asked Bruno, his foul breath once again making Polly recoil.
‘P-P-Polly.’
‘Right Polly, this is Roger, Roger, this is Polly,’ said Bruno, gesturing to the big man. Roger leant across Polly and lunged his fist at Bruno, smacking him squarely on the nose, then shoved the barrel of the gun into his throat. Polly, jammed between the two of them, squeezed her eyes shut, shaking uncontrollably.
‘Shut it, you dick! I'm fucking warning you! What the fuck are you going to do with her?’
The other man opposite smiled calmly. ‘I wanna fuck her.’
‘Shut up, Daherty!’ screamed Roger, as he swung the gun towards Daherty. Daherty smiled at the barrel, then at Roger. Roger, unable hold Daherty's stare, swung the barrel around to Bruno's throat again.
‘You fuckin' wait, you bastard,’ snarled Roger. He pulled back, looked up at the roof of the van and drew a deep breath. Bruno slowly raised his hands to his nose and blew a blob of blood into them.
Polly opened her eyes to meet Daherty's piercing stare. His sadistic smile exposed chipped and rotting teeth.
Seymour, having decided he'd started the day badly, had returned to bed to lose a few hours. He hoped that things would settle before getting up again. He lay there rehearsing his explanation, but nothing seemed to work. He gave up. What's the point?This was new territory. Being caught masturbating is not something that happens to everyone, and stock excuses, like . . . sorry, I haven't been well . . . do not exist. The fact that everybody masturbates, whether they admit it or not, was the only comfort Seymour could draw. The fact that nobody gets caught was the problem. Seymour hoped that it would be one of those things that he and Polly would never discuss.
Looking across at his easel, The Vase Lady seemed to be preoccupied. Ever since he had declared to himself that she was actually finished, it struck him that she seemed to have moods. Sometimes she was just there, being a painting, but other times she was actually part of the room's atmosphere, or even contributing to it. Sometime last night Polly had asked him to put a price on The Vase Lady. He had looked at The Vase Lady as if he was supposed to be thinking about it. The Vase Lady made him feel uncomfortable, as if she was about to say what any woman who is about to be given a price tag would say.
‘About 50 quid,’ said Seymour. He could have sworn The Vase Lady's handle arms moved indignantly.
‘Is that all?’ asked Polly. The Vase Lady looked at Polly, then back at Seymour: she was waiting for an answer.
Seymour then went into his usual rant about how she would be worth a fortune if he was well-known, and how they should just sell anonymous art by the kilo. This was standard kit in Seymour’s armoury.
The Vase Lady rolled her eyes. So did Polly.
At the time, Seymour was drunk and had a near naked Polly draped around him. Polly had just declared her willingness to carry on supporting them both. Seymour could hardly tell the truth: he had privately promised The Vase Lady something. He would keep her, forever. If he broke that promise, he knew the consequences would be unthinkable.
As Seymour lay looking at The Vase Lady, he remembered that Polly had suggested he cut down his hashish consumption and get out more. Maybe she was right.
The van drove for a half an hour or so taking several abrupt turns. The tension inside the van was unbearable, the roar of pounding rain on the metal roof made other sounds barely audible. Bruno had recovered, but was breathing heavily, his nose gurgling with blood.
Suddenly the van began to lurch from side to side; its wheels occasionally spinning as they tried to get a grip. Another sharp bend, up a hill, the engine screaming. The driver crunched through the gears, wheels dropping in and out of potholes. Then the van suddenly lurched to a halt.
Someone in the front got out and opened the huge wooden doors of an old barn, then signalled the van in. The tension in the van grew, not just in her but between Bruno and Roger, who had spent the entire journey scowling at each other. Bruno spitting blood and panting like an injured bull. The rear doors of the van suddenly flew open and everybody but Polly got out. It was dark, damp and cold; the musty smell of rotting hay thick in the air.
Roger pointed the gun at Polly.
‘Get out!’
Polly slowly shuffled along the wooden box and eased herself out; steadying herself on the rear door, her eyes fixed on the gun barrel.
‘Now get over there.’ shouted Roger nudging the gun at Polly over to the corner of the barn.
"Bruno, get the fuck over here! Now!"
Bruno appeared next to Roger. He handed Bruno the gun.
‘Right you asshole. Now fucking kill her.’ Bruno took the gun and held it limply. He looked at Polly then at Roger.
‘Go on. Fucking pull the trigger!’ shouted Roger.
‘Please! No. Please don't kill me. Please. I'll do anything. Please! Please!’ screamed Polly.
‘Go on, do it!’ shouted Roger again.
Bruno was shaking, his eyes darting between Roger and Polly. Roger grabbed the gun from him, aimed it straight at Polly's forehead and squeezed the trigger. Click. Nothing.
‘Fuck!’ screamed Roger as he cocked the gun, ‘Who the fuck unloaded it?’
‘I did.’ said Doherty from somewhere in the darkness of the barn. ‘No guns we said.’
‘Oh yeh,’ said Roger calmly, ‘I forgot.’
Roger reached into his pocket, pulled out a cartridge, slid it into the chamber and slammed the barrel shut.
Chaos broke out. Doherty suddenly appeared from behind and grabbed Roger by the throat, dragged him to the ground and began hitting him in the face. Somehow Roger overpowered him, stood up and threw him into a pile of empty diesel drums sending them flying. Bruno leapt on top of them. The driver and the other man in turn piled on top of them. Polly was unsure if they were trying to stop them or just joining in. The violence seemed to escalate a
s if old scores were being settled at last and at random. She watched them, the viscous violence and fear sending an uncontrollable shaking through her body. She looked across at the barn door, her eyes trying to focus on the lock but the low light made it impossible. Again she looked at the thrusting arms and kicking legs flying, the sound of clashing flesh and thud of bone echoed. She closed her eyes. She wanted to scream but couldn't.
Something happened to her. Her whole body seemed to surge, the lights went out in her head. She could see nothing but abstract shapes. She stood in the darkness, panting uncontrollably, pinned against what felt like a stone wall: her heart pounding. She looked around her. She could just make out various shapes that looked like farm machinery. Shafts of light and rain streamed in through the gaping holes in the roof illuminating the choking dust thrown up by the brawl somewhere in the darkness. The barn door slowly opened. Polly froze. She watched as two men sneaked in, one with a powerful torch.
‘Oh for fucks sake!’ said one of the men. He shone the torch into the back of the van, climbed in and then back out with two bulging bags. He opened them and shone the torch in.
‘Fuckin' nice one! Stick 'em in the motor Bill.’
The other man grabbed the bags and slipped back out of the barn. The man shone the torch in the direction of the now groaning, exhausted pile of men somewhere in the darkness.
"What the fuck are you doing you stupid fucking assholes!" he shouted.
Polly watched as the other man came back into the barn and headed into the darkness.
‘For Christ's sake. Fucking stop. Now! Roger! Put the fucking gun down Ok. Now calm down.’
Polly slowly eased herself along the wall towards the door.
‘Put the fucking thing down Roger. Put it down! OK!’
Suddenly there was an ear-splitting crack of gunshot then a piercing scream.
Polly slipped out the door, into the blinding daylight, the rain had slightly eased and the sun, for a second, shone before being blocked again out by thick black clouds. There was a car outside. She spotted the key in the ignition, quickly looked around her, jumped in, started the motor, slammed it in gear and roared off wheels spinning, spitting stones.
She had no idea where she was but the only exit was clear. She quickly looked behind her through the fogged up and rain-jeweled glass; she could vaguely see two of the men already out of the barn and running after her. The car thumped into several potholes, the steering wheel snatching from her white knuckled grip, the overgrown brambles tugged at the wing mirrors and scratched at the paintwork. Her neck was as tight as rope: her whole body rigid with fear. She reached a tarmac lane and smashed onto it with a loud thud. Her foot flat onto the accelerator the car’s engine screamed, she slammed it into second gear, throwing the car around a bend, its body heaving over, tyres groaning.
Back at the track the two men, breathless, stopped. Their punished, unfit legs unable to carry their overweight slob bodies any further. Roger had already crashed the van back out of the barn and was heading full pelt at them. They dived out the way as he flew past them. The van skidded uncontrollably, hit a small tree and flipped over on its side and landed in a ditch, Roger's head smashing against the drivers door window. Huge billowing clouds of steam drifted out from the engine bay.
The two men shook there heads and turned back to the groaning coming from the barn. Bruno staggered out of the barn holding his backside, his trousers soaked in blood, his face battered and bloody. He looked up to the sky, squeezed his eyes shut and whispered ‘Oh Fuck, fuck, fuck!’
‘What do you think Johnny?’ said his sidekick, Bill.
Johnny calmly looked across at the Transit van. Roger had managed to clamber out, fallen into a blackberry bush, struggled to his feet and was lumbering towards them. Johnny watched Roger with a resigned disbelief and shook his head. Roger somehow managing to stumble across the yard, went past them and launched himself at Bruno sending him crashing to the ground to once again pummel him with his bloodied fists. Johnny looked at his watch, pulled out his mobile, punched at the buttons and waited.
‘Spider?......It's Johnny, yeah I'm fine, yeah good...and you?...That's great yeah great...Yeh I know it's been a while...Been busy you know...business...Yeh yeh fine...Look mate I uh need a bit of a favour...Well I need a lift.....It's sort of urgent.....Nah nah it's not dodgy at all....There's a ton innit for you......Sussex....Yeh Sussex, North of Brighton.....Well we were just going for a drive and uh....you know, a bit of sight seeing...and we uh..well broke down....Look Spider I can't go into it now, can you do it or not?....200? Fuck me Spider that's a bit much innit? What are you a fuckin’ kosher black cab now or somthin’?...OK OK 200, now listen...You know where Hassocks is.....Hassocks yeah Hassocks...Fuck me Spider it's a town in England ...not London, no, South England..It’s only an hour away from you..No course they haven't got a fucking tube station...You've never heard of it?....Shit....’
It took some time for Johnny to explain to Spider the geography of South East England. Spider always thought of anywhere outside of London as a foreign land where peasants toiled the fields, traded horses, thatched roofs and nicked Range Rovers for a living. Why Johnny 'The Knack' would be at a farm sightseeing was a mystery, but, Johnny was a mate, their friendship as solid as rock, had been for years: since they had shared a cell in Wormwood Scrubs prison. Johnny had always said to Spider that mates would do anything for each other: it was like a brotherhood thing. It made Spider feel indebted to Johnny. Why, he wasn't sure.
Johnny switched off his mobile and dropped it into his pocket. ‘Right,’ he said calmly to Bill. ‘Get everyone together. We gotta keep our heads down for a couple of hours...Someone's coming to get us...Jesus Christ what a fuckin' nightmare.’
Johnny slowly pulled out a huge handgun from inside his jacket and looked at it.
‘Why the fuck do I get involved with these knob heads.’
Johnny ambled over to Roger, who was sitting astride of Bruno and pointed the pistol at his head.
‘Excuse me gentlemen,’ said Johnny as he pushed the muzzle of his handgun into the nape of Roger's neck, ‘Sorry to interrupt. We seem to be in, what is known as, a bit of a fuckin' pickle. You will now all go into the barn and you will all keep perfectly quiet until our taxi arrives OK? If you have any questions don't ask! Now fucking move. Please.’
Seymour was still in bed. He was awake now, having enjoyed a pleasant hour or so in a gentle daydream and was planning the short trip over to the bathroom to freshen up with a shower before he ventured into the day again. He had replayed the previous evening with Polly several times and now, convinced her words were real and not influenced by his own wishful thinking; he was settling into his reprieve from responsibility. It was a cosy, smug feeling. Nothing, it seemed, could go wrong for him now, for he was blessed with an undeniable talent for attracting fortune without the need for manipulating anything or anybody to achieve it. He had recounted his entire life thus far about half an hour before and had come to the conclusion that it was reasonable to assume that something out there in the big cosmos was watching over him: guiding him through life, telling him when to duck, catching him when he fell over, and now it had given him a wonderful woman, whom he loved dearly, to pay for it all. Seymour smiled at the notion. Only once, in fleeting subtext to his thoughts that morning, did he consider why on earth the universe would choose to protect him of all people from the hazards of human existence. He was sent maybe to give something to the world; something that would show humanity the way to true meaning? For a moment he had equated his life to those of Jesus Christ, Ghandi and Bagwan Rajneesh, all of whom seemed to have been blessed with a similar knack for surviving without actually getting a job. But their ugly, painful deaths soon removed them from comparison. No, Seymour Capital would die gracefully, naturally, without pain, having left his mark indelibly and unconsciously: mankind would learn from it. His message would seep through to his people by osmosis, through his art. It was all so obvious. But the
n again, what if he was just lucky? What if all these things that had brought him to this particular moment in his life were due to a mysterious quirk of nature: a blunder of karmic energy? Maybe, in the creation of human existence, he had slipped away to the toilet every time the masters of destiny were handing out jobs to be done? Was he cheating? Is that why he felt a chunk of frozen jagged cast-iron lodged in his spiritual gut that prevented his body from feeling the flowing warmth of true contentment for no more than a day or so.
His eyes locked onto the red flashing digital 00:00:00 on the radio alarm by the bed. It was an icon of his ineptitude that bloody thing: he could never figure out how to reset it. Polly knew how to do it and had explained it to him twice, but she was buggered if she was going to do it again. One day, in a fury, after attempting every combination of pushing every button, adjusting this switch and that bloody switch, he had thrown it with all his might at a wall. Reaching the end of its cord, it had recoiled back and hit him on the head, then dropped to the floor with a cheap clatter.
‘It's buggered.’ Seymour had told Polly.
Later, in his absence, she had tried to reset it, in the hope of proving yet again what a useless prat he was. But Seymour was right. It was buggered. Off the hook again Seymour.
As the flashing red 00:00:00 burned into his retinas, Seymour was fighting back the haunting idea that if he had a problem he would, rather than solve it, get rid of it. A habit that had become a policy throughout his life.
The downstairs door buzzer went. That would be the postman. The postman always buzzed when he dropped the post through the letterbox; ever since they had cut the power off once and Seymour had ingeniously claimed that he had never received the bill. To back it up he had complained to the postman that mail had gone missing. This was based on the fact that someone had told him that postmen, who cleverly slip junk mail in with the post, have been known to dump the junk mail into dustbins and still get paid for delivering it: sometimes accidentally ditching real mail. Those were the days when Seymour felt like he was carrying the world on his shoulders, even though he had whittled down his numerous household duties to just paying the bills. Polly paid the bills now, along with everything else required to run a home in the developed world. Now all he had to do was keep his heart beating, breath and generally maintain his bodily functions. But Polly, in a final attempt to give him some sort of responsibility, insisted it was still his job to actually get the post from downstairs and up to the flat before Polly got home. It was a duty he carried out with the determination of man possessed.