by Oscar Turner
‘Right!’ said Seymour as he hauled himself out of bed, stretched and pulled on Polly's dressing gown. It was a tight fit, but he hadn't seen his own dressing gown for some time now. He felt dizzy for a few seconds and hung on to the fourposter, waiting for the blood to creep up to his brain, before yanking the door open and going downstairs. There was a substantial pile of ominous, beige, windowed envelopes that could only contain bad news and several copies of the same junk mail that offered amazing discounts on things, he or anybody else, he hoped, never bought. A result, he suspected, of some sort of postman's revenge. He had considered complaining once again to the post office: but had decided not to play his infantile game.
But he was bugging him, that postman. Seymour wanted to see him. Not to say anything, just to give him a look: to let him know that dumping junk mail in his letter box was a futile weapon in this war. Seymour picked through cheap leaflets and found one that stood out: wine tasting night at Bar Paul. Seymour winked at it and held it with his teeth while he looked for more not so junk mail.
Seymour closed his eyes as the thud of the apartment door upstairs slamming shut echoed down to him in the hallway.
‘Fuck!’
He checked Polly's dressing gown pocket for the unlikely possibility that she may have had the foresight to put the spare key in it. But no. ‘Make sure you get a spare key cut and put it under the stairs or something.’ Polly had said four or five times before when the same thing had happened.
‘Fuck.’ He muttered again. He knew what that smart ass, dust coat wearing, short, bald, bloke with bifocal glasses at the glass cutting department of the hardware shop would say as he straightened his rotary club tie. ‘Same again sir? We do cut spare keys here as well sir.’
Seymour never seemed to manage to get the key to the key cutting dept, mainly because he had taken to hanging the key on a nail under the stairs whenever he went out, thus eliminating the possibility of losing the key, which he had also done on several occasions. This time, he had not actually gone out and the key was in the apartment. If he could somehow get the key copied, with care, this bloody ridiculous situation would never happen again. The postman would tire a long time before he would.
Polly was exhausted. Her frantic drive had led her up yet another lane. The car was beginning to feel strange: the steering wheel was tugging to the left and the bottom of the car grounding on the lumpy ridge in the middle of the track. She slammed on the brakes.
‘Oh Jesus Christ where the hell am I?’ she muttered as the fear in her suddenly exploded into her entire body with a convulsing, heart pumping spasm. Her eyes filled with tears that turned her vision to a blurred kaleidoscope. She grabbed the steering wheel with her rigid trembling arms and held on, then flung her head back onto the headrest, looked up at the headlining, closed her eyes and drew in a huge slow breath, releasing it with a jet blast. Lowering her head, her eyes sprung open and stared dead ahead. She could see a house in the distance across a field. She could run for it. Her mind rehearsed it to a bad end. She had no idea where she was, she could quite easy have driven a complete circle and be metres away from the barn. Maybe that was the farm there to her left, just visible through a gap in the bushes. No. No, it's not, can't be. No hill.
‘Shit,’ she whispered, snatching at the ignition key.
The motor stopped and she wound down the window and listened. The rain had stopped again and beyond the mysterious buzz of the countryside, she could hear nothing unusual, no beating feet, no racing engines: nothing. She checked the rear view mirror and caught a glimpse of her eyes. They were on fire: it scared her. She had seen those eyes in that state before, too many times.
Slowly she opened the car door and eased herself out, her ears pricked. The bushes around her were tall and the undergrowth thick, it felt like a tunnel: all she could see was front and back, she checked both. Feeling around the body of the car like the blind, she made her way to the other side and looked down at the front wheel. Its tyre had chewed its way off the wheel and lay limp. She checked front and backwards again. Still nothing. She looked down at the wheel again and bit at her lip. She thought for a moment then quickly went back around to the boot and stabbed at the catch, the boot lid slowly opened. Polly took a step back as her eyes drank in its contents. Two bulging large leather bags sat there, one lay on its side, its catch slightly open, revealing a bundle of £20 notes. Polly struggled to keep her balance as a cold shiver ran through her. The skies opened yet again, huge drops of rain poured down, thumping at the car like drums.
She checked up and down the lane again. Nothing.
Seymour lay on the bed where he had thrown himself, his ballooning eyes staring at the crack in the ceiling. With a feeble contortion of his arms, he inspected his elbow and began pulling fragments of glass from Polly's dressing gown. The letters were strewn across the bed where he'd thrown them, some had stuck to his bare legs like leeches whilst others lay limp on the contours of the ruffled bed like wreckage floating on a wild sea. Seymour regressed to his childhood when he would play with toy boats on his bed, rolling his legs around to create a swell to capsize the little boats so he could rescue everyone with his model Airfix Westland Whirlwind helicopter. With several kicks of his legs he sent a couple of envelopes fluttering down to the floor and sat bolt upright. His eyes flashed across at the door. He hated it, it had cheated him, humiliated him and now it was sniggering at him. The broken pane still had jagged pieces hanging in its frame: held in by the fresh putty from the time he'd done the same thing three weeks before.
He vowed that this will never happen again.
He had copies of the keys now, two of them. One was hanging on the nail under the stairs, one under the carpet of the third step of the stairs. Fail-safe. It was well worth the bus trip to DIYland, the builder's merchant out of town. The glass cutting dept and the key cutting machine were at the same counter. Somehow, that made him feel less foolish about the whole thing and at least he didn't give that other bastard -who cut the glass before- the pleasure of humiliating him. ‘Same again sir?’ said Seymour to himself sarcastically. ‘Fuck you.’
He wondered how he could deal with that postman. Asshole. It was all because of him.
Johnny stood by the barn door watching the van. The steam had subsided now but there was a worrying waft of smoke coming from under the bonnet
He felt nervous, unlike his normal cool, calm, but intimidating, self. The rest of the gang lay around on the ground in various states of injury, each not looking at each other under Johnny's orders: to avoid another fight.
Johnny straightened up as a Range Rover slowly drove up and stopped just past the van.
‘Oh God no. Please. Gimme a break.’ he whispered. He turned to face the rabble scattered around. ‘Not a fucking sound OK. Now stay here.’
Johnny calmly pushed his handgun inside his jacket, tousled his well groomed hair and slipped out of the barn.
‘Good Morning.’ said Johnny brightly as he approached the Range Rover. ‘Can I help?’
The elderly man in the Range Rover, smartly dressed in a sports jacket, checked shirt and club tie, wound down the electric window. ‘What on Earth is going on here?’ said the man indignantly.
Johnny pulled a puzzled face and shook his head. ‘Not sure, probably joy riders. Bloody kids on drugs I suppose.’
The man got out. ‘And who the hell are you, might I ask?’
‘Name's Forbes, from South Coast Estate agents. I'm here to assess this place for a client of ours. And you sir?’
‘I am Sir Thomas Barrington and this is my property. It is not for sale! Who sent you here?’ said Sir Thomas sternly as he pulled out his phone and prepared to dial.
Johnny calmly pulled out his huge handgun and pointed it at him. ‘Drop the phone sir. Please’
Sir Thomas looked up. His shocked eyes fixed on the barrel pointing at him: he dropped the phone.
‘Kick it over here.’
Sir Thomas did so and Johnny stamped on
it hard, picked it up and looked at it.
‘These really are crap phones you know sir. Now, please come this way over to the barn.’ said Johnny, gesturing the way with his gun.
‘But. What on Earth? This is ridiculous. What on Earth is going on?’ said Sir Thomas, distressed, as he stared at the gun, frozen on the spot.
Johnny continued smiling sadistically, staring into Sir Thomas's eyes as he cocked the gun and waved it again in the direction of the barn.
Sir Thomas raised his arms slightly and stumbled toward the barn door followed by Johnny. As they reached the door, Sir Thomas stopped and turned to face Johnny. ‘Look if it's money, I can give you...’
‘In the fucking barn sir,’ interrupted Johnny. ‘You can't afford me."
As Sir Thomas entered the barn Johnny smashed him on the back of the head with the barrel his gun with a clean firm thud. Sir Thomas dropped into a crumpled pile next to Bruno.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ screamed Bruno.
‘Right you fucking rabble, outside. Get in the Range Rover.’ Growled Johnny as he reached down and slipped Sir Thomas's wallet from his inside jacket pocket.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Stealing the Stolen.
Detective Sergeant Shoal ambled around the office at Hogarth Heavy Engineering: surveying the crime scene. His head was bowed, his left hand massaged a lump of blubber-like tissue below his mouth; which he had hoped in his youth would one day turn into a chin. It hadn't. His Sheik-like goatee beard attempted to hide the fact. It didn't.
‘Mmm,’ mumbled Shoal as he watched the six policemen shaking the peacefully sleeping clerks sprawled across their desks.
Wandering over to Mr. Arnold -who was being carefully lifted onto a stretcher by two ambulance officers- he gently nudged the toupee on the floor with his foot, bent down and picked it up carefully by a single strand of hair.
‘Interesting. Bag please, Ricketts.’
Ricketts, who had been following Shoal step by step, reached into his pocket, pulled off a bag from a roll and handed it to him.
‘That's Mr. Arnold's, I think Sarge,’ said Ricketts.
‘Oh really?’
‘Yes, Mr. Thompson, the bloke who found 'em, he said.’
‘Evidence Ricketts, it's all evidence.’ said Shoal attempting to negotiate the toupee into the bag with the skill of a drunk fairground punter. ‘I want the whole place dusted for prints.’ Shoal handed Ricketts the empty bag and the dangling toupee. ‘And get statements from everyone.’
‘But they're asleep Sarge.’
‘Well wake 'em up Ricketts. Wake 'em up!’
Shoal shook his head impatiently and turned to the medic who'd been tending Mr. Arnold.
‘How is he?’
‘Not good, got a dicky heart by the looks of it.’ said the medic as he stood up and tapped one of the stretcher bearers on the shoulder. ‘OK, take him away. Right, let's have a look at these.’
Most of the clerks were semiconscious by now and were groaning and disorientated. The medic looked around the room and picked out one of the women for a closer inspection. Gently holding his hand on her head, he stared into the woman's cloudy eyes; feeling for her pulse on her wrist at the same time.
‘Some sort of tranquilliser, probably a barbiturate or something, they'll be OK in a few hours.’
‘So they were drugged,’ said Shoal proudly, as if his suspicions had been confirmed.
‘No flies on you are there Shoal,’ said the medic, smiling sarcastically.
The disrespect the medic was showing was clearly based on a long and troubled acquaintance; but Shoal was unable come up with a spontaneous return. His fellow officers smiled to themselves as they continued shaking the clerks. Shoal, annoyed, summoned up an attempt at authority and briskly went over to the woman the medic was checking out.
‘Right. What happened then miss?’
She looked up to him and smiled angelically.
‘Leave her alone Shoal, for Pete's sake!’ said the medic.
Shoal shook his head dismissively.
‘Right you lot, check everything for clues, witnesses, anything, and find out how the drugs were administered!’ said Shoal addressing everybody in the room. He turned back to the medic. ‘And you. Is there a doctor coming to look at this lot?’
The medic nodded and went on to another woman. Shoal turned to Ricketts.
‘Right, as soon as you get clearance I want a statement from all of these people!’
Ricketts nodded as he concentrated on his task with the toupee. Shoal stormed out of the office.
As Shoal walked down the corridor methodically scanning the floor with his eyes, he stopped and sniffed the air. Reaching the front door, he looked down, picked up some small fragments of glass that lay in the residue of the now evaporated perfume and inspected them closely.
Seymour toyed with the TV remote control as he sat slumped in the old armchair, his index finger teasing the on/off button. He needed something, anything to occupy him for an hour or so to disperse the strange mood he was in. He was having a bad day and there were no signs of it getting better. His easel stood in the middle of the room, armed with a blank canvass: waiting.
Experience had shown Seymour that his present state of mind was not convivial to creation and leant more to destruction: he would undoubtedly slip deeper into depression if he attempted to work. He had smoked just one hash joint, that's all, just before he had gone to DIYland. Time for another one maybe. Might settle things down a bit. The washing-up could wait, as could the broken glass in the doorway, no, he needed something. He went over to the kitchen area, made his second mug of high octane coffee, rolled a joint, lit it and sat back in the old armchair. It felt warm and comforting as he sipped at the coffee and drew in deep drags of sweet hashish. As he sat staring at the blank TV screen, the caffeine and THC kicked in and began zipping through his veins. His brain began buzzing as the next stage of his daily ritual started to form. Boredom.
Boredom was a word Seymour felt sorry for. It was a wildly abused word that was used to describe a negative state of wasteful time. Seymour called it a state of void, a chance to think. Seymour enjoyed boredom. It was like sitting in outer space to him. Life was always happening somewhere out there, but in the studio there was a vacuum, and it was his alone. It was then that he had the freedom to do, or not to do, whatever he wanted.
Seymour always sat through boredom: he never felt tempted to break the spell by doing something as that would defeat the object of being bored. Boredom was something to be relished, embraced and felt: not avoided. It was an honour and a privilege to be bored. He felt no shame, no frustration and no guilt at that moment. Humans have lost the art of doing nothing at all and maybe the repercussions of that loss are being felt in illusive ways as the human race barges on relentlessly doing things and denying itself the opportunity to think and philosophise about what it is actually doing and what the consequences are.
Seymour smiled at his well used thought that he always brought up whenever the occasion arose.
Polly slipped into his mind unexpectedly. He could smell her, all of her, not just the smell of the wonderful perfumes she wore but the smell of her juice, her sweet sweat. Suddenly a voice boomed out from the television trying to sell him garage doors. It took a moment for him to realise that he was now sitting on the remote control and as he reached under his bum to find it, the channels flashed from one to the other. The sudden intrusion angered him. At last he pulled the remote out and fired it at the TV. The picture and sound collapsed as if he'd punched it. The sudden silence felt spooky and uncomfortable for a moment: the buzz of his body pronounced. This was the feeling he loved. It was a shame that he had to go through such a messy process to achieve it, but that was all part of the journey to what others may refer to as boredom. He smiled, staring at the blank TV, feeling a sense of glory.
Looking across at his easel, he reflected on the connection of the two images: the TV and canvas. The TV tells you what
it thinks but you tell the canvas what you think. The idea lingered in his mind for a while, gently wafting around with no particular place to go. He often tried to intellectualise on thoughts that accidentally bumped into him. It gave him the hope that he could enter into a dialogue with his work for once and explain its meaning to others. Unfortunately, his lack of training in the language of art meant that his conceptual thoughts were unguided and conclusions as elusive as his desire to bother. Instead of working with painful self-expression, he worked for beauty, and, despite the ugly world he was forced to inhabit, his vision beyond reality exuded in waves of creation, often spurred by panic; for fear of losing the moments he cherished and boredom led him there.
Almost in a trance he got up from the chair, went over to his rack of works in progress and slid out a landscape he had been fiddling with for weeks.
After holding it up in front of him at arms length, he took it over to the easel, removed the blank one and placed it gently on the pegs. He stood there, staring it. It was good, he knew that, Polly thought so too, but he always had the sneaking suspicion that her judgement was clouded by her undying love for him.
Seymour declared that the painting was finished and took it gently across the room to rest in peace, leaning it against the wall next to The Vase Lady. His eyes couldn't leave the painting as he walked away backwards, his legs instinctively negotiating the furniture. He was thinking of what to call it.