Paint. The art of scam.

by Oscar Turner

  ‘I never plan the outcome, because I never see it through. That'll do it.’ Its original name was, "Bodmin Moor at Ten o'clock," when it had looked like that. But the windswept stark heather and undulating hills had since become surreal rolling paddocks of loud swooping colours that somehow worked: in a Van Gogh sort of way. Whilst painting "Bodmin Moor at 10 o'clock," the starkness of the subject had haunted him and conjured up thoughts of cruelty and industrial misery. He became depressed for days; that he could produce such ugly images. He thought he had lost it, again, his only ticket to beauty. But a couple of weeks ago he had laid in bed, with Polly draped, post coital across him, sleeping peacefully, his mind racing in desperate panic over his dilemma. The notion of him having to get a job had already been bandied around with growing frequency and quite rightly he had held that idea directly responsible for the ugly painting he had created. This was man's ability to make hell from heaven, he was becoming part of it and the idea of collaborating with the human race to reach its devious ends horrified Seymour. He had spent his life avoiding a role in society: the mere threat of it was making his work ugly.

  In a fury driven by his conclusion, Seymour had gently eased Polly off of him, sprung out of bed and mixed strange fiery colours with his bare hands, daubed the canvas with his fingers and rid himself of Bodmin Moor at Ten O'clock forever.

  Returning to bed he felt a magnificent power. He could change the world; well, his world anyway and he wanted nobody, with the exception of Polly, to have any part in it. Polly woke: he held her. His raw passion took him over and he ravaged her wonderful body like a wild animal, covering her with smooth creamy yellows, deep rich greens and spacious blue paint from head to toe. This was why she was late for work that particular day.

  Picking up the newly primed canvas again he placed it on the easel and stared at its blankness. The texture of the white brush strokes of primer drew him in. Then. Nothing. It was gone. His mind had gone for a walk, slamming the door behind it.

  It was nearly time for the midday news anyway, that takes an hour, and it takes two and a half hours for the TV to cool down. He grappled with the idea for a moment and concluded that the midday news was different. It didn't count as daytime television. Knowing what was going on in the world was a valid input to his work. Like research. Off he slouched back to the armchair and flicked the remote.

  Polly kicked leaves into a hole in the base ancient oak tree that stood a few metres from the track on the edge of some woods. It had taken her several paranoid minutes to find a good place to put the bags, but only seconds to decide to do it. It was all quite automatic, something that both scared and excited her.

  Again she froze and listened. Still nothing, but the occasional distant passing car. In the distance she could hear wailing sirens, their direction uncertain as the trees around her muffled and threw every sound into random places. These sounds were not unusual these days, part of the human soundscape.

  She went back to the car and rummaged around in the boot to find the spare wheel and jack.

  She had only changed a wheel once before, but such a task was designed for fools that could barely be trusted to sit the right way on a toilet; yet could be empowered to fix a problem that could easily result in a messy death. She found the jack and wheel brace and looked at them. They to made no sense initially, but after a few moments she looked down under the car and spotted a hole in the mud clogged chassis matching the protruding bar of the jack. She went back to the boot, lifted the flooring and found the spare wheel. Just as she was lifting out the wheel, she heard something coming up the lane. A loud, thumping, roaring sound. She looked back in its direction and froze, dropping the wheel back in the boot.

  "Oh God no, please!" she muttered.

  A car suddenly appeared behind her, an old Jaguar, driving fast, heading straight for her. She looked back again to see the Jaguar lurch to a clumsy halt: loud heavy metal music boomed from it. After an immeasurable moment, the driver's door opened and an incredibly tall, insect looking man dressed in skintight leather jeans and a chunky, heavily studded leather jacket climbed out with a twisted grace. He looked around, puzzled: then strode over to Polly.

  As he reached Polly he craned his sinewy bald head down and looked at her. Polly looked at him, frozen.

  His piercing eyes stared at her, the crazy aggression in his face was frightening. Suddenly his face contorted and morphed into an equally scary smile.

  ‘Sorry to bovver you lady.’

  Polly still stared at him, afraid to take her eyes off guard.

  ‘I'm a bit lost see darlin', lookin' for Willow Farm, I fought it was a pub, but it ain't, you know where it is love?’

  Polly shook her head emphatically.

  ‘Bugger,’ said the man. ‘Ere you broken dahn or somefin'?’

  ‘I, I, I've got a puncture.’ stammered Polly, her words clumsily tumbling out of her mouth through her chattering teeth.

  The man's mouth suddenly created a smile that virtually touched his ears and made a sound unknown to Polly. With that he went to the front of the car, looked at the crumpled tyre and kicked it.

  ‘Bloody poxy modern cars, seen betta wheels on a fuckin' dinky toy. Move aht the way love. Get in me motor if you like, get aht this poxy rain.’

  ‘No, no. Thank you. I can't really get any wetter.’

  Polly stood back and watched as the man grabbed the jack, spare wheel and brace from the boot, took them to the front of the car and changed the wheel in a matter of a few minutes.

  ‘There ya go,’ said the man as he stalked back to his car mumbling to himself.

  ‘Thank you. Uh, how much do I owe you? Um.’

  ‘Name's Spider. Nah. No problem darlin', see you round, 'ere hang on a minute, you gotta map?’

  ‘No, no sorry.’

  ‘Bloody countryside. How the fuck you s'posed to find your way around wivout a fuckin' a-z, no fuckin' wonder everyone looks fuckin' whacko round here, they're all fucking lost.’

  Spider slammed his car door shut, fired up the snarling' motor and launched the huge car backwards: within seconds he was gone. Polly listened as the car's whining gears and deep throated exhaust faded into the distance; then came a squeal of brakes followed by spinning screaming tyres.

  Polly scrubbed her hands on the sodden leaves just under the surface. The smell somehow took her back to something. It was a comfort and momentarily; she felt safe. Her thoughts crashed and she dashed back over to the car and started the engine. The motor idled, waiting. Polly drew a deep breath and looked in the rear view mirror. Those eyes. She stared at them for a second, then slammed the gear lever into reverse. Looking back over her shoulder she eased off the clutch and the car crawled backward until she reached the tarmac road. She checked both ways and pulled out. Her eyes flashed frantically everywhere as she yanked the gear stick into first, revved the motor and dropped the clutch. The car wheels snatched at gritty tarmac and pushed the car forward. Slamming through the gears Polly gripped the steering wheel, her white knuckles almost bursting through her skin, her eyes darting between the windscreen and the rear view mirror.

  Seymour was watching Sesame Street when he heard the stairs outside of the flat creak. Without hesitation he zapped the remote hard, the TV screen popped off and he sprung up to his easel looking like he had been there forever. He looked at his watch. 3 o'clock. Shit, she's early. The TV! Seymour's heartbeat doubled at the thought of it. Blood filled his face and glowed with pre-emptive embarrassment. Don't touch the TV Polly, don't touch the TV.

  He waited, brush in hand, poised for creation, his brow furrowed as a turtle's neck: hopefully simulating the strain of extreme concentration. The blank canvas stared at him; waiting. Seymour quickly calculated how long it was since Polly had gone to work. 5 hours? Shit! Blank canvas? Post modern conceptualism? Already been done, he didn't know what it meant anyway. He grabbed the canvas, tossed it into the corner and picked up I never plan the outcome 'cause I never see it through, placed it on the e
asel and re-established his pose. Final touch-up. That's it, final touch-up. He waited. Nothing. He could hear more floorboard creaking again from outside the door. It sounded different somehow. Normally there would be just the one creak, then the door latch would go and Polly would come in: he knew it well.

  Seymour, puzzled, dropped his arms, put down his brush and slowly crept over to the door. There was a knock. He stood there for a moment. Another knock; this time louder, more persistent, then the mumbling of male voices from outside in the hall.

  "Who is it?" said Seymour, putting on what he thought was a deep, threatening tone.

  ‘Mr. Capital?’ came a strong male voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It's the police.’

  Seymour bent down and looked through the broken pane and was met by a serious looking man’s face. Seymour smiled back. They stared at each other for a second.

  ‘Can you let us in sir?’ said the face.

  ‘Look, If it's about the postman I have nothing more to say OK? I don't want to get involved in his stupid game. And I've paid the electricity bill. No thanks to him.’

  ‘It's about your wife sir. Mrs. Polly Capital?’

  Seymour snatched at the door and yanked it open to see four uniformed police officers and a plain clothed man.

  ‘What's wrong? What's happened?’

  ‘She's fine sir. Just a bit of an accident, may we come in sir?’ said the plain clothed man holding out his opened I.D. wallet. ‘I'm Detective Constable Ricketts.’

  Seymour looked at the I.D. then stood aside as the policemen poured in and scattered around the flat, their eyes scanning the room.

  ‘Detective? Look. Where's Polly?. What's happened to her?’

  ‘She's fine sir, she's at the hospital for a check-up. Had a bit of a car accident.’

  ‘But we haven't got a car!’

  ‘I know sir. I'll explain in a moment if that's OK. Mind if we take a look around sir?’

  ‘Hang on a minute. What the hell is going on here? How did you get in the front door?"

  Ricketts wandered across the room, looked around, sat at the table and pushed a chair with his foot; gesturing with his hand for Seymour to join him.

  ‘It was unlocked sir. Please sit down sir and I'll explain.’ said Ricketts. Seymour looked at the policemen, waiting patiently and nervously edged over to the table and sat down.

  ‘Good,’ said Ricketts calmly, ‘Now can we have your permission to search the premises sir?’

  ‘You can't do that! Not without a warrant.’

  ‘Quite right sir, so you watch TV too. But that can be arranged. Just a phone call away. There really is nothing to be worried about sir. It's just routine. Won't take a minute.’ said Ricketts, dragging Seymour's ashtray towards him and poking at the remnants of a joint.

  ‘OK. OK. Go ahead’ said Seymour, ‘But what about Polly? What's happened to her?’

  Ricketts nodded to the rest of the policemen who snapped into action; vigourously searching the flat.

  ‘You see sir, there was a robbery at the factory. She was taken hostage apparently. She's all right, believe me, just a few scratches. They are just making sure she's OK down at the hospital. I'll take you down there to see her in a minute. Oh, and could you bring your wife a change of clothes?’

  ‘Clothes? They took her clothes? Oh God!’ said Seymour hysterically.

  ‘No, no sir, forensics need to hang on to her clothes, just in case we find something.’

  ‘Like what? They didn't. You know. Touch her did they?’

  ‘Not as far as we know sir, I'm sure it'll all unfold down at the station.’

  ‘The station? But.....’

  ‘Yes sir. The station. Now, before we go, um." Ricketts stood up, ambled over to the door and kicked at the broken glass on the floor.

  ‘Had a break in sir?’

  ‘No, no, it was that bloody postman.’

  ‘The postman sir?’

  ‘Yes, he rings the bell when the post arrives, so I can go and get it straight away. We've had mail going missing you see, that's why the electricity bill wasn't paid. Then the door slammed shut. Oh, it's a long story." said Seymour giving up; knowing that Ricketts wouldn't understand. He looked at the Policemen still rummaging through the flat.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Evidence sir.’

  ‘Evidence? Of what?’ said Seymour indignantly.

  Ricketts sighed and calmly went back over to Seymour.

  ‘Don't know sir. Now get your wife some clothes and we'll be on our way. Ok?’

  Ricketts looked across at the officers who seemed to be winding down their search. They all shook their heads one after the other. Ricketts reached across Seymour, opened the small carved wooden box on the table and pulled out a lump of hashish.

  ‘Tut, tut sir,’ said Ricketts as he pulled out a plastic bag from his pocket and dropped the lump inside it.

  Seymour stopped being indignant.

  Ricketts drove calmly through the heavy traffic while Seymour fidgeted with the seat belt buckle as he imagined the hideous injuries inflicted on Polly. Could he handle living with an invalid wife, physically or emotionally? She would never let him touch her again after being mauled, tortured and possibly raped by malicious criminals. Sure Ricketts had said she was OK, but then he would say that wouldn't he, just to put him at ease, they always did that.

  ‘When did you last see your wife, Mr. Capital?’ asked Ricketts.

  ‘When she went to work this morning.’

  ‘What time would that be sir?’

  ‘Oh I don't know nine, nine thirty. Why?’

  ‘Well, it seems she was late for work that's all. Apparently she walked into the office right in the middle of the robbery.’

  ‘Ah she's always late, she hates the place. How much further is it?’

  ‘Not far sir. She hates her job you say?’

  ‘Yeah. Are you sure they didn't rape her?’

  ‘Yes sir. Why does she work there if she hates it?’

  ‘We need the money, why else would anybody work? Can she walk?’

  ‘Yes sir. She's fine. Just a bit shaken that's all. And you Sir. What do you do for a living?’

  Seymour flashed a sideways glance at Ricketts with the velocity of a punch.

  ‘I am an artist.’ said Seymour, once more indignantly.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The lies begin.

  Seymour -in the company of a bored overweight policeman- had been waiting in a small side room at the hospital for half an hour. By then he had run through several hypothetic scenarios of what had happened and what was about to happen: none of which went anywhere. The hashish was wearing off now and along with it the bubble that it put him in. It hadn’t registered when he’d arrived at the hospital, but there was a lot of activity going on out there in the corridor: armed police in flak jackets, urgent screeching voices from two-way radios and a general sense of emergency. If you watch a lot of daytime television, hospitals can be like that. But suddenly it occurred to Seymour: all of this activity was about Polly.

  ‘Mr. Capital?’

  Seymour looked up to see a nurse, a big woman with Brillo pad hair, her little starched nurse's hat petrified in place.

  "You can see your wife now."

  Seymour jumped up obediently and followed her to a room down a long telescopic corridor. The nurse pointed to the door, smiled and left.

  Seymour looked in through the small window in the door. Polly, her back to him, dressed in a back tied white gown, was drying her hair with a towel. Seymour waited a moment; watching her to measure the situation, then knocked at the door. Polly turned around and waved him in. Seymour entered slowly, not knowing what to expect.

  ‘Polly? You OK darling?’ whispered Seymour standing well back to give her space to adjust to his presence and holding out the bag of clothes, like a tempting gift to a newly discovered native. Why he was behaving like this he wasn’t sure.

  ‘Oh Seymou
r. Thank God!’ Polly threw her arms around him and held him tight. ‘What a nightmare!’

  ‘It's OK Polly. You're safe now. What’s happening?’

  ‘Oh Seymour. Let's just get out of here.’

  Polly opened the bag and laid a crumpled dress neatly on the bed before pulling the gown over her head in one smooth movement, slipped on the dress and stood in front of him.

  ‘Seymour, please just take me home.’

  Polly cupped his face with both hands. She smiled, but it was forced.

  ‘Home? Well I don't think we're going home yet. The police have been searching it and the Detective that brought me here said we'd be going to the station.’

  ‘What? But why?’

  ‘I don't know Polly, he was asking me all sorts of questions.’

  ‘Oh for Gods sake!’ said Polly as she broke away from him and yanked the door open.

  Shoal was waiting outside with Ricketts and two armed policemen.

  ‘Ah, Mrs. Capital. How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Oh, you know, tired, shaky, scared, but I'm OK.’

  ‘Good, good. Well, um, I'm sure you realise that we'd like to have a word with you.’

  ‘Can't it wait? I really would like to go home.’

  ‘Sorry Polly, out of the question. It's important we get this sorted out as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ said Polly, disarmed by his insistence and looking at the policemen's guns.

  ‘Good, there's a car outside waiting’

  ‘A car? But where are we going?’

  ‘To the station. Shouldn't take too long.’

  Polly looked at Seymour nervously as Shoal led them away.

  The journey to the police station was swift, thanks to the skilful driver who wove the car with ease through the heavy traffic. There was an air of tension in the car exacerbated by the idle small talk between Shoal, Ricketts and the driver that somehow seemed designed to put Polly and Seymour in a state of unease. Polly felt a tremble run through her and clasped her hands together to control what could have developed into a violent spasm. Seymour on the other hand sat back relaxed in the back seat enjoying the ride. They would be going home soon, Polly was OK: thank God and the TV will have cooled down by now. A close call.