Paint. The art of scam.

by Oscar Turner

  ‘You stupid bitch.’ she slowly whispered to herself, forcing the grin away. ‘You stupid, stupid bitch.’

  Polly ran some cold water, filled her cupped hands, doused her face and looked again at her reflection. She stared a chastising stare. Then grinned again.

  Suddenly she involuntarily burst into tears, dropped the toilet seat down and sat down, gasping for breath.

  ‘You OK Polly?’ came Seymour's voice from outside the door.

  Polly quickly collected herself.

  ‘Yes, I'm fine thanks. I'll be out in a minute.’

  Ten minutes later she emerged from the bathroom unaware of the distress emanating from her face. She grabbed a chair to steady herself as she staggering across the room. Seymour went to her and took her by the arm.

  ‘Come on Polly, you come and lay on the bed again.’

  Polly allowed herself to be led over to the bed and slumped down. She looked up at him and forced a pathetic smile.

  ‘Should I call the doctor Polly? You look awful.’

  ‘No. Just leave me alone for a while. I'm really tired. OK?’ She spoke softly, yet the assertive edge made it more than a request.

  ‘Sure. Just tell me if you want anything.’

  Seymour slowly eased away from her and returned to the easel occasionally looking across at Polly. She was laying staring at the ceiling again.

  ‘Seymour?’

  ‘Yes?’

  She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.

  ‘Oh nothing.’

  Shoal went back to the station and charged into the room where Spider was now sat handcuffed to a chair with two huge officers either side of him.

  ‘Right then Mr. Spiderman, how are you feeling now then, mmm?’

  ‘I feel like shit man and you fuckin' know it!’ moaned Spider; his limbs fidgeting uncontrollably, his head rolling around on his shoulders.’

  Shoal reached into the desk draw, pulled out a large plastic bag, opened it and emptied its contents onto the desktop.

  ‘Let me see now, what do we have here then? Quite a cocktail, heroin, syringes, cocaine, barbiturates, speed, hashish and to cap it all you were three times over the alcohol limit.’ said Shoal, sorting through the pile in front of him. ‘Don't tell me.... Um.. I know! You're a Doctor.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ said Spider.

  Shoal picked up a syringe and a foil wrap then dangled them in front of Spider. Spider looked at them blinking rapidly and rolling his lips.

  ‘Is this what you need Mr. Spiderman? A nice little hit of heroin? Would that make you feel better?’

  Spider, jumped in his seat and squeezed his face up as if he were in excruciating pain.

  There was a knock on the door; a policewoman entered carrying a piece of paper, handing it to Shoal.

  ‘Here's the fingerprint I.D. sir, just came through from Scotland yard.’ she said, standing smartly, almost to attention.

  ‘Thank you Jessie, that'll be all.’ said Shoal looking at the paper. The policewoman about turned and left closing the door behind her.

  ‘Good Lord, Cecil Snowden-Smythe what a lovely name. Why on Earth would a man with a classy name like that end up looking like you? Would you like me to call you Cecil from now on? Or Spider?’

  Spider looked daggers at Shoal, clearing the white creamy discharge from his lips with his lizard like tongue.

  ‘Mmmm. Spider I think. Cecil?. Oh I don't know. Feels a bit strange.’ said Shoal sadistically dropping the syringe and foil in front of Spider. ‘So here we have it Spider. Got enough here to slam you up for a while, besides the drink driving charge. Second offence too. A long criminal record for theft, assault and... Good Lord, attempted rape. That's not very nice is it.’

  ‘I never touched her. I was framed.’ yelled Spider.

  Shoal smiled. ‘Oh I believe you Spider, you look like such a nice chap. Tell you what.’ exclaimed Shoal slapping his hands on the desk. ‘You tell me the names of everybody involved in this robbery and I'll pull a few strings to get rid of this little party pack. How does that sound? Might even let you go to the toilet on your own with this.’

  Shoal nudged the syringe and foil a bit closer to Spider. Spider looked down at it.

  ‘I don't know nuffin abat the fuckin' robbery I told ya. If I did I would. OK?’ groaned Spider: defeated.

  ‘Ok. So what were you doing here in Sussex, driving like a maniac, in a car with no tax, no insurance, a fake logbook, drunk, in possession of class 'A' drugs asking directions to a farm which we now know was used as a safe house for a major robbery?’ said Shoal calmly.

  ‘I dunno!’ screamed Spider.

  Shoal reached across and pulled the syringe and foil back towards him.

  ‘You dunno. Oh well. Worth a try I suppose, Take him down and charge him with this lot boys. Oh and apply for him to be remanded in custody will you? I see he's on a suspended sentence too, don't want to lose him now. Welcome aboard Mr. Spiderman.’ said Shoal gathering together the assortment of drugs and putting them back in the bag.

  The two burly officers either side of Spider began roughly unlocking the handcuffs, ensuring he was unable to budge from the chair while they did so.

  ‘'ang on a minute!’ said Spider angrily.

  ‘Yes?’ Shoal dropped the bag back into the drawer.

  ‘I'll tell ya everyfing I know. Awright? If ya gimme a hit.’

  ‘That's better, thought you'd come round to my way of thinking. Ok fire away. I'm all ears.’ Shoal sat forward in his chair, smiling, his elbows resting on the desk.

  ‘Ya gotta give me the hit first though.’ said Spider shrugging off the firm grip the officers had on his arms.

  ‘Mr. Spiderman,’ said Shoal sighing, ‘You are hardly in a position to negotiate, are you now? You tell us everything and I'll decide whether you get your medicine or not. Is that clear?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ groaned Spider, stretching out his tentacle like arms, interlocking his fingers and clicking knuckle joints. ‘Ok. I was workin' in me garage right? An I gets this phone call on me mobile. It was this bloke I ain't seen for fuckin' years.’

  ‘And who was that then?’

  ‘His name's Johnny.’

  ‘Johnny who?’

  ‘I dunno do I. I just know him as Johnny. Nasty bastard 'e is. Anyway 'e says 'e needs a lift, said it was urgent. Wanted me to come to some poxy farm and pick 'im an 'is mates up. I said I was busy like, but 'e wouldn't 'ave none of it. Offered me two 'undred quid. I asked 'im if it was dodgy like. An 'e said it was dead kosher. So I got in me motor and drove dan and got fucking lost dinni. Then I drove up some lane and this bird was there, wiv a puncture, the one you 'ad 'ere before. She'll tell ya. Then I fixed her wheel and fucked off again. Then I saw you lot buzzin' round so I bolted see. Didn't want no trouble.’

  ‘How wrong you were.’ said Shoal.

  ‘Yeh well, I didn't fuckin' know did I.’

  ‘Then I 'it the bird's car, silly cow was all over the place, drivin' like a fuckin' maniac.’

  ‘She told us you were driving like a maniac.’

  ‘Well I was pissed wunni.’

  ‘I don't think that will help you in court.’

  ‘Yeh well fuck it, I'm just tellin' ya the fuckin' truth inni.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yeah. Scahts' honour. Come on, gimme a break will ya? That's all I know. 'Onest.’

  ‘You still haven't given me any names Spider, except for Johnny. How do you know this Johnny character.’

  ‘I did some work for him, fixed a motor or somefing. Fuckin' years ago.’

  ‘How many years ago?’

  ‘I dunno, just fuckin’ years.’

  Shoal looked back at the record sheet. ‘Now let me see. 1980 maybe?’ Found guilty at Southwick Crown Court for aiding and abetting car theft and fraud, is that when you met Johnny?’

  ‘Maybe, yeh, about then.’

  Shoal studied the sheet further. ‘Good God you have been busy Mr. Spider. This is just like ‘This is
your life.’ So you met Johnny in 1980 or thereabouts. ‘So how did he have your phone number. They didn’t have mobile phones then, did they?’

  ‘Yeah well, I bumped into 'im in a pub a few mumfs back an' I musta given 'im me number then I s'pose.’

  Shoal sat back, put his hands behind his head and looked up at the clock high on the wall.

  ‘Good Lord is that the time?’ said Shoal as he stood up and straightened his tie. ‘Better get home. Mrs. Shoal's doing a nice steak and kidney pie tonight. Lock him up downstairs boys. We'll have to carry on tomorrow morning. Maybe we can go for a little drive. You can show me where you did your Christian deed for the lady.’

  ‘'Ere 'ang on we 'ad a deal you said I could have me fix!’

  ‘Yes that's right Spider. When you gave me names. Must be off. Can't stand it when the pastry gets all soggy, can you? See you tomorrow Spiderman.’

  ‘You bastard. I don't know nuffin else!’ shouted Spider as Shoal left the room.

  Handcuffed with his arms behind his back they led Spider down to the cells and with the aid of two more officers removed his shoes, belt, a huge gold chain around his neck and threw him in a cell to cool off.

  For three hours Spider screamed and shouted abuse until he began spitting blood. Exhausted, he lay on the metal bed, his legs and arms twitching uncontrollably, his body crying out for the heroin it needed to mask the pain that ripped through his every muscle.

  At three in the morning he was on the hard tiled floor having fallen from the bed and began thrashing around more and more, smashing his head and arms in involuntary spasms as his craving took hold.

  At four o'clock in the morning, a huge blood clot, derived from the numerous injuries he had inflicted on himself, slammed into his brain. Spider died instantly.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A price to pay.

  It was midday. Bruno lay on his bed in his grim bed-sitter, fully dressed and exhausted. His face was heavily bruised and swollen, his clothes ripped and bloody; his acrylic floral candlewick bedspread sodden with congealed blood from the oozing gunshot gash on his left buttock. The previous night had been mostly sleepless and waking up in the middle of the day in this place was not a pleasant experience at the best of times, but sleep now, was impossible. Bruno was in deep trouble, the robbery had taken several months to plan, it was the perfect crime and now, because of him, it was completely buggered.

  Today was the day he was to visit his father, Paulo: to give him the bad news. It was Bruno's job to tell him that the money was not only taken from them, but that it was taken from them by a woman.

  Bruno eased himself up and sat awkwardly on his right buttock on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. The doom that had spun around in his head, slowed momentarily, until it adjusted itself to its new axis. It then continued, this time whisking up a bilious froth in his empty stomach. The fear that Bruno had of his father was expected of him, just as his father had feared his father. That was the Italian, Catholic, Costaldi way. Always had been. 'Fear is respect, respect is love, love is duty, it is God's way son, you donna fuck with God.'

  This was a day of duty. He had to tell his father. Roger and Daherty had made that abundantly clear when they dumped him in the street outside his block at three in the morning. The thought made him grimace as he forced his beaten body to stand up and prepare for the meeting. He had already worked out what would happen all morning and it was not a pretty sight. The filthy mirror on the wall didn't help. He had been dwelling on his state from his side for hours and when he finally looked into it, his appearance confirmed his suspicions. He was, more than usual, a mess.

  As he dragged himself up the stairs of the urine drenched, graffitied sixties high-rise that his father lived in, his mood had become positive. The bus ride and long walk had loosened him up and given him time to think and prepare. He was tired of being pushed around by his father, he knew exactly what he would say. ‘Papa. You blew it. We got sprung, right, by the office manager and some chick. The office manager died and we took the chick hostage, right? And she took off with the money. There, you should have made sure they was all in the office when you poured the tea, then it would have all been OK.’

  He would then hug his father, forgive him and leave. Simple.

  But as he knocked at the door, gently, in the hope that Paulo wouldn't hear, his spirit fell away again. He knew deep inside his petrified gut, his well rehearsed speech was characteristically idiotic and he was in the hands of God, his own father and his grandfather. The door opened before Bruno could regurgitate the slightest slither of confidence.

  ‘Bruno my son, how wonderful to see you. Come in. Come in. You wanna drink uh? Come on in, what you do to your face? You beena fighting again huh? Always fighting huh? Always fighting. Like your father huh? Always fucking fighting.’

  Bruno stumbled in, driven by the affectionate pounding his father inflicting on his back with his hammer like fists. Bruno tried on an uncomfortable smile. It was an old trick of Paolo's when he wanted to chastise Bruno. To make him feel at ease, as if nothing was going to happen. Bruno went into the lounge which was fairly tidy by his standards. There were newspapers scattered around the coffee table, the headlines leaping out.

  ‘Well done my son. I'm proud of you. You bring some money huh?’

  Bruno's eyes dropped to the carpet for help. This was it. The moment had come.

  ‘There is no money Papa.’ said Bruno bluntly, his body tensed up.

  Silence.

  ‘No money? What you mean there no money. Is in the papers. You took the whole payroll.’ hissed Paolo.

  ‘Well, we did papa, but we got sprung didn't we. A bloke and a woman. The bloke, he died I think. He collapsed and the woman, we had to take her hostage Papa and she escaped see an' nicked the money off us see.’ Bruno's words fell out of his mouth convincingly, or so he thought.

  ‘No, you take the piss huh? In the papers. The money is stilla missing. No man die. No woman hostage. It say man had heart attack, but he don't matter a shit. He is fuckin' bastard. What you talking about huh?’ Paolo grabbed a paper from the table and prodded at it with his dumpy index finger. ‘See huh? The money, you got it!’

  ‘What!. The money is still missing? But...’

  Whack! Paolo slapped his son across the head with the newspaper. ‘Si, the money is stilla missing and you gonna gimmi it. Nowa!’

  Bruno contemplated raising his head to face Paolo, but he wouldn't do that when he was six and wasn't going to start now. ‘It's gone papa. It's gone. The girl. She took it.’ Bruno muttered.

  Whack! Whack! Paolo began smacking him, his left hand taking turns with his right. The pain of Bruno's already bruised head made him pull away, causing Paolo to spin to the floor.

  Both dazed, Bruno took his hands away from his face and looked down at Paolo.

  ‘Papa. It ain't my fault we got sprung. How was I to know huh?’

  He was surprised at Paolo's reaction, he seemed to calm and smiled at Bruno as he got to his feet. Thinking he was ahead, Bruno searched his brain for his rehearsed speech. This was the right time to use it.

  ‘You blew it Papa, you should've made sure they was all there.’ Bruno was suddenly feeling good. Paolo was smiling and nodded his head as if to agree him. The next stage was to hug his father and forgive him. He felt a warmth in his father. At last he had stood up to him. As Bruno was contemplating the joy of his new found standing, staring into his father's eyes as he smiled into his, whack! Paolo leapt at full force, his arms smacking Bruno like two thrashing fish.

  Exhaustion stopped him. He was an old man. Again they both stood there dazed, six feet apart.

  'You getta that fuckin money Bruno. You hear me?’ growled Paolo, breathing heavily, his head bowed.

  ‘I will, Papa. I will.’

  Paulo raised his head and took his son by the shoulders.

  ‘I fuckin kill you Bruno. Ees a promise.’

  ‘Yes papa. I know.’

  Bruno sat o
n his bed, staring at the bare walls, reflecting on the grim ugly space of time that was his life, when there was a hard knock at the door. He looked toward the door, held his breath and closed his eyes, waiting.

  Again the door thundered. The knocking was angry and he was pretty sure that if he opened the door, it wouldn't be the Avon lady. He cupped his hands and hid his face for a moment, wishing his body could dissolve into the festering mattress.

  The knocking stopped and he took his hands away from his face. It could have been anyone, probably a debt collector or those fucking kids down the corridor.

  Suddenly the door burst open with a clean thud. Bruno sat up to see Roger standing there, his empty eyes popping out of their sunken sockets, his body inflating and deflating with each heavy breath, the door dangling on the remaining top hinge.

  ‘Oh Jesus, please not now.’ Said Bruno slapping his hands back over his face again.

  ‘Right, you fucking prick. Where's the fucking money?’ Growled Roger as he launched himself onto the bed, sat astride Bruno, pinning his arms down with his legs.

  Bruno shook his head, his eyes pinched shut, prepared for pain.

  ‘I dunno, I dunno. Get the fuck off me!’

  Whack! Roger hit him across the head and was gripping his throat with his other meaty hand.

  ‘I said, where's the fucking money?’

  Bruno couldn't speak, his battered face blank and bloody. Roger released his throat grip but left his hand poised to strike again.

  ‘I dunno,’ Bruno whimpered.

  ‘The chick's still got it, ain't she?’

  ‘What the fuck do you mean?’

  Roger pulled a rolled up newspaper from his back pocket and whacked Bruno across the head with it before unravelling it and shoving the front page two inches from his face.