Paint. The art of scam.

by Oscar Turner

  He lay there for about ten minutes, his stinking hand as far away from his bloody nose as possible. Slowly his mind and body began to settle enough to collect himself and make his way home to the relative luxury of his van.

  Bruno didn't know it, but he was just about to be saved from his dismal existence in a surprising way.

  As he staggered home, he spotted a fish pond in someone’s front garden and washed his hands using pond weed to at least attempt to remove that unique stink of dog shit. It didn't work, it more spread it around, at best diluted it. Still, he was feeling better now; the sensation of the cold water had returned him to a reasonably calm state of mind. Like having a tea break in the middle of a nightmare.

  As he was about to turn down a lane towards his flat, he saw a Bentley with its bonnet up. A well dressed old man was crouched over the engine compartment shining a torch in. Bruno had learnt a lot about cars at Henry's garage. Henry told him once that he was intuitive with cars and he had developed the ability to diagnose most mechanical issues and bodge them up so that they looked better. A useful talent at Henry's garage.

  ‘I say old chap, can you give me a hand please?’ came the struggling voice of the old man.

  Thinking there might me a tenner in it; his minimum fee for a good deed, Bruno went over to the old man.

  ‘Yeh. What?’ mumbled Bruno.

  ‘Inside the car. Can you get in the car? And when I say go, turn the key could you? Thanks.’ said the old man.

  Bruno got in. The smell of Bentley leather immediately took him back to when he drove stolen luxury cars from Munich to Saudi Arabia for Johnny. It even overwhelmed the dog shit for a second. Bruno spotted a wallet on the floor on the passenger side and instinctively grabbed it, opened it, took whatever cash there was and replaced it.

  ‘OK.’ came the old man's voice from deep under the bonnet. ‘Turn the key now.’

  Bruno scanned dashboard and spotted the key. As he turned it there was a puff sound, as the engine immobiliser module blew and the engine sprung into life. At that second he realised, that key was a Darton Bradford Master Key that would open any car on the planet, well the UK anyway. An icon of professionalism, almost rock star status and to own one, was the stuff of dreams for aspiring car thieves.

  As the old man gathered together his tools and closed the bonnet. Bruno checked the logistics of grabbing the key and escaping down the lane, it was dark down there, could be gone in seconds, unless he tripped over a junky that is. The old man was taking his time, bit doddery. He could do it.

  Then suddenly the whole night was painted by strokes of swooping blue light, the air split by piercing high frequency stinging sirens. The bonnet of the Bentley slammed shut. Bruno grabbed the key, it stuck. That happens sometimes. The Darton Bradford Master Key is good, but not perfect. Just as Bruno was about to get out and make his escape, he looked up to see every window of the car had a smiling Policeman behind it.

  Bruno told them the truth down at the station. Everything. From the moment he left his van in the morning, to the injuries he was inflicted with en route, to helping the old man. The old man was nowhere to be seen. By the time the police had got to the Bentley, the old man, who was actually 23 year old Tom Sharper, a disgraced Olympic drug cheat triathlon champion, had vanished into thin air. Tom had actually crawled under several cars unbeknown to the police and hid for three hours above the back axle of a Ford Transit until the coast was clear.

  Bruno pleaded with them. He was getting back to the straight and narrow, he had a job, a relationship, things were starting look up for him and this only happened because he was trying to help someone. It was all mostly true; the police actually said they believed him.

  ‘But,’ said Inspector Kendle, who had spent months attempting to break up the biggest car theft ring in Europe. ‘Sometimes the truth is so unbelievable.’

  He also said, off the record, that if Bruno gave them names, like who sold him the Darton Bradford Master Key and who buys the cars from him, they would believe him even more.

  Bruno got five years for conspiracy.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Getting ready.

  Seymour was sat in the back of the convertible Mercedes; arms spread, wing like. Carva, in the passenger seat, was dozing; his rubber neck swaying with every movement, as Polly guided the car elegantly through the light London traffic. It was one of those special London days. The previous nights winds had cleaned up the air; the crisp sun sharpened everything in surreal tones of yellow.

  It had been a lunch to remember. Carva and Seymour had hit it off immediately, as Polly had suspected they would. The chemistry between the three of them had flowed like giggling honey, even before Carva and Seymour had become completely drunk. Polly had luckily spotted what was going to happen early on and went on to water: she then had to suffer two very drunk men talking endlessly about nothing, that was, apparently, very funny.

  Carva had left his wallet at home of course, only realising it with over dramatised abdomen patting when the hefty bill came. The waiter, who clearly knew Carva, rolled his eyes and whispered something in his ear. Polly suspected this would happen too and, after navigating the waiter away from the table, paid the bill, in cash, out of Seymour's sight.

  Polly smiled to herself as she looked in the rear view mirror and saw Seymour, also dozing, with that stupid boyish grin on his face. Driving a convertible Mercedes with two drunk men onboard reminded her of the time when she lived in Paris.

  Polly dropped Carva and the car off at the gallery, having unsuccessfully attempted to find his home, using mumbling, confusing directions from him. She and Seymour had to manhandle him into the gallery and left him snoring in his chair at his desk. They locked the front door, put the keys through the letterbox and got a cab home.

  There was much work to do. All the paintings had to be framed, Carva was to close the gallery and remove his stock. That was easy, as most of the paintings were on consignment and it was only a matter of time before the bank would move in and take the lot in their attempts to retrieve the £15,000 debt that Carva had run up since Desmond had died.

  The next time Polly and Carva met, Carva put all his cards on the table. He seemed relieved to have done so, especially when Polly laughed as his story unfolded. The years of pretentious lifestyle, the debts, the lucrative deals, the excuses he had used, the shame he had put on his family, all struck a harmonious chord with her. Polly later agreed to double her payment to Carva for the first show, in lieu of commission; so he could keep the bank at bay for a while.

  After another lunch meeting, this time without Seymour, their relative positions were made clear, their mutual dependence on each other declared and a weird loyal, friendship was formed.

  Over time Polly grew fonder of Carva and at times wished she could have shared her story with him. He had asked her about her history, in a guarded attempt to find out the source of her wealth. ‘Family’ she had said and then winked. Carva winked back approvingly, with a camaraderie that only pirates can share.

  Seymour, oblivious to all the dealings in the background, blossomed. He was being recognised as an artist at last and occasionally showed signs of becoming suitably arrogant: Polly always stepped in at the right moment.

  Because Simon Carva had been around for so long, his new step into contemporary art, with an unknown artist, was viewed with guarded interest, private mocking and amusement. At times, he felt foolish. Old acquaintances were calling him; asking him if he was OK? Not in a, ‘how are you?’ way, more a ‘are you going mad?’ way.

  The whole gallery was stripped out, painted white and new lighting tracks fitted. Seymour supervised the hanging and when they were all up, he stood in the middle of the gallery and looked around the full 360 degrees. He thought he was alone, but Polly was watching through the door to the back storage room, that had now become an office. He stood in front of each one, his thoughts reliving their birth. Each had been created, one by one, and then stacked away like passing
thoughts and now, for the first time, he was seeing them: all together. She could have sworn he actually shed a tear.

  The show was ready by the night before the opening. Carva bought a bottle of vintage Lanson and they sat, the three of them together, exhausted and speechless.

  Carva’s traditional taste of the stubborn old styles, although still there, had moved to one side and the beauty of Seymour's work warmed him. Carva even looked younger. Since Desmond had died, the months of going to the old gallery every day with its musty gloom, dealing with rare miserable clients, had made him live in a grim world. A grim world where death was a better option. Maybe a heart attack, or a massive stroke. Something out of his control.

  But now he seemed to glow and, as the champagne kicked in, he laughed. He said that he had never laughed in the gallery since Desmond had died and if anybody ever did, he would have thrown them out. There's nothing funny about old 19th century reproduction oil paintings.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Opening Night.

  All the invites were out, compiled from a mixture of Carva's mailing list, which, after updating, had shrunk to the size of stick-it note due to death and Polly's list of dealers and galleries, that involved some barrel scraping.

  Harry, being a respected b grade celebrity in the news media world, was incredibly well connected and more than willing to help out to boost the numbers. Polly sent out so many invites in the end that Seymour was already becoming well known, even though his fame was derived from recipients saying ‘Who the fuck is Seymour Capital?’

  ‘Right,’ said Carva. ‘this is it then.’

  Polly, Seymour and Carva held their champagne flutes high in the air.

  ‘Here's to art.’ declared Carva.

  ‘To art.’ said Polly and Seymour, more or less in unison.

  They waited, busying themselves with unnecessary adjustments to glasses, napkins and the neat fan of brochures on the table by the door that Polly had put together.

  Carva kept playing with the dimmer switch, lowering the light. Polly kept turning it up. But he was right. When it was too bright Seymour's work didn't stand out so much. ‘They had there own light.’ said Carva. Polly agreed.

  Seymour was anxious and began pacing around the gallery. He'd been nervous for days, ever since they began hanging his paintings. Even the Vase Lady was there now, after futile protests from Seymour. He only agreed after Polly promised to put a 'sold' sicker on her. The Vase Lady was not happy with her treatment and Seymour could barely look her in the eyes.

  Much to Polly's relief, Harry arrived first with a lady friend. Harry made Polly feel safe somehow, like an Uncle she'd never had. Harry's lady friend was a stunning looking woman, tall, tanned, well groomed and expensive. Her name was Sandra Withington, a well known interior designer according to Harry, but then, all of Harry's friends seem to have a label attached.

  Polly took over the introductions and generally got the ball rolling and within 30 minutes there was a healthy crowd milling around, sipping wine and quietly admiring Seymour's work.

  Polly had observed early on when she had started going to exhibition opening nights, that this was normal. You arrive, spend some time looking fascinated with the work on show, hopefully nursing a glass of wine served by an agency waiter, make appropriate noises to partners, or anyone in earshot, like 'Mmm,’ then, thinking you've earned it, proceed to drink as much as possible in the shortest possible time. If there are nibbles on offer, even better.

  ‘Wonderful Seymour, wonderful. It is Seymour isn't it?’ said a delightful, eccentric old lady dripping with gold.

  Seymour nodded, his best stupid grin fixed firmly in place. Seymour wasn't sure how he should look.

  ‘All so delightfully refreshing. And the narrative that runs through it is so unique! Wonderful! Truly, truly wonderful!’

  ‘Thank you.’ said Seymour, presuming that the narrative thing was a compliment.

  ‘Hi Seymour, really like the work. It's fantastic!’ said Sandra. ‘I'm Sandra, Harry's friend.’

  ‘Oh right, thanks, and thanks for coming along.’

  ‘Harry's been going on all week about your work, I simply had to come. Actually Seymour, I have a small interior decor consultancy in Mayfair and I was wondering. Do you do commissions?’

  Seymour looked at Sandra. What a beautiful, powerful woman. No doubt a man eater, he thought. ‘Commissions? um no.’

  ‘Thank God you said that.’ laughed Sandra. ‘and I really love the Vase Lady. She's incredible and a little unnerving, if you don't mind me saying.’

  ‘I don't mind at all Sandra, Frankly she scares the shit out of me.’

  ‘Well at least she's sold now, she can go and scare somebody else.’

  Seymour shook his head defiantly. ‘Oh no, she's not for sale we just put a sticker on her. I could never sell her. Never. It's just that Polly insisted on putting her in the show.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Sandra. ‘integrity too.’

  ‘Integrity? Nah. She just knows too much.’

  ‘Who? Polly?’

  ‘The Vase Lady.’ said Seymour as he looked at her hanging there, looking at everyone, looking at her. It was true. Some people would look at the The Vase Lady and immediately get drawn into her deep intricate, but abstract texture that oozed succulent colours to a point where it started to feel uncomfortable. Like she was waiting, spider like. Other people thought she just looked great and would be nice to have around the house. But everybody had to look at her.

  ‘Damn good show Polly. Well done. Paintings are OK too.’ said Harry to Polly with a nudge of his elbow. They chinked their glasses and winked at each other.

  ‘Thanks Harry, you've been great, hardly any of my invites have turned up yet.’

  ‘That's one of the advantages of getting older Polly. All my contacts want to be in bed by ten o'clock, preferably drunk. I'm afraid all these young hip people who seem to run the art world these days think it's cool to be late, even cooler not to go at all. Don't worry Polly they'll come during the week, scurrying around like bloody rats when nobody can see them.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I know. People hold you in high regard Polly. You seem to have made quite an impression. They will be interested to see what you’ve come up with.’

  ‘Most of them on my list have seen the slides of Seymour's work anyway.’ said Polly dismissively, topping up Harry's glass.

  ‘They might have seen them Polly, but I can assure you they will not have looked at them. No, that's the trouble you see, gone are the days when people have a name, now you have to be a bloody name. Trust me Polly, Seymour's going to do well and you will gain a lot of respect.’

  ‘Really?’ said Polly, genuinely intrigued and enjoying every moment. ‘in what way?’

  ‘Well mainly for your lovely ass of course, but also your intellect.’

  ‘My intellect? I haven't had an intelligent conversation with anyone, oh except you of course Harry.’ said Polly prodding his pot belly.

  ‘That makes you mysterious Polly. Mysterious people are never stupid. Like most things, less is more.’

  Polly could see it. Harry was in the first stages of getting drunk. He was being thoughtful. Next he will have a chat attack, which is always amusing, then he will disappear home before he gets kidnapped by the bingo brigade, who, Polly noticed, where nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Well we'll see Harry. I'm happy with the numbers who came, it's nice and informal and everyone seems to like the work. So, who is Sandra then Harry? Beautiful woman.’

  ‘Sandra? Oh known her for years. We used to be an item once. What a nightmare that was.’

  ‘Really? But you look really good together.’

  ‘Oh we are Polly, we are. I love her more than anyone else, actually more than anything else.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’

  ‘We both did. When we lived together we both turned into bloody monsters. Fought like rabid dogs. Now we live apart we can go back to who we were whe
n we fell in love in the first place. It's perfect.’

  ‘That's really nice Harry. You’re both very lucky.’

  ‘Yes I know.’ Harry held his glass up to Sandra across the room and blew a kiss.

  ‘Hi, you must be Seymour right?’ said Ed, his excited American accent slicing in.

  ‘Uh yes.’ said Seymour, looking down at Ed, wondering why Americans always sound like they’re on TV.

  ‘Great work Seymour, so cool. Names Ed by the way, I'm a good friend of Polly's. Is this your first show?’ said Ed beaming his too perfect teeth a little too close for Seymour's comfort.

  ‘Yes, yes it is.’ said Seymour, pulling back and shaking Ed's dumpy cold hand that was being offered.

  ‘Wow! It's amazing, I've never seen anything like it before, mind if I take a few pictures?’

  Ed was showing Seymour his Olympus Trip, sliding the casing open to proudly expose the tiny lens.

  ‘Ok, why not?’ said Seymour, shrugging his shoulders.

  Ed stood back, pointed the camera at Seymour and clicked the shutter just as Polly was approaching Seymour from behind.

  ‘Hey Polly. Great to see you again!’ said Ed

  ‘Oh hi Ted, how's things?’

  ‘Ed. The names Ed, Polly. Remember? Yeh I'm great, things are going real well. Did you see the article I wrote about Da Vinci in The Easel?’

  ‘Um. No. I don't think so.’

  ‘Oh, pity, I'm getting a lot of good feedback from the readers. They particularly liked the section I wrote about Leonardo Da Vinci being the only artist that had truly painted God, Cool huh?’

  ‘Very.’ said Polly, grateful for Carva interrupting them.

  ‘Polly dear can I have a word?’ said Carva.