Paint. The art of scam.

by Oscar Turner

  Carva led Polly into the office, weaving their way through the modest but growing crowd.

  ‘Listen Simon, there's enough people here now. I'll buy, say, six now. Can you do the stickers?’

  ‘Don't worry Polly, no need,’ replied Carva.

  ‘Ok, but just in case. All right?’

  ‘I mean Polly that I have already sold three!’ said Carva, proudly adjusting his dicky bow tie.

  ‘What? Really?’

  Carva smiled. ‘Yes, really Polly.’

  ‘Who? Who bought them? said Polly, flabbergasted.

  ‘That Sandra Lady, Harry's friend, bought three just like that! Two more people are thinking about buying. This is quite extraordinary Polly.’

  ‘Yes, yes it is.’ whispered Polly, staring out through the doorway at the crowd. ‘It is.’

  ‘Ah you must be Seymour. Love the work. It's wonderful how the contextual similarity of your work and the evocative flavour of its premise seem to reflect a completely different attitude as they proceed,’ said a forceful, pretentious middle-aged man wearing a loud pink cravat.

  ‘Yeh well, suppose it is.’ said Seymour.

  The man then began delivering his predictable views on everything, using words Seymour would have to look up later. Polly tugged at Seymour's sleeve.

  ‘Yeh, interesting, interesting.’ said Seymour.

  ‘Sorry for butting in.’ said Polly butting in. ‘Seymour, can I have a word please.’

  ‘Sure.’ Polly led him away to the office in the back.

  ‘What a buzz Polly, this is fantastic and it's down to you.’ Seymour wrapped his arms around Polly and kissed her. ‘Thank you Polly.’

  Polly pecked her lips playfully on his. ‘Yes Seymour it is and guess what.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have sold 5 paintings Seymour!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shit!’ Polly kissed him again, grabbed his hand and pulled him back out to the Gallery.

  ‘Come on do your stuff Seymour.’

  Polly kissed him on the cheek and went into the ladies. By the time she came out there were considerably more people in the gallery and she noticed another two of the paintings had been sold. As she made her way through the crowd, politely acknowledging the occasional familiar face, she could barely contain herself. The buzz of excitement in the gallery was overwhelming and several people were huddled around in groups admiring Seymour's work. She spotted Seymour across the room, entertaining what seemed to be a queue of people waiting their turn to speak to him.

  ‘Good evening, Polly.’

  Polly turned to see a smiling Detective Sergeant Shoal and stood there, speechless, staring at Shoal for a moment.

  ‘Mr. Shoal,’ said Polly, shocked but attempted to hide it. ‘How are you? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was just passing Polly, just passing. You don't mind do you?’

  Polly's flute began shaking. She steadied it with her other hand. Shoal smiled knowingly and glanced around at the crowd then back at Polly.

  ‘Seymour seems to be doing very well for himself these days.’ said Shoal.

  ‘Um, yes, yes he is, can I get you a drink, wine or something?’

  ‘No, thanks all the same, Polly.’

  ‘You're not on duty, are you?’

  ‘No no, driving’ said Shoal, as he took his eyes off Polly's again and gazed around the gallery.

  ‘Did you ever, um, get the gang from the factory?’ asked Polly.

  ‘No, not yet, but we'll get there in the end. These things take time Polly. Believe me you will be one of the first to know when we do.’

  Shoal's eyes remained fixed on Polly's, but his expression softened. He seemed impressed by the atmosphere in the gallery and smiled again.

  ‘Why don't you take a look around at the paintings? Seymour's over there somewhere. I've um, got some work to do. Taking deposits on the sales and stuff.’ said Polly

  ‘Ok,’ said Shoal as he wandered off. ‘I'll see you soon, Polly.’

  Polly took a deep breath as she watched Shoal walk into the crowd and disappear. The sudden panic she felt was hard to process. She stood for a moment, watching the crowd; which was getting louder. The laughter and the drone of multiple conversations, became a large lump of noise that she could take no more. Snapping out of her thoughts she headed for the office. Polly closed the office door firmly behind her and leant hard against it staring into space, biting at her bottom lip, her mind racing.

  Seymour, the centre of attention of virtually everybody in the gallery, spotted Shoal looking at The Vase Lady.

  ‘Hey, Mr. Shell how are you? Didn't know you were invited. Good to see you.’ said Seymour holding out his hand.

  Shoal shook Seymour's hand. ‘Shoal actually, my name's Shoal.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Sorry, not very good with names.’

  ‘Looks like you've moved along a bit since the last time I saw you Seymour.’

  ‘Yeh, well you know Polly, it's all down to her really. She put the whole thing together.’

  ‘Yes, quite a woman you've got there. I like the work, not that I know much about art.’

  ‘Me neither. ’ laughed Seymour,

  ‘Excellent, quite a change in fortune for you both.’

  ‘Yup, so how's things then? Did you ever get those bastards who robbed Hogarth's?’

  ‘No. Not yet, but we will. So how are you finding living in London then? Bit of a change in lifestyle isn't it?’

  ‘Oh Seymour there you are! I've been looking everywhere for you.’ said an over excited, slightly slurring Carva, grabbing Seymour's arm. ‘You've simply just got to meet Cythia Reyner! She's a big collector and she's dying to meet you! Come on, off we go.’

  Shoal watched as Seymour was led away through the crowd, leaving him alone in the middle of the packed gallery. Shoal looked around at the crowd and suddenly felt conspicuous in his ill-fitting chain store suit, compared with the generally imaginative dress sense surrounding him. Feeling uneasy, he grabbed a glass of wine from a passing tray.

  ‘Nice work isn't it.’ said a deep smokey voice next to him. Shoal looked at the effeminately dressed man in his sixties standing next to him and shuffled uneasily.

  ‘Yes. Very nice.’ said Shoal.

  ‘So. Who are you then?’ said the man offering his heavily ringed hand, ‘I'm Quentin.’

  ‘Um. Shoal,’ said Shoal, feeling strangely intimidated by the man's gushing confidence.

  ‘Shoal?. You mean like fish?’

  ‘Mmm, well. I um. I suppose yes.’

  ‘Oh what an unusual name! Is that your real name or some sort of nom de plume.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Quentin laughed at Shoal mockingly and turned his back to him. Shoal looked around and tried to catch some of the chatting in the crowd. There was so much laughing and giggling going on that he couldn’t make out any words. He felt uncomfortable. It always puzzled him. What it is that makes people have fun? What do they say that’s so funny? His therapist had told him just last week, to integrate more, have more normal social experiences. He had, apparently, lost his perspective, hence the violence, anger and lust for revenge. He was punishing his suspects for the loss of his own identity. Shoal was trying hard to get better. He really wanted to get back to work. He missed the buzz. But, as his therapist told him, it was the buzz that was the problem.

  Polly slipped outside onto the street to get some air. She had calmed herself down by now but had lost the excitement she'd had for the show. She sniffed at the air and checked her shoes. People were starting to leave at last: taxis began pulling up outside.

  ‘You Ok, Polly?’ Shoal's voice came from behind her.

  ‘Oh God, you made me jump. Yes. Yes. I'm just getting a breath of fresh air.’

  Shoal stood in the doorway, smiling at her. He sniffed the air and checked his shoes.

  ‘Smells like dog poo round here, don't you think?’

  ‘Yes. It does. Mr. Shoal.
Why have you come here tonight? You weren't invited.’

  ‘I was just passing Polly, that's all. You don't mind, do you?’ said Shoal.

  ‘Well no, I suppose not. It's just, well, strange, that's all.’

  ‘Strange? Why is it strange?’

  ‘Well, you know, it's a long way to come, from Brighton.’

  ‘Oh I see. Yes, my wife's sister lives nearby, we've been here for a few days. I spotted the poster in the window.’

  ‘Look, I've got things to do, excuse me please.’ said Polly as she turned to go back into the gallery.

  ‘Well. I'll be off then Polly,’ said Shoal, ‘I'll see you again maybe. Oh and congratulations.’

  Polly looked at him inquisitively. ‘Congratulations? What do you mean?’

  ‘The show. Seymour's show. I really like his paintings, very nice. Good luck with it all Polly. I hope it all goes well for you both.’

  ‘Thanks. Good-bye.’ said Polly, forcing a smile as she pushed past him and slipped back inside.

  Shoal stood there for a moment watching Polly disappear into the crowd, then went to his car and sat for a moment staring at the windscreen, scratching his beard. He was thinking about how he felt so out of place there amongst all those people. He really liked Polly, as a person, and yet, because of who he is, she could never like him. Nobody likes a policeman. The emptiness of his days during his suspension, which were still ongoing, had sent him on a strange journey. Suddenly he was truly alone and not by choice. The Police service was his life. Even his wife didn't fit anymore. She was a policeman's wife. Not his wife. And as much as he had tried to deny it, there was no way they were going to let him back in. That was becoming clear. The enquiry had a low priority status and could go on for months more. It was a waiting game, Shoal suspected. Will he jump, or be pushed. The week before, Cecil Snowden-Smythe's mother had tracked his home address down and banged continuously on his front door until he answered it. When Shoal opened the door she just stood there and screamed. ‘You Bastard!’

  The fury in her shaking body, her eyes blasting hate, and the power of those two words, sent a shiver through his soul that he still felt now.

  Shoal started the engine and bit his lip, as tears flooded his eyes. Every muscle in his face contorted to fight back the black knot in his gut that needed to get out. Time had allowed it to show itself. After a moment, Shoal took a deep breath and pulled away into the night.

  Back inside, Polly looked for Seymour.

  ‘Hello darling. Where have you been?’ said Seymour, wavering.

  ‘Oh, around.’

  ‘I didn't know you invited that policeman, you know, the one that was investigating the robbery at the factory. What was his name?’

  ‘Shoal, Detective Sergeant Shoal. No, I didn't. He said he was just passing.’

  ‘Robbery?’ said Shoal interrupting.

  ‘Didn't you know about that, Simon?’ said Seymour turning to Carva.

  ‘No, no I didn't.’ said Carva, intrigued

  ‘Polly worked at this factory, Hogarth Heavy Engineering, and this gang, right, doped all the pay clerks. Then Polly turns up, late as usual, and walks in on the whole thing. Bastards took her hostage. Let her go though. They took off with all the wages. Thousands of quid.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Carva, looking at Polly.

  ‘Yeh, they never caught them, well not yet anyway. Shame the office manager died though.’ Seymour drained his glass and looked around for another bottle.

  ‘You never told me about that, Polly.’ said Carva.

  ‘No. Well, it was all a bit upsetting. I was quite fond of Mr. Arnold. I don't like talking about it much.’

  Polly tried to catch Seymour's alcohol-dazed eyes

  ‘Oh bollocks Polly. You hated his guts. You reckon they only found out he had a heart when they did his post-mortem hah, hah, hah.’

  Carva and Seymour laughed until Polly grabbed Seymour's ass and squeezed it, too hard to be affectionate.

  ‘Can I have a word Seymour, please? It's about one of the paintings.’

  Carva seemed puzzled by Polly as she dragged Seymour away, but was too drunk to think about it and chose instead to look for that old queen he'd been flirting with earlier.

  As Polly led Seymour through the diminishing crowd, as subtly as she could, Seymour could see he was in trouble, she had THAT look on her face. Polly threw open the office door and pulled him inside.

  ‘Seymour! For fuck's sake! Don't go around talking like that!’

  ‘Like what? What's wrong?’ said Seymour innocently.

  ‘About the robbery. You make me sound like some sort of sicko.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh shit Seymour. I really don't like you very much when you're drunk like this. Look, I've told you before, I don't want you to talk about the robbery to people. Ok?’

  ‘But Simon's all right, it's a good story, he likes a good story. What do you mean drunk like this? Drunk like what?’

  Polly could see the genuine innocence in Seymour's face.

  ‘It's just. I don't like it, that's all. People might get the wrong idea.’

  ‘About what?’ said Seymour.

  ‘Oh, fuck you Seymour. Forget it.’

  ‘Ok. God, I love you when you're pissed off with me. Give us a kiss.’ said Seymour leaning forward with his lips roughly aimed at hers.

  Polly stepped sideways. Seymour grappled with his controls to keep his balance and smiled to himself.

  ‘So what's the problem with this painting, then?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘Seymour. I'm really proud of you, you know that don't you?’ said Polly.

  ‘Yeh. Me too. Come on, let's go back out there.’

  Seymour took her by the arm and led her back out to the crowd.

  Polly slipped back into the office as soon as she could and sat at the desk.

  ‘Must have been a traumatic experience, Polly.’

  Polly looked across to see Carva sat in an armchair in the corner

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you know, a wealthy woman like yourself, working in a factory and the robbery and all.’

  Polly stiffened up.

  ‘I'm not that wealthy Simon and I like working. It kind of keeps your feet on the ground. You should try it sometime.’

  Carva fought to focus on Polly's eyes.

  ‘Oh, I'm sorry Polly I didn't mean to make you angry it's just....’

  ‘Forget it Simon Ok!’ said Polly. ‘Look, I'm sorry, I'm just exhausted. We all are.’

  ‘Simon darling, there you are! We've been looking for you for simply ages.’ said the ridiculously drunk pink cravat man who burst into the office, grabbed Carva's hand and dragged him out in one smooth move.

  Polly was relieved when the evening started to wind down and the last of the guests finally filed out of the door, giggling. Carva slumped down in the sofa next to Seymour and slung his arm around his shoulder.

  ‘Well, I think I can safely declare this evening as a total success,’ he said, his head dropping onto the back of the sofa.

  Polly came out of the office pulling on her coat.

  ‘Can we go now, Seymour? I'm exhausted. I've phoned for a taxi, it should be here in a minute.’

  ‘Nah, let's walk, it's a beautiful evening.’ said Seymour, looking up at Polly with one eye closed.

  ‘No!’ snapped Polly. Both Carva and Seymour looked up at her.

  ‘You all right darling?’ said Seymour

  ‘I'm really, really tired, come on. Please?’

  Seymour slapped the arm of the sofa and smiled at Carva.

  ‘Ok. Let's go. Can we give you a lift Simon?’

  ‘No, it's Ok. I'll lock up and maybe pop into town for a drink or something. I was hoping we might all grab a bite to eat. You know, to celebrate.’

  Seymour looked up to Polly who looked to the ceiling and started tapping her feet.

  ‘Not tonight apparently. Now don
't you go getting yourself into trouble Simon. There's some weird people stalking around the streets at this time of night.’ said Seymour.

  ‘Oh, really? Well, maybe I might meet them! No harm in picking at life's buffet occasionally’ said Carva.

  ‘You old queen,’ said Seymour as he heaved himself up from the sofa.

  ‘See you, Simon,’ said Polly as she guided Seymour over to the door. Seymour tumbled out onto the pavement; Polly stood there, waiting, holding onto the open door. Seymour sniffed the air and checked his shoes.

  The taxi pulled up and Polly stood there in the gallery doorway until Seymour had opened the taxi door, then dashed across the pavement, into the back seat as if it were raining.

  ‘Couldn't afford the limo home, darling. Sorry.’ said Seymour as the taxi pulled away.

  Polly smiled and kissed him dutifully on the cheek, discretely looking out of the back window, at the headlights of a car pulling out of a parking space fifty metres behind them. A car driven by Tom Wilson, who’s wife, Suzy, was laid out on the back seat, just about to give birth.

  .

  Carva woke up the next morning feeling hideous. He’d got home at five o'clock that morning, having gone to Oh Boy, a club in the backstreets Regent Street. He had left feeling more than usually depressed, after spending hours staring at the gyrating, near-naked, pretty young men, fantasising what he would do with them if they were attracted to him, which they weren't. Why he kept going there was a mystery to him and he again pledged to himself that was the last time. Those damn mirrors.

  He admired the exhibitionism that young gay men could explore. He had missed out on that. His youth had been spent hiding his sexuality with shame in the discriminating grey days of the fifties.

  These days he could make it obvious that he was gay, especially in the world he was involved in: It was almost expected. When Desmond was alive he never thought about sex, there was enough spontaneous sparkling life with Desmond around. Now he wanted some sort of attention.

  His involvement with Polly and Seymour and the influence Seymour's work had had on him, had changed Carva’s view on life substantially. As the gallery had been transformed, so too had his apartment. He had discarded the grim old oil paintings, had the whole place painted white and replaced his tragic little single bed with a grand king size four poster in anticipation that his new found spirit would make it a necessary part of his life. It hadn't been yet. But you never know.