Paint. The art of scam.

by Oscar Turner

  Seymour shook his head slowly in agreement, as he took in Polly’s words.

  ‘And then, as time went on, I was sure Shoal was suspicious of me. Like he knew something wasn’t right. I thought I’d been convincing. But he’s not stupid. I had to go along with it. God I wish I’d told them there and then. But then. None of this would have ever happened.’

  ‘What do you mean none of this would have ever happened.’ said Seymour.

  ‘Your show.’

  ‘Sorry Polly, my mind just collapsed, I don’t get it. What has my show got to do with it?’

  ‘I used some of the money to pay Simon Carva to put on your show.’

  ‘You what! You bribed Simon Carva to show my work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me any of this?’

  ‘I couldn’t Seymour. Believe me. I am so sorry. I was going to tell you when I was sure I’d got away with it. I thought I had, until Shoal turned up at your show. Then it all started again. Fucking paranoia, I really thought he was on to me! God! I was so scared. For months after the robbery I was convinced I was being watched. Besides, if I told you, then you would have been involved.’

  ‘So.’ said Seymour, his face contorted. ‘That explains everything. So what’s changed? You still think Shoal is on to you?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s the trouble. I just don’t know. The whole thing is just a confusing mess. I’ve spent so long lying my head off, I just don’t know what the truth is anymore.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake Polly, this is serious shit.’

  ‘I don’t blame you for being angry with me Seymour. I have deceived you and I am truly, truly sorry.’

  Polly took a large gulp of wine and looked down to her lap for a second. Seymour, deep in thought, picked up his glass and downed it in one go.

  ‘You were right all along Seymour, nobody would show your work. And when I met Simon. I don’t know. It happened again. I just did it without really thinking. I offered him money to show your work. I knew he had financial problems and I had this strange feeling that somehow he would be up for it. So, I pounced.’

  Seymour grabbed the bottle and clumsily refilled their glasses.

  ‘So that’s it Seymour. That’s why I’ve been behaving so fucking crazy lately.’

  Seymour stood up and paced around. Polly stared at the table, waiting.

  ‘So Simon didn’t like my work at all.’

  ‘No, he hated it. At first anyway.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, I suppose you’d love anything if someone paid you to.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true Seymour. But look what happened in the end. Your work sold. I was going to buy the lot. That was the deal. I could have washed the money and we would have ended up with legitimate cash. But I didn’t have to.’

  ‘I feel like a right twat Polly. Simon told me he loved my work.’

  ‘I told him to say that.’

  ‘Oh that’s OK then.’ Said Seymour as he wandered off to the bathroom and closed the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Last Straw.

  Cyril was sat on the steps of his van, reading the ripped, repaired letter, again. He couldn't believe it. The letter was from Edward, on official Barrington Estate stationary, notifying him, Cyril Barker, deed holder of plot 124a, formally part of the Barrington Estate, is hereby given 30 days to establish a new access road to plot 124a. The current access road used, is on Estate land and therefore private property. The said, current road used, will be blocked by locked gates in 30 days.

  He'd got it the day before. Dennis, the postman, always drops the post in on the way back from Barrington Hall. He wasn't supposed to. Edward had received some of Cyril's mail by mistake before and had complained to the post office, pointing out that plot 124a is not an official postal address and should not be regarded as such.

  Dennis had been earlier than usual. Cyril had emptied the leather bags out on the floor and was counting it when Dennis turned up, all whistles and laughs, expecting a coffee and a spliff as usual. He'd counted £25,000 so far, that was the dry stuff, probably the same again was wet and it scared the shit out of him.

  Cyril thought about hiding, but Roger ran up to meet Dennis's van, barking his head off as usual, Cyril and Roger were never apart, Dennis would have looked for him. The van stank of damp, stale, rotting money that was pretty much everywhere. Cyril had to keep Dennis away. Cyril told him he was just on his way out, Dennis offered him a lift, Cyril told him he was being picked up, Dennis asked by who? Cyril told him a friend and finally Dennis got the message and winked at Seymour. Seymour winked back. Dennis thought Cyril had a woman in his van, Dennis always thought Cyril had a woman in his van.

  When Cyril opened the letter, he had exploded. Roger ran for cover, not in fear, just in case.

  ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck.’ he screamed. It took a while to decipher the letter, with its acrobatic legal talk of sub sections and articles, clauses and various tricks, all perfectly legal. Basically it meant the only way he would be able to get to his land was by the river, as it was surrounded by estate land from the North, East and West, the river being the Southern border. There was a weir about a kilometre downstream and upstream nowhere to land. It would be impossible. The old road had been there for years and years. Nobody thought about its legal standing: it was just there. It was starting to look like Edward had got his way.

  That night had a crystal clear sky, the moon bright, its reflection sparkling on the river. He had wandered around his land all through the night, stopping only for another roll up or another glass of red wine. Roger stayed with him, sometimes following him, sometimes out of sight, watching him. Everywhere Cyril looked there was a part of him, his Grandfather and the countless other souls that had spent time there. He had sat in the circle of stones, set on a flat rock, that had been the communal campfire for the travelling fruit pickers for decades, maybe centuries. Cyril had found old coins, buckles and tinderboxes around that circle. Crude engravings on the stones told a story of long, probably drunken, nights of laughing, cooking, eating, drinking, loving and arguing. He could feel the energy coming from the land, like magnetic ghostly pulses that comforted him.

  Cyril had woken, sat amongst the roots of the weeping willow tree at the river's edge, its rich healthy branches heavy with thick leaves that danced playfully on the rivers surface. He looked across the river at the old jetty: its tired, old rotting timbers, leaning with the flow of the river. The next big rains would wash it away; Edward would build a new one for the resort.

  Funny thing was, Cyril had no problem with the new resort. He would rather it not be there, but he would never have objected, not that he could. The fact was that Edward just didn't want his clients to see Cyril's land across the river. Edward had described it as a disgrace, a blot on the landscape, a tip, an insult to the eyes, in many a letter he had written to the council.

  He had been inspected by the council once. Heather Fry, the Assistant Chief inspector from the Environment Agency, dropped in unannounced one morning. This, Cyril discovered later, was in order to surprise property owners who had been complained about; to catch them unawares. Cyril had shown Heather around his vegetable patch, the chicken pen, the fruit trees and all the various ingenious things Cyril had done to create his near autonomous lifestyle. Heather was particularly impressed with his irrigation system for the garden, comprising of a huge funnel welded on the end of a 50 gallon drum, chained to the willow tree and submerged in the river. The river flow was, most of the time, strong enough to force the water through the funnel into a plastic pipe and up to a holding tank next to the garden. Then there was the old wooden dingy he had found when he cleared a blackberry bush. It was in a bad way, but Cyril converted it to hold a turbine wheel that drove two old truck generators that charged a bank of batteries. The dingy, tied to another tree, quietly, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, churned out enough electricity to give him all that he needed.

  Heather had asked where the
old campervan was. That had been mentioned several times, in the endless letters of complaint from Edward.

  Cyril took her to the van, which was set back amongst some fruit trees, under a large oak with a massive branch laden with chattering leaves, gently moving up and down with the breeze. You couldn't see it from the river, but you could see the river from the van.

  Cyril invited her inside for tea. At first she refused, it would have been unprofessional, she’d said. But so drawn was she to Cyril and his lifestyle, it would have been rude not too accept his hospitality. They had a good talk. Heather was heavily involved with encouraging sustainable living and saluted him for what he had achieved. She left 3 hours later, with a box bulging with apples, pears and various vegetables Cyril had picked for her. Cyril never heard from the Department of the Environment again, but clearly Edward did and was furious with their response: hence the step up to war footing.

  Cyril folded up the letter, put in his shirt pocket and ran his hands through his dark, curly hair. Until he’d got the letter, he had already spent the money in his head. A new shed over there in the corner near the garden, maybe plant some grape vines for wine. South Eastern English sparkling wine, had recently won a blind wine tasting in Paris, in competition with wines from the Champagne region in France. Cyril had looked into it and it was very possible. Sir Thomas had encouraged him before. He'd had trouble with his vineyard after an unusually dry Spring and Summer: Cyril had the river. Maybe buy a tractor, he already had an old plough: that would open up all sorts of possibilities. But now all that money meant nothing. The thrill of finding it had given way to a deep feeling of defeat. He had never thought about being in this situation, the possibility of no longer having the land, why would he? Up until now the Barrington Estate was part of him and he was a part of it. There was no friction or radical politics amongst the people on the Estate. If there ever was a problem, which was inevitable, given the number of different characters around, Sir Thomas always sorted it out: just by being Sir Thomas. He had a wonderful way with conflict resolution. Somehow he made people realise how petty and futile they were being, without a word spoken. He just had this look about him.

  Frankly, Cyril didn't know how to feel anymore and he wasn't alone. Everybody he spoke to on the estate were now different. No more raucous laughter echoing across the forest, no more jibing passing Land Rovers, no more spontaneous dinner parties and practical jokes.

  It had passed his mind to go travelling again, he could do that easily with all this cash. Get his van legalised, head off to India or Morocco, anywhere. He'd travelled a lot in the past, but that was back in the sixties. Then you could head into Spain over the Pyrenees, in your self converted camper and find isolated villages that would welcome you. You would probably end up working your ass off in someone's field for hours on end and no doubt find yourself back in some tatty, nicotine drenched house, with four generations of shouting mad Spaniards, getting you drunk and taking the piss out of you. That was fun. Now Europe seemed to be full of retired engineers and pompous, redundant ex-managers with brand new camper vans, that cost the price of a small house, that have worked their entire lives, just to retire. They're not half as much fun and perfect prey to cunning thieves who rightfully want a piece of their action.

  In fact Cyril had come to the conclusion, long ago, that his place and the Barrington Estate was the only world he could handle. The moment he went out of his world, he would feel a sense of panic. It was starting to feel like every idea he'd had since he opened the letter bumped into a wall.

  Roger suddenly started barking and ran over to the track. Seconds later came the unmistakable diesel growl of Nastasia's 1979 Mercedes 300D.

  Cyril loved Nastasia, had done since they went to school together. She was born on the Estate, but left when she was sixteen and now had a second hand clothes shop, just outside Brighton.

  The moment they met, at the age of 10, over in Daletree woods, they became firm friends. Nastasia, then, was a tomboy by nature. She'd rather be out in the fresh air, wandering the forests, fantasising adventures, than fiddling around with dolls with houses that are far too small for them. She thought that kind of stuff was sick.

  Cyril at last had a friend, a good friend, the fact that she was a girl was not important. They would play in the woods for hours and hours from early morning, until dark at weekends.

  School was strange. Havington School was strict. Uniforms were compulsory and discipline almost military. Being in the same class was difficult for both Cyril and Nastasia. That ordered, stiff environment was so alien, it was if they didn't know each other at all. Both of them also had difficulties integrating with the other kids. Cyril was not a gang sort of boy, wasn't good at sport and not in the least academically inclined. Despite constant death threats from Nazi trained teachers, if Cyril 'doesn't stop looking out of the window and pay attention,' he did well in tests and exams. This, he would discover later in life, was due to his unwitting use of hypnotic passive learning.

  The school was set in the Sussex countryside and had huge windows to stare out of. No matter how hard he tried to focus on that blackboard, full of meaningless letters, that were actually numbers, via algebra, his eyes would end up watching a peregrine falcon or flocks of migrating birds or anything. In the meantime he was listening and memorising everything that was being said by his teachers, their words often accompanied by a good, old fashioned, slap on the head with a ruler.

  Things became more confusing when puberty started shaking up their hormones. Nastasia, due to her rather complicated genetic roots, involving gypsy tinkers, Lebanese illegal immigrants and Portuguese Fado singers, quickly developed into a glorious young woman who caught the eye of many a testosterone crazed teenage boy.

  Cyril had developed into a healthy good looking lad and, as he watched Nastasia morph into a woman, he saw their friendship slip away into a confusing emotional mess that could go nowhere. As kids they would spend hours huddled together under trees, sheltering from the rain, chatting and laughing, making up stories. But now all the smells exuded from them had changed all that.

  At fifteen they both left school and went there own separate ways.

  Nastasia was suddenly sent off to live in Southern France with her Aunt. To help her French, her mother had said. But that wasn't the truth. Something had happened on the estate.

  Rumours were rife, but the strongest and most feasible, was that Edward, who had by then become a sadistic, lonely, frustrated teenager, had 'tried something on' with Nastasia. He had 'tried something on' with a few of the girls in recent months, but nothing serious had happened, just clumsy, drunken fumbling, easily curtailed by a playful slap. Word was that Nastasia was walking home through the woods one night, just before she left for France; Edward had followed her and ‘tried something on’ with her. Nobody really knew the details, but the four deep scratches on either side of Edward's miserable face, that you can still see to this day, in the right light, the chunk missing from his left earlobe and his broken arm, suggested Nastasia didn't take kindly to Edward's advances. The police were involved and a few people had seen Edward being taken away in a police car, the same day that he came out of hospital.

  Jenny Fletcher, a good friend of Nastasia at the time, said she saw her the morning she left. She was fine apparently, just a few scratches, but fine.

  There was no contact for years, beyond hearing 2nd hand news of each other's whereabouts, but there was not a day went by without them thinking about each other in some form.

  After years of escapades, relationships that always seemed to end badly and all the winning and the losing that is life, they met again in the same woods they had met in all those years ago. Cyril had been living permanently on his land for a year or so by then, having had enough of what felt like living in a pinball machine, that was, in fact, a perfectly normal life to most.

  It was Autumn and Cyril was out collecting firewood, both for himself and Sir Thomas; for which he got the use of the old
ex-army Landrover and trailer. Nastasia, appeared, standing on a hillock, looking down at him, as he stacked wood onto the trailer.

  ‘Well, well. If it isn't Cyril Barker.’ she shouted.

  Cyril looked up. The setting sun was behind her and, although he couldn't see her features, he knew immediately it was her. Roger, furious with himself, that he hadn't heard her coming, ran up to her barking.

  ‘Well, well. If it isn't Nastasia Turner.’ Cyril shouted back.

  Nastasia clambered down the hill, sliding on the damp golden leaves, followed by a confused Roger, and stood in front of him. They looked at each other for some time as if scanning each other.

  ‘Well look at you,’ said Cyril as he stared into those eyes that wouldn't let just anybody in.

  ‘And look at you.’ said Nastasia.

  With a sudden collapse of unsure inhibitions, they fell into each other's arms and cried their hearts out. Roger looked on, worried.

  Once they had settled down and able to talk, they went back to Cyril's place and unloaded their pasts to each other.

  Nastasia had just got back from a disastrous marriage to a Canadian writer in Vancouver. She looked tired and battle worn. It was her second marriage. The first one was worse. She had no children thanks to a dose of syphilis, that had rendered her sterile and, generally speaking, was relieved to be home at last, having, in her words, ‘jumped off the carousel.’

  Her life wasn't all bad and did have smatterings of wonderful times, that made her laugh as she told them to Cyril. It occurred to her, only then, as she talked, that those times were always between relationships. When she was truly herself, unblocked by compromise.

  Cyril's story was nowhere near as packed with change and chaos and he happily listened to Nastasia, dumping out her every thought onto him.

  In time their friendship grew again into a mutual bond as solid as rock. Cyril loved Nastasia, Nastasia loved Cyril and somehow, having been there and done that, poking in the dark in their uncertain lives, looking for happiness and never quite finding it, they could once again return to what they had before: They could be children again.