Paint. The art of scam.

by Oscar Turner

  Nastasia's car thundered into the entrance lane and pulled up outside Cyril's van. The waft of popcorn juice, a result of the Mercedes being fueled by cooking oil, lingered in the air. Nastasia, as usual, spent a few seconds sorting out her bag; it having been rifled for cigarettes or mints while driving, opened the heavy, creaking door and got out.

  ‘Hi big boy! Cyril? What up with you? You look like shit!’ said Nastasia.

  She was right, Cyril looked like a madman, crazy, psychotic. Cyril hadn't looked in the mirror. He had been too busy looking at everything he thought he was about to lose.

  Nastasia walked up to Cyril warily and stopped a metre from him. ‘Cyril darling, what's wrong?’

  Cyril looked up for the first time, reached into his shirt pocket and handed Nastasia the letter. Nastasia slowly opened it, straightening it out and read it.

  ‘You bastard.’ whispered Nastasia. ‘Oh Cyril darling this is just, just....what a fucking asshole! Oh Cyril.’ Nastasia flung her arm around Cyril's neck and kissed him on the forehead several times. ‘Oh my dear dear Cyril.’

  ‘Yeh, what a fucking nightmare.’ mumbled Cyril. ‘And that's not all.’

  ‘There's more?’ said Nastasia, pulling her head away. Cyril nodded and slowly stood up.

  ‘Come inside.’ said Cyril gently taking her hand.

  Nastasia watched Cyril as he reached inside the cupboard to his secret stash box and pulled out a, now cleaned, dried and oiled leather bag.

  ‘Nice bag,’ said Nastasia, ‘I can put it in the shop for you if you like, probably get thirty quid for it.’

  ‘How much?’ said Cyril as he dropped the bag down on the table in front of her.

  ‘Mmmm, it is a bit tatty. Maybe twenty quid. We'll see.’

  Nastasia watched Cyril carefully undo the polished brass catches and pull open the hinged top.

  She looked inside, then up to Cyril's now smiling face.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  By the time Seymour emerged from the bathroom, five long minutes later, Polly had drunk another glass of wine and felt comfortably numbed by it. The relief she felt from her confession had left her feeling strangely empty; so accustomed had she become to her secret. It had been a major part of her life, sitting stubbornly in her being, tainting every moment. She had had to summon up some serious emotions to handle it, but handle it, she did. Now she felt like a criminal in court waiting for a verdict. It was all up to Seymour now, what he decided in reaction to her confession was going to determine her foreseeable future. This did not sit comfortably in her gut. It was not the first time in her life that she had been at the mercy of a lover’s judgment. She had already planned for the worst case scenario, that Seymour would kick her out. He didn’t need her anymore. He would be fine now that he was selling his work. But then, she would be fine too. Although she didn’t know exactly how much cash there was left in the bags, there would certainly be enough to get her set up somewhere else, again. These thoughts had brought about a certain feeling of hostility toward Seymour. The fact that he had this power over her, just for that moment, while she waited for him to come out of the bathroom, brewed up a feeling she had never had for him before. She could just imagine him sat there on the toilet feeling sorry for himself. Victim thoughts flying around his hash crashed head. How she had deceived him, tricked him into thinking he was, after all, an accomplished artist. How he had supported her through the trauma of the robbery, how he had stood by her through thick and thin and now, this was how she treated him. How he had trusted her. Right from the beginning of their relationship, they had pledged to each other, in a drunken adlib ceremony, that they would never lie to each other: ever. Polly drew comfort from the fact that she, technically, had not lied to Seymour about anything, not really. The difference between lying and telling the truth is dependent on one thing and that is the existence of a question. Of course, she knew Seymour wouldn’t see it like that, he never did, unless it was he that was defending himself.

  The truth however, was that Seymour had maintained his pose, as the victim of deception, bowed head, dropped, defeated shoulders and all, right up until the moment he had slowly, but firmly, closed and locked the bathroom door. He had then turned around to face bathroom cabinet mirror and flashed a smile the size of a small cutlass, a smile that stayed, as he felt the flush of relief waft away the doom he had created. He stared at himself for some time, drawn in by his own eyes, shaking his head slowly and then whispered, ‘You lucky, lucky bastard.’ With a final wink to himself, he pulled down his trousers and pants, sat on the toilet and released, what felt like a stool the size of a large eel. It seemed to never end and in a way he didn’t want it to; such was the feeling of the grinding suffocating knot that had gripped him for so long, as it slipped away from him. He stood up, wiped himself and looked down at the stool, laying there; rolling slightly from side to side in pathetic final death throws, only one end visible, the other disappearing toward the bend. It was as if all of the turmoil of the previous months were in that stool. Seymour smiled at the thought, waved at the stool, blew it a kiss, before flushing the toilet with a firm yank of the cistern handle.

  Polly stared into space as Seymour sauntered back to the table and slumped down in his chair. Silence.

  ‘You know Polly.’

  Polly subtly rolled her eyes and looked at him. ‘Oh God here we go,’ she thought. ‘Seymour’s got his jack boots on and is now going stomp around on the moral high ground.’

  ‘I would have done exactly what you have done, except for one thing.’

  Polly waited, looking down at the table in front of her, just as she thought was expected of her, as Seymour paused in thought.

  ‘And that is... I would have grabbed all of the money, spent the bloody lot, probably make a complete ass of myself in the process and then would have probably got caught.’

  Polly felt his smile and looked up to him.

  ‘Fucking brilliant Polly!’ Seymour offered his hand to shake, she took it, still unsure as to where this was going. A large part of Seymour’s armory was sarcasm, sometimes used with sick cruelty.

  ‘I’m being serious Polly. I completely understand why you didn’t tell me all this. I would have gone fucking nuts!’

  ‘I very nearly did.’ said Polly squeezing Seymour’s hand. ‘I really thought I’d got away with it.’

  ‘You have, surely. I mean if Shoal really suspected you, he would have pulled you in by now, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And when I spoke to him at the opening, I don’t know, he seemed different somehow, like he didn’t seem like a cop on duty, more like an ordinary bloke. Bit of a wimp if you ask me, not like the megalomaniac he was when he was questioning you. I know about these things Polly.’

  ‘How?’

  Seymour nudged his head to the TV in the corner, then pulled Polly out her chair and onto his knee.

  ‘Ok, so it’s all out in the open, now we can get on with our lives OK? I mean God. Things are good now aren’t they?’

  Polly nodded, comforted by the warmth radiating from Seymour’s body. ‘Yes, things are good.’

  ‘Just one thing though.’ said Seymour.

  Polly stiffened up.

  ‘The money. How much was there?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Polly as she gracefully slipped off Seymour’s lap, stood up and went over to the kitchen area. ‘40 grand or so? I really don’t know.’

  Seymour watched her as she pulled another bottle of wine out of the shopping bag and cut off the foil top, his mind running through a possible shopping list. Polly began winding the corkscrew into the cork, stopped and looked across at Seymour.

  ‘No Seymour. Forget it. I want you to forget all about that money OK?’

  ‘I didn’t say a word.’ said Seymour.

  Polly gave him a look that he knew only too well. The angry screech of the cork, as she continued winding in the corkscrew, magnified it. Polly pulled the cork from the bottle between he
r legs and marched assertively back to the table, loudly dumping the bottle on the table and stood over him, hands on hips.

  ‘I have to say this Seymour, I’ve thought about it a lot in the last few months.’

  Seymour looked up to her, puzzled.

  ‘I could have grabbed that money at anytime, all of it. We could have had a ball, no debts, loads of cash, not a care in the world.’

  Seymour nodded at the notion.

  ‘But. Fuck it Seymour, I like the way we live. It’s been a struggle, at times. But.... We’ve pulled it off somehow. I don’t want to change that. I don’t want to go near the money. We’ve got all we need from it. That’s it.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘No Seymour!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  The New Easel.

  Ed spread the proof copy of this month’s Easel magazine out on the large Ikea table, in the centre of his one room Ikea flat. This one was special. He could feel it. He stood back, crossed his arms and looked at it, as an invading General would look at a map of his enemy.

  Ed was slowly getting his way with the Easel. Henry Morgan, the editor and original owner, had a massive stroke two weeks before. He was the rusting old bolt that held the clunking old team of writers together. Without him they were lost. Henry was The Easel. He had started it twenty years ago, using photocopiers and staplers.

  Having been retired from the army early, due to a mental breakdown, Henry was steered toward painting by Doctor Hindberg at the rehabilitation clinic. He needed to focus on just one thing at a time, Hindberg had told him, and he was right. When Henry painted he didn't want to kill anybody at all, or spontaneously cry uncontrollably in front of a full battalion of armed troops he was sending off to fight in a proxy war over oil.

  As an ex-officer, he was given a healthy pension and able to survive well in the little country cottage in East Sussex he’d inherited from some Aunt that he couldn't remember meeting.

  He really threw himself into his painting. He was actually getting quite good, technically, and within a few weeks he had to park his brand new Ford Laser outside the bloody garage, to make room for the bloody barbiturate induced paintings he’d churned out.

  He was also feeling terribly lonely. The new peace of mind he had discovered, through the brush, had opened up a hole in his spirit. Doctor Hindberg told him that he must see that hole as a space. It took Henry a while to work out what he meant. Doctor Hindberg was like that: sometimes he would say things that sounded more like a crossword clue than advice. Up until his breakdown, Henry had appeared to be a rational steady man of integrity, a natural leader. His mind however was an hysterical mess of chaotic thoughts and confusions and there was certainly no space or time available for anything rational. The image, he somehow projected, was just programmed body language.

  Henry started to get out more after more Doctor Hindberg advice. Get involved with groups and clubs, take classes and generally swim in the pool of life. He’d said. Henry had never looked at life as a pool before, more an angry sea, full of sharks out to get him.

  He took up evening painting classes at the local school and met a whole new world of characters, all trying to stay sane. Being painters, often wasn't the only feather in their caps, some were writers too, mainly mind numbing poets, who twisted language to extremes to get words to rhyme and laboriously dull short story writers. Within no time Henry had taken over the class and had them all running around after him, putting together the Easel Magazine, with tips, techniques, competitions, stories written about paintings, painted by the writer, and all kinds of self indulgent content, born of people with too much time on their hands.

  The Easel became incredibly successful in no time. A reflection of, possibly, how many bored people there are in this world and within two years, Henry had set up a fully equipped publishing house, above a bakers shop in Hove. The Easel had become as solid and dependable as a good friend and every month, when it was dropped in your letterbox, you knew that inside that rather childish, amateur looking cover, there were many a secret unlocked. Whether it be, how to paint a wave! Or how to paint eyes that follow you round the room, you would be in for a treat and no artist's studio should ever be without one.

  But that was all about to change. Ed had other ideas. Sales were dropping off, costs were rising, the business was in trouble. Ed had been saying for months that they should start putting ads in the Easel. That sent a shudder through the office.

  ‘Never!’ Henry had bellowed. ‘Over my dead body.’

  That, thought Ed, was becoming increasingly likely.

  Ed didn't actually work for The Easel, he partly owned it, or at least 10,000 U.S. dollars worth. That's how much Henry owed Ed's father for a gambling debt. Ed had just finished a degree in media studies in Los Angeles and couldn't find a job anywhere, mainly because he just didn't look right and Ed's dad wanted his money. Perfect: Ed takes a share in the Easel, gets shipped off to England, so his Dad and his new wife Trixie hadn't got to deal with the irritating little shit for the foreseeable future.

  Ed's surprise arrival at the Easel's offices was a shock for all four of the permanent staff. Ed was presented by Henry as an initiative to bring new blood, to freshen up the magazine, to revitalise its sales. Henry was unconvincing in his delivery and, of course, had no intention of doing any such thing and would happily see the Easel die with him.

  Ed, nor any of the staff knew anything about the debt. Ed had been told by his father that he'd been head hunted and to, 'go over there and kick ass.' Ed had promised his father he would do just that.

  Henry was in a critical condition on a life support machine at the hospital. The Easel staff were with him, taking turns in shifts to stare at him. Henry had no family. The Easel was his family and nobody dared think what would happen when he would make that last call to the printer after reading the final proof. It was a moment everybody worked for. The moment when Henry closed the last page of the final proof copy, picked up the phone and said. ‘Print it!’ Those two words made all of their lives worthwhile.

  Ed had assured all the staff that everything was under control and that he would get the magazine out if it took his last breath and for them to not worry and concentrate on helping Henry. They all wanted to put an ad in the Times to apologise for not publishing the next edition. Ed objected and said something like, ‘Newspapers are not a job, they are in your blood and if I don't get that damn newspaper out in time, I ain't the man I wanna be.’

  They all thought he was a knob but didn't have the energy to argue anymore.

  Ed moved the desk lamp back a few inches and looked closer at the front cover. ‘This is good,’ he thought, nodding to himself in agreement.

  The cover, had a photo of a confused looking man with a woman just behind his right shoulder. It was one of those photos that worked. The way her head was framed between the man's shoulders and the top of the photo somehow made her the main subject, not he. You could never plan a photo like that. Well, Ed couldn't anyway. Ed considered himself to be a good photographer. He had years of experience. Had boxes and boxes of slides and prints, all of which looked like those family snapshots you flick through whilst wondering if you had turned off the gas at home, with a stale breathed relative, you don't particularly like, leaning over your shoulder, a little too close for comfort, saying things like, ‘That’s me in Malaga.’

  But this photo was the first photo that he had ever taken that really lived.

  The fact that the photo was of the people he had written an article about was a bonus. The headline on the front of The Easel, below the photo said. ‘Behind Every Great Man. A Perfect Match.’ And below that, was a painting of a vase. The usual logo was superimposed over the top of the photo, rather cleverly, Ed thought, along with the cartoon like drawing of an Easel on one end and an artists pallet on the other. Just in case people didn't know what an easel was.

  Ed was really pleased with the article. His articles were normally based on interviews with artist
s, unknown to anyone but Easel readers. He would simply transcribe the recorded interviews word for word, thinking that it brought out the raw truth and got to the heart of the artist. Which it did, after about fifteen pages: by then you didn't care if the artist had a heart or not.

  Ed. ‘So, Hi Charlie, how are you today?’

  Charlie. 'Hi Ed, I'm fine. How are you?’

  Ed. ‘I'm just great!’

  Charlie. ‘Good.’

  Ed. ‘Your paintings are very good.’

  Charlie. ‘Thanks.’

  Ed. ‘What are they about?’

  Charlie. ‘What do mean?’ Etc. Etc. Etc.

  This article was very different. Ed had tried to interview the artist, Seymour Capital, on several occasions, but it never seemed to happen. Then one day, when he was on his way to Seymour's apartment, at yet another arranged time, he spotted Seymour walking away briskly along the pavement, then slipping into a cafe.

  Ed waited a moment, wondering if Seymour was trying to avoid him, or that maybe he had just forgot their appointment. That had happened a couple of times before.

  When Ed walked into Rosey's cafe, Seymour was at the counter. Ed played it cool and pretended not to see Seymour, as he stood next to him.

  ‘Ed!’ said Seymour with surprise. ‘I was just grabbing a quick coffee.’

  ‘Oh! Hi Seymour, yeh me too.’

  ‘Here let me get you one, we can talk here.’ said Seymour. ‘bit of mess back the apartment anyway.’

  Rosey looked at Ed and nudged her head, asking him what he wanted without saying a word.

  ‘Oh yeh? Cool.’ said Ed. ‘Uh. You have any decaf Ma'm?’

  Rosey stared at Ed and shook her head slowly.

  ‘Oh.’ said Ed.

  Rosey briskly stirred a mug of thick dark coffee, put it on a saucer with a sweet biscuit and handed it to Seymour.