by Oscar Turner
It was true. Carva's sudden success with Seymour's work had surprised everyone. Simon Carva had spotted a new talent and had already attracted respect for his intuition. That was another reason for getting out of the gallery. He was sick and tired of all those fucking young artists stuffing pictures in his face in the hope of having an exhibition.
Polly and Seymour liked Jason too. That was important. Why he wasn't sure. Polly had made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing to do with the running of the gallery, only with regard to Seymour's work. But nonetheless Carva wanted her approval.
Of course, Jason was a raving queen and made no attempt to hide it and why should he. But then, why should he exaggerate it for dramatic effect. This, ‘I am gay and proud of it,’ attitude, that seemed to prevail these days, puzzled Carva: having spent most of his life just quietly being a faggot. This, in your face, exhibitionist display of homosexuality, designed to shock, was akin to the equally crass behaviour of macho men. The common thread being it was generally practiced in gangs, a gang being more than one person.
It occurred to Carva that this new gay liberation, which seemed to have piggybacked women's liberation of the sixties, had drastically increased the gay population. Everyone was gay it seems. If you were not gay, the only other choice you seem to have was to be straight, which was considered to be dull. Surely there weren't that many gay men in the world before, hiding their feelings in piss drenched toilets, using masonic like handshake codes to fish for a blow job on the off chance? There just wouldn't be room.
Carva concluded that young gay men around these days are just going through a phase in their development and would one day hang up their bicycle shorts and get married to a podgy bottle blonde woman, who spat out accidental babies.
'Morning Simon!' sang Jason as he pranced in like a fairy and pecked Carva on the cheek en route to the bathroom.
Carva often wondered why these new gay men talked like that. That ridiculous camp voice that, in his day, would only be heard in cabaret or film. Somewhere that you can't get the shit kicked out of you or thrown in jail. Carva was an old school queer, a homo, he liked men, that was the point, not these damned, irritating, emaciated lady boys.
'Ah Jason. Right on time. I just this minute got here myself.’
Carva put the last of his files into a box on the desk. He was taking them home. It was symbolic. All the paperwork from the old Carva Gallery days, letters, bills, everything. He was taking them home and he was going to ceremoniously burn the lot in his wood stove.
Jason emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his nose, smelling like a whore and looking like some sort of confused, hyperactive puppet.
‘Right then Jason, I've written down a few notes about Seymour's work that Polly gave me, if you can read them through...’
‘No need!’ said Jason, interrupting brightly, balancing on one leg, arms outstretched.
‘I had dinner with the Capitals last night, we talked for hours and hours. It was so lovely. Such a nice couple and what a dish, gorgeous, and Polly's quite attractive too.’ Jason burst into an hysterical laughter that split the air.
‘Yes, quite and there's an article about Seymour in this bloody comic. Apparently that says something interesting.’ said Carva slapping a copy of The Easel down on the desk.
‘Don't you worry about a thing Simon, now you run off and play with all the boys and girls.’ said Jason, ushering Carva, with his box, out the door. ‘Everything's going to be fine.’
And it was, Jason breathed a new life into the gallery. More artists were signed up for exhibitions, the mailing list grew and within a short time The New Carva Gallery was firmly on the map.
Carva kept an eye on Jason's activities from a distance and any major decisions had to go through Carva for approval. This was usually conducted via excited phone calls from Jason when he had found the most amazing ceramic artist or an out of this world sculptor he wanted to show. Carva was invariable half drunk at some dinner party when he got the calls on the mobile phone Jason had insisted he had with him at all times. Jason had a way about him: if you didn't say yes to him, you would be in for an hysterical outburst that would begin with silence and evolve into spiralling barrage of emotional blackmail.
So, yes it was, to everything, and after a while Carva gave Jason carte blanch to do whatever the hell he likes, as long as he stopped calling at lunchtime, dinnertime or anytime.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Discovered.
‘Nice paintings.’ said Johnny.
Jason looked up from his book and smiled. ‘Yes, they are.’
Jason had been watching Johnny since he came into the gallery. There was something about his look that intrigued him. That sharp glossy suit, neatly trimmed hair, tie loose, top shirt button undone, broad shoulders, and a stylishly unshaven, chiselled face. He reminded Jason of the Action Man doll he’d got for Christmas when he was a young lad.
As with anybody that came into the gallery, Jason immediately sexually assessed him. Would he or wouldn't he? A childish game, but one practiced by any creature with a pulse. Most candidates were immediately judged with a swift yes or no, based on a sweeping generalisation, due to a genetic fault or poor taste in clothes, but Johnny? He took some watching.
‘Yeh, very nice.’ said Johnny thoughtfully as he wandered back away from the desk where Jason was sat and returned to the paintings. He seemed particularly interested in The Vase Lady, but then most people were. But Johnny stood looking at The Vase Lady longer than most. He kept nodding his head, as if he understood something at last.
Johnny had received a strange message a few days before. Although it had, apparently, originated from Bruno Costaldi in jail, it had been given to him from a reliable source, so he did act on it. He was told to get a copy of The Easel. He did. He was then told that the woman in the background of the cover photo was her.
It didn't click for a while. The woman in the background is who? Then it did click. He had never seen her before. Now he could put a face to the woman who had tricked him. A crime punishable by death: but one to be secretly admired.
‘All sold then.’ said Johnny from across the gallery.
‘Yes, sold out within two weeks.’
‘Pity.’
‘Seymour's working on a new show at the moment actually.’ said Jason, getting out of his chair and gliding across to Johnny. ‘We don't have a date for the opening yet, but I can put you on the mailing list if you you'd like to give me your details.’
Johnny turned to face Jason as he approached him. Johnny wore a smile that stopped Jason in his tracks, a smile that somehow said, 'not too close.' His piercing eyes firing laser like warnings that softened slowly.
‘Yeh, maybe.’ said Johnny, moving on to the Flower Tree. ‘Maybe.’
Jason felt a tremble run down his spine, a sensation that usually excited him, the slight fear of risk when pushing limits. But this was just pure fear.
‘Are you a, um, a collector?’ said Jason nervously, his voice breaking as it tailed off.
‘Yeh,’ said Johnny to The Flower Tree. ‘You could say that.’
Johnny's slight but colourful cockney accent had a sinister, dismissive edge to it that disarmed Jason. He was beginning to regret his curiosity.
‘Are you, um, a collector of contemporary art?’
Johnny looked up to the ceiling, as if considering Jason's question, then looked Jason squarely in the eyes.
‘Yeh, but I like permanent stuff too.’
Jason laughed but stopped, as he saw Johnny's deadpan face of disapproval, that slowly changed to a wide grin. Johnny slapped Jason on the shoulder, hard enough for him to lose his balance.
‘Funny innit,’ said Johnny turning back to The Flower Tree.
‘Excuse me?’ said Jason.
‘Contemporary art. When does it stop being contemporary art and become, just art?’ said Johnny thoughtfully, as if talking to himself.
‘Um, well uh, good question.’
J
ason turned to the door as he heard it open, relieved to see Polly arrive. Johnny watched discreetly.
‘Ah Polly darling!’ screeched Jason, as he wafted over to Polly, gave her an over enthusiastic hug and a kiss on each cheek. Polly endured Jason's ritual greeting dutifully and headed into the office, with a puppy like Jason in tow.
‘You look fantastic darling! How's Seymour?’
‘He's fine.’ Johnny waited until they had entered the office, smiled to himself and slipped out the door.
Cyril and Nastasia lay arm in arm, their heads together, Roger snoozing at their feet on the large bed in Cyril's van. The growl of distant diesel motors and the crashing of trees, poisoned the air.
‘There must be a way of dealing with this.’ said Nastasia softly. Cyril sniffed out through his nose.
‘I'm sure there is darlin', but I'm buggered if I can see it.’
Nastasia stirred away from Cyril and lay on her back, still holding his hand tightly.
‘I was talking to Jerry Hart the other day, he reckons Edward wants to put in a 9 hole golf course over at Sandle meadows.’ said Nastasia.
‘Yeh, I heard that too. For fucks sake. Why is doing this Natty? Why is destroying the place and everyone in it?’
‘Revenge.’
‘Revenge?’
‘What else? You know him Cyril, you know his history, everybody hates him, always have done. You remember what he was like as a kid. Always making trouble. He was jealous of all of us. Remember when Tommy Bradford caught Edward wanking down at the lake, when we were all skinny dipping and took that photo of him?’
‘Yeh,’ said Cyril smiling. He posted a copy to him didn't he?’
‘And stuck some up around the village, including the pub. I wonder what became of him?’
‘Who, Tommy? Last I heard he was working for the Daily Mirror. He was a bugger that boy.’
‘Then Edward shot Dave Partridge's dog for shagging that stupid little poodle of his.’
‘Yeh, the boss was bloody furious, poor old Batty, he was a lovely dog. He was Roger's grandfather you know.’ said Cyril stroking Roger with his foot.
‘Really? I didn't know that. Hard to keep track of dog family trees around here.’ said Nastasia smiling. ‘Or human’s come to that.’
‘Yeh that's true.’ laughed Cyril. ‘Anyway you could be right, maybe it is revenge, maybe we all took it a bit too far sometimes.’
‘You think so?’ Nastasia turning her head to look at Cyril. ‘We were kids Cyril, we did what we thought was right under the circumstances. Edward was behaving like a dickhead, so we treated him like one. That's what kids do. Grownups have to make allowances. I remember Mum telling me to be careful about Edward, not to pick on him. Of course, I didn't realise that if we got thrown off the Estate we would lose everything. You don't think about things like that when you are a kid.’
‘Sir Thomas never threw anyone off the Estate.’ said Cyril interrupting.
‘I know, but Sir Thomas isn't around anymore is he Cyril. What's done is done and there's nothing we can do about it. Except fight back.’
‘Fight back?’ said Cyril. ‘What with? Catapults and sarcasm?’
‘What about all that cash? You could hire a lawyer this time.’
Cyril turned to face Nastasia, reached across and kissed her on the forehead.
‘My dear Natty, have you any idea how much that would cost? There just isn't enough there. Edward would just bring out the big guns and demolish me in court. I've already got a criminal record because of that bastard. Admittedly, because I tried to defend myself.’
‘Yup, you are many wonderful things Cyril Barker, but you're a shit lawyer.’
‘Thanks Natty, I'll take that as a compliment. Nah. I'm fucking tired of fighting. Maybe I'll use the cash to get this old van on the road again, bugger off to Europe for a while, see what comes up.’
‘Don't you dare even think about it!’ snapped Nastasia, her eyes firing daggers at him. ‘This place is yours! You belong here! Look at it, everywhere, you made this place the paradise that it is. Have you any idea how many people admire you for what you’ve done? How much respect people have for you? You remember in the storms last year, when the estate had no power for a week, how you charged all the electric fence batteries with your Dingy turbine? You were the only one with power for ten miles. And you opened this place up for people to camp until they got their places fixed.’
‘Yeh that was good fun wasn't it.’
‘It was brilliant Cyril! This place is you and you are not going to leave it! And that's final!’
Cyril watched her. She meant it. She was genuinely angry. He had seen her like this before, but not with such force. He waited until she calmed.
Nastasia cringed, as another angry roar of diesel motor in the distance, punched the air, followed by the creak of splitting wood, then the heavy thud that shook the ground. A second later the chorus of screaming chain saws began again. She looked at Cyril, her eyes moistened.
‘Oh Natty.’ said Cyril as he grabbed her by the waist, pulled her to him, held her tight and whispered in her ear. ‘My dear, dear Natty, I can't stay here if I can't get in or out. Edward is going to fuck me, the whole estate and everyone in it. There is nothing anyone can do about it, nothing; it's as simple as that.’
‘Then we'll have to kill him.’ said Nastasia calmly as she pushed Cyril away, sat up and rubbed her eyes. ‘Fancy a cuppa.’
Johnny sat in his car and watched Polly unlock the front door of her apartment block. He checked his watch. He'd seen Seymour go out an hour before and followed him until he went into Rosey's Cafe. Seymour had spent about an hour or so in the cafe in the last two days. Long enough.
Polly however was inconsistent with her movements, no pattern. Just the day before, he had decided the time was right and reached for the car door handle only to see Polly going out again. He had followed her on foot to an old empty shop, where she went inside and wandered around measuring things; making notes.
Normally Johnny would have a small team of pros working for him on surveillance. But this was different. This was personal. Even if he did want to get help, nobody would go near anything to do with the Hogarth Job. The Hogarth job had even damaged his reputation. Up until then, he was considered to be one of the most feared and respected specialists in the business. He was going places, earmarked to become a lieutenant in the Corby Gang, who ran pretty much every casino, legal and illegal in London. He'd become part of the Hogarth job at the last minute, when the safe house Paulo Costaldi had organised had turned out to have been demolished after a fire. Johnny was the only one to have enough contacts to organise an alternative in a hurry. He also saw a chance to grab a healthy lump of cash. Not that he needed it, the Corby Gang looked after him well, but he knew who the bunch of fools, who planned the Hogarth job, were and there was a chance he could grab the lot. There was nothing wrong with freelancing, or so he thought.
The Corby gang were strict on loyalty, nobody ever stepped outside the Corby Gang operations. They had a reputation for being straight, dependable, honourable, trustworthy, loyal and would happily cut the throat of anybody that said otherwise.
Johnny was lucky to be alive. When the Corby Gang found out that Johnny was involved with the Hogarth job, they picked him up from his house, bundled him into a car, blindfolded him, took him out to an abandoned factory, under the flight path at Heathrow Airport, tied him up in a chair and pushed a gun barrel into his mouth. They waited for the next plane to take off and pulled the trigger. Click. The last thing he remembered after that click, was the filthy rag, soaked in ether, smothering his face and held there until he lost consciousness.
This was Corby Gang justice. He had been sent out into the wilderness. Although there were no written rules or guidelines in the Corby Gang, normally you would sent out into the wilderness for at least two years before you would even be considered for readmission. In fact, normally, anybody found guilty of breaking the Corby Gang's terms and co
nditions were, as they like to put it, put to sleep. But Johnny was special, they wanted to keep him on ice.
Now he was working for Stella Solutions. Stella Solutions are an employment agency and head hunter, ran by Stella Murphy, a powerful, fifty year old Irish, ex 5 star prostitute.
Her clients ranged from Supermarkets, IT companies, Media, Engineering firms, in fact anybody that needed specially qualified and experienced staff. She was very successful and ran a slick, lucrative business. Which was a perfect front for her core business, her passion, assassinations.
Stella too was strict on loyalty, to a point, but not too strict. Her issue with loyalty was more based on the fact that she wanted a piece of the action rather than some sort of moral code.
Johnny always had a sneaking suspicion that there was a connection between The Corby Gang and Stella Solutions. But he never liked to ask.
As he reached for the car door handle, his pager beeped.
‘Shit!’ whispered Johnny to himself. He looked down to his belt, opened the pager and read the message. ‘Can you get some bread please darling. xx’ That was a call to the office. Another job. Polly would have to keep.
Cyril was getting anxious. The atmosphere on the estate was becoming more and more poisoned by the day. The latest news was that Chris and John, having now finished clearing the forest, had been told to catch Laural and Hardy and deal with them. Laural and Hardy had apparently charged at a team of surveyors up on Cassock hill, trampled on all their equipment and eaten the plans for the new golf driving range.
Of course Chris and John would never succeed in catching them, they had no intention of doing so. Chris and John would do anything for a quid. But not that.
Cyril hadn't seen or heard from Nastasia for over a week now. That was unusual. The state she was in when she left the last time was also unusual. Nastasia was a strong woman, she had to be, to handle some of the things she had experienced in her life, all of which she took full responsibility for. But the last time Cyril saw her, it felt like she had given up blocking something. He'd never seen her cry like that before. It was a cry of hate for Edward and all he was doing. Cyril and Nastasia could talk about anything with one exception. What had happened that night in the woods just before Nastasia had been shipped off to France. Cyril was forbidden to ask her. All he knew was that Nastasia and her mother had given their word to Sir Thomas to never discuss what had happened. Never.