Paint. The art of scam.

by Oscar Turner

  Just as Johnny was leaving Carva arrived.

  ‘Morning.’ said Carva brightly.

  ‘Morning.’ said Johnny as he went out onto the pavement. ‘Oh for fuck's sake.’ whispered Johnny to himself, as he about turned and went back into the gallery.

  Carva stood there in the back office, his hand slapped over his mouth, as he looked down at Jason's body. A large creeping pool of fresh blood had formed on the floor around Jason's head.

  Spit. Spit. Johnny fired twice at the back of Carva’s head, just to make sure. He waited until Carva fell, then closed the office door. As he was leaving he spotted the gallery keys on the desk, picked them up, checked them as he made his way to the door. They were all clearly marked with tags. Johnny stepped out, locked the front door and went to his car around the corner; dropping the keys in road drain en-route.

  Seymour lay on the bed feeling smug, hands behind his head, watching a naked Polly walking over to the bathroom. It was just like the good old days. This was the first day for what seemed like months that they had done lunch. It wasn’t planned: but that had made it even more wonderful. Even though they had resolved the complex tension of the previous weeks, there had still been a learned behaviour going on. They woke, as usual: Polly curled up in the foetal position, facing away from him and Seymour laying on his back staring at the ceiling, wondering what to say. Then, suddenly, Polly rolled over and said.

  ‘Seymour. Let’s do lunch.’

  Doing lunch, involved a full day of unadulterated indulgence. Sex, drugs, alcohol, food and warm, cuddling sleep, all day: no holes barred, phone unplugged. The flat was a complete mess with numerous plates and cutlery, glasses, ashtrays and trails of hastily removed clothing everywhere. At last, things were getting back to normal. They had talked all day in warm mumblings, muffled by pillows, quilts and hair. Not about anything of importance; certainly not more regurgitating of the recent past, just loving quips and floating dream talk.

  Polly looked at the bathroom mirror: her body still buzzing from the glorious orgasm she had simultaneously had with Seymour’s. It had been a moment of sheer ecstasy, that took her by complete surprise. The way they had looked at each other at that moment, was made of pure, beautiful chemistry. It was as if the power of their love had overwhelmed anything that could challenge it. As Polly looked at herself, she pledged to never jeopardise what she had with Seymour, ever again. The future was, for once, looking like perfection, which not so long ago would have been a cue for destruction. But now she had been given a gift and she was going to treasure it. Then, without notice, the last three croissant, she had been craving and gobbled down, pumped up her gullet, fuelled by acid bile, and vomited out of her mouth into the sink. This had happened a lot lately. She had chosen to ignore it: put it down to stress. Just as she had chosen to ignore the fact that her period was unusually late. Again she looked at herself in the mirror. Those eyes seemed softer somehow, less suspicious: more compassionate. She snatched a few sheets of toilet paper from the roll and wiped the sperm that had dribbled onto her inner thigh and sniffed at it. It smelt of safety, of home. It had been a while she had been able to do that. She cupped her breasts in her hands and looked at them in the mirror. They felt and looked different.

  Polly reached into the laundry basket and pulled out a cardboard box containing a pregnancy testing kit she’d hidden. Why she’d hidden it, was something she never considered. She’d already filled the small phial with urine, first thing that morning and read the instructions, but for some reason had left it that; as if it was pointless or more the like, not possible. But now she needed to confirm her suspicions.

  After much procrastinating on the logistics of clearing up, Seymour reluctantly got out of bed and slipped on one of Polly’s dressing gowns. Polly had to go out for a couple of hours to see somebody about some chairs. A few days ago that would have seemed suspicious, but then, everything had seemed suspicious. He plugged the phone back in, as Polly had asked, went over to the table and began to tackle the resultant chaos of lunch, when the phone rang.

  ‘Hello....Oh hi Harry, how’s things’.... Simon? Haven’t heard from him for days......Oh really? Not like him to miss a barbeque. Try phoning Jason, he’ll know where he is....Oh really? Well maybe they closed the gallery for the day, wouldn’t be the first time....Nah I wouldn’t worry Harry, he’s probably got sidetracked or something...... Yes I’ll let you know if I hear from him..... Polly? Oh she’s great thanks, You want a word?...Ok....Yup...I’ll speak to you soon OK? And don’t worry.’

  ‘Who was that?’ said Polly, emerging from the bathroom, towelling her hair.

  ‘Oh it was just Harry looking for Simon. Apparently he didn’t turn up for some barbeque today. He can’t get hold of him.’

  Polly laughed. ‘It’s more newsworthy if you can get hold of him these days.’

  ‘Yeh. Fancy a cuppa before you go.’

  ‘Haven’t really got time. Leave all this mess. I’ll clean up when I get back.’

  ‘Yeh right.’ Seymour turned around and looked at Polly as she slipped on one of the ‘60’s loud red floral dresses she’d found at the shop. It fitted her perfectly: a little too short for Seymour’s liking.

  ‘Wow, you look pretty good...... for your age.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ said Polly, as she peered into a mirror, quickly painted her lips with deep red lipstick and blew a kiss to herself. ‘So, I’ll see you soon then, should be back in a couple of hours. I’ll call you if I’m going to be longer.’

  ‘Ok, make sure you do, I’m doing stir fry tonight and you know what happens if the rice goes soggy.’

  ‘I know, all hell breaks loose. Seymour?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I think I’m pregnant.’

  Seymour, carrying a pile of plates from the table, froze in mid step and looked across at her. She was smiling a smile that sent a shiver down his spine. ‘Gosh.’

  ‘Yes. Gosh.’

  Seymour took the plates back to the table and walked slowly toward her, their eyes locked on each other. Seymour put his arms around her and held her tight; kissing her with loving pecks. ‘You mean like a baby and stuff.’

  ‘Yes. That sort of thing.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ok. Well then. Better get our asses into gear.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Pay Day.

  Johnny drove up and down the road outside Polly's apartment twice before parking close by. It was getting dark. Dusk, the light that can trick you.

  He waited just a few minutes and then bingo! Polly appeared coming out of the apartment block, alone and started walking in his direction. As she approached, Johnny reached across, unlocked the passenger door, got out and walked around to the passenger side onto the pavement, opened the passenger door just as Polly reached him and blocked her path.

  ‘Get in the fucking car or I'll kill you here and now.’ said Johnny, standing in front of Polly, his gun clearly visible only to her.

  ‘Who are you?’ mumbled Polly.

  ‘I said get in the fucking car Polly.’ Johnny grabbed her arm and with one yank, threw her into the passenger seat. ‘Now you try anything and I mean anything, Seymour gets it too.’ Johnny calmly buckled her seat belt, adjusted the Dagenham dagger to sit between her breasts, pushed down the door lock knob, unscrewed it, put it in his pocket and slammed the door shut.

  Polly shook as she watched Johnny walk around the front of the car. She stared dead ahead, her mind racing. Johnny got in, started the motor and pulled away slowly and calmly.

  ‘Ok Polly, now I want you to listen.’ said Johnny as he crashed his way through the gears. ‘Don't say a fucking word until I say so, I fucking hate being interrupted. Now you and me are going for a drive to where you have the money and you are going to give it to me, understand?’

  ‘But..’

  ‘I thought I told you not to fucking talk!’ Johnny turned his head to look at her for a second. ‘A yes can be do
ne with a nod of your pretty little head Polly! The boys said you were a looker. You're fucking lucky you got out of that barn when you did, they would have fucked your eyes out. I wouldn't have touched you of course, I'm a gentleman see, besides, I fucking hate soggy seconds.’

  Polly froze at the thought as the car zigzagged around a maze of back streets, lined with abandoned workshops, half collapsed sheds and warehouses.

  ‘See that thing on your seat belt Polly? That's a Dagenham Dagger, fucking brilliant! See, if I pull this switch here.’ Johnny proudly pointed between his legs, ‘your heart would be sliced clean in half by a four inch tungsten blade. Just like fucking James Bond innit Polly?’

  Polly looked down at the Dagenham Dagger, then at Johnny.

  The car stopped in front of a large rusty corrugated iron door. Johnny reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a remote control and zapped it at the door. The door slowly opened upwards exposing a large dark workshop space. Johnny drove in, switched off the motor and turned on the dim car interior light as the creaking door shut behind them.

  ‘Right then Polly, here we are at last.’ said Johnny, turning in the driver's seat to face her, smiling. ‘Great to meet you at last. Now without further ado, tell me where the money is and we can get all this sorted out and go home.’

  ‘What are you going to do to me?’ whispered Polly, her voice breaking up.

  Johnny sat back in his seat, sighed, then launched his right arm across, grabbing her by the throat, his face to within an inch of hers.

  ‘I thought I fucking told you not to interrupt me!’ snarled Johnny.

  Polly was fighting for breath,; trying to pull his arm from her throat. Johnny slowly released his grip and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘I fucking hate small talk Polly. All that, what are you going to do to me? Is what I call small talk Polly. And fucking selfish too. Now, let's try again from another angle, like, yes/no questions. Then you haven't got say another fucking word. How about that?’

  Polly nodded slowly.

  ‘Ok, now, do you have the money?

  Polly nodded.

  ‘Are you going to give it to me?’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘Can you take me to it now?’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘Is it far away?’

  Polly shook her head.

  Johnny smiled. ‘See Polly, now we're getting somewhere, innit fucking amazing how words can make things so complicated. Is it here, in London Polly?’

  Polly shook her head.

  ‘Right, now it's time for you to talk Polly, otherwise I'll have to go through every fucking town in England. So. Where the fuck is the fucking, money?’ Each of his words word punched at Polly's ears as they bounced around the tinny car interior.

  ‘Hassocks. In some woods, I hid it there.’

  Johnny slumped back in his seat and chuckled to himself.

  ‘Oh Jesus fucking Christ Polly, can you believe it? Fucking brilliant! Hassocks, you fucking hid the money in Hassocks, right where you nicked it from. Fucking perfect!’

  Johnny suddenly stopped chuckling and stared at Polly coldly. ‘Is this something to do with Dave Bramley?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You fucking know Dave Bramley?’

  Polly shook her head emphatically.

  ‘If you fuck me around Polly, I promise you, I will kill you.’

  ‘And if I don't fuck you around?’ said Polly matching his stare.

  Johnny thought for a moment, hamming it up. ‘Now let me see, um. I know! I'll let you go.’

  Polly looked at him, scanning his face. ‘You will let me go? Why?’

  ‘Good point Polly. Fuck it. I'll kill you then.’

  ‘Then do it now.’ said Polly coldly.

  ‘Ok.’

  Johnny reached down between his legs. Polly tensed up, waiting. Praying that it would be quick.

  ‘Hang on a minute! This is fucking nuts!’ said Johnny, shaking his head. ‘Then we both lose. You'll be dead and I won't have the fucking money, which is, when you think about it, the whole point of you and me sitting here. I'll tell you what. You take me to get the money, right, and then, I'll let you go. But not until after I've fucked you. How about that?’

  ‘You bastard.’ whispered Polly, defeated.

  ‘Well is it a deal?’

  Polly looked down at her legs and closed her eyes. ‘I have no choice.’

  ‘Yeh, that's right Polly, clever eh? I'll tell you something Polly, I thought what you did was fucking brilliant! That took guts and I like that in a woman. I just wish you hadn't done it to me that's all. Made me feel a right twat. You know what I mean Polly?’

  Polly nodded. ‘Sorry.’

  Johnny laughed loudly. ‘Fucking great! Sorry. Fucking brilliant! Oh dear, oh dear, you really are special Polly. I couldn't kill you, it'd be a fucking tragic loss to mankind.’

  Johnny composed himself, clicked the remote over his shoulder and started the engine. The huge door behind them rumbled into action, slowly opening.

  ‘Let's fucking go!’ said Johnny winking at Polly, as he flicked off the interior light.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  The Party.

  ‘Well I'm a lonesome cowboy being blue,

  Is it OK if I cry in front of you?’

  Sang Tommy James, the lead singer, founder and songwriter of The Lonesome Cowboys. The rest of the band clunked out a typical country and western tune: playing vaguely at the same tempo and similar tuning.

  My horse has just run away with Mary from the bar,

  I guess I'll have to buy myself a car.’

  Tommy thought he was great and looked the part; he wore the full cowboy kit, gold tassels, spurs and all. The rest of the band couldn't care less and just wore cowboy hats as a gesture. They would put up with Tommy and his ego for as long as the beer kept flowing their way. Tommy would never take money for performing. He said that, ‘To see folks havin' a good time is payment enough. You can't buy that with money.’ He was right. But then, nobody would pay them anyway: because they were shit. Nobody had the heart to tell Tommy that.

  The Lonesome Cowboys would perform at every opportunity. You could barely have a dinner party without Tommy offering to play for free and for any gathering over 10 people: he didn't even bother to offer to play, he just turned up. This gave Tommy the illusion that The Lonesome Cowboys were really popular. Tommy was pissed off with Cyril, because he’d refused to allow him to bring his generator, an ex army diesel 10kva machine, that powered Tommy's huge sound system. The sound system had to be turned up so loud, to overwhelm the sound of the generator, that The Lonesome Cowboys could be heard in space. The Lonesome Cowboys had to go acoustic, no miked up drums, no big fat bass guitar amp and no Gibson guitar and vocal amps with all the sound scrunching pedal effects that Tommy had built himself. Cyril had pacified Tommy by saying that the band sounded so much better unplugged, back to their roots, raw and natural. Tommy agreed, but sneaked in his Fender 12 volt practice amp, just to prove a point.

  ‘Oh I'm hoping things get better, really soon.

  I'm sick of people popping my balloon......’

  Cyril chinked glasses with Nastasia.

  ‘Happy Birthday darlin'‘ said Cyril pecking her on the lips.

  ‘Thanks Cyril and good luck.’ Nastasia pecked Cyril back.

  ‘Good luck?’

  ‘With your new adventure Cyril, see you've got the wheels back on the truck.’

  ‘Oh, you've heard. Yeh, MOT test, the day after tomorrow, I hope she passes or I'll be buggered.’

  ‘Can't keep any secrets around here Cyril.’

  ‘Yeh I know, I'm going to miss that. Still, no point in dwelling on it, me minds made up. I'll be glad to get away from all this tension. Edward won, or more to the point I'm sick of fighting.’

  Nastasia nodded and kissed him again. ‘We'll see.’ said Nastasia mischievously.

  ‘What do you mean? We'll see.’

  ‘Just, we'll see.’
>
  ‘Oh, by the way Natty, I'm going to need that cash back in the next few days, the truck's going to cost near enough £1500, then I'll need some more to get me down to Spain or wherever.’

  ‘Yeh I know, Tim told me, I got it here with me.’

  ‘What all of it?’

  ‘Some of it.’ Nastasia smirked, as she spotted someone across the crowd and waved at them. ‘I'm going to circulate for a while, I haven't seen all these people together in one place for years, see you later.’

  ‘Probably be the last time, so make the most of it.’ said Cyril.

  Nastasia winked at him and wandered off, leaving Cyril puzzled by Nastasia's bright mood. He looked around at the growing crowd that had turned up.

  ‘Hi Cyril,’ said Chris approaching with a full pint of cloudy scrumpy.

  ‘Hi Chris. Well if you want Laurel and Hardy, they're over there under the apple trees.’

  ‘Fuck off, that were the last straw when that bastard told me to get rid of them. Me and John quit the estate coupla days ago. I'll tell you Cyril that asshole's heading for good hiding.’

  ‘What did he say when you quit?’

  ‘Edward? He said he was getting rid of us anyway, reckons we were too slow. I'll tell you what, I've never seen John so angry in all my life, he really let rip at Edward. Called him a fucking Nazi and all sorts. I had to hold him back, I really thought he were gonna take a swing at him.’

  ‘Yeh well I reckon this lot feel the same way.’ said Cyril. ‘Natty said Edward's gone away somewhere, any idea how long for?’

  ‘Dunno, he's usually gone for a week or so. Yeh and I heard about your access road problem, can you believe it? Mrs. Dankworth said you was going away in your van somewhere. We'll miss you Cyril.’

  ‘Thanks mate. Yeh, I've got get the van out before Monday, that's when he's closing the road.’

  ‘Oh I know, he asked me and John to block it off, that were the second from last final straw. I tell you, he's gonna have a hard job finding people to work for him from around here.’