Nowhere to Go

by Iain Rowan

  ~

  Half an hour later, the man was gone, his glasses empty on the bar amongst the wreckage of the plastic wrap from a packet of cigarettes and two empty packets of crisps. The landlord was stood behind the bar, looking down at a small oil painting of a yacht coming in to a deserted harbour in a high sea, and going on the defensive against a couple of the regulars at the bar.

  "Doesn't matter if he's talking bull," he said, "got to be worth at least fifteen, twenty quid, down at one of the second-hand shops, obvious, just look at the frame, that's quality that is. So even if he don't come back, I'm still covered on what he bought. And if he isn't talking bull—" one of the regulars snorted into his pint—"and he doesn't come back, then I can sell this for a hundred, maybe hundred and fifty. And that's if he doesn't come back. If he does, he gets his picture back, and I get twenty five quid, which is near enough a tenner more than what he bought. Can't lose, can I, would have been a mug to do anything else."

  The dissent subsided, partly because the regulars saw his point, and thought that it did look like a quality bit of framing, and did sound like a good deal, and partly because he was the landlord, and if they annoyed him too much he could bar them, and then they would have to go through the hassle of finding somewhere else to drink away the long winter afternoons and evenings of their lives.

  I didn't say anything, because I knew exactly what was going on. I had nothing else to do, just a long night in strange town with plenty of time to kill, so it was a form of entertainment for me. I ordered another drink, and a packet of crisps—prawn cocktail, of course—and settled in for the evening in the familiar surroundings of a strange bar.

  The landlord passed the painting over to one of the regulars, a bent and twisted old man who held it up to the light as if this would reveal some great secret to him. He tapped on the frame with his fingernails, turned it over and examined the reverse. Then he passed it on to the next along the bar, and they looked at it, because there was nothing else to look at and the painting was probably the first new thing to appear there for months. And so it came down the line to me. I looked at the painting, and then I looked at it again. Then I passed it back to the landlord who propped it up behind the bar, and everyone settled in to drink the night away, and I settled in to watch what would happen next. I looked at the clock above the bar. It was half past eight. I thought that it would be by half nine, at the latest.

  As it turned out, I was wrong. The second man came in at eight forty-five. He was remarkable for being nondescript. He was average height, average build, with hair and eyes and skin that were all—well, you get the drift. I played a game as he walked to the bar: I looked directly at him, memorising his face. Then I shut my eyes for a moment. I could not picture him.

  An asset in your profession, I thought. A great asset. He settled himself on to a stool at the bar, nodded at the regulars, ordered a pint.

  "Vicious out there," he said. "Was going to say that you can tell that autumn's here, but it's more like winter, you ask me. Vicious."

  There was a general mumble of agreement.

  "Always cold in this town," the man said. "I come here on business, four or five times a year, and it's always freezing. No offence." He had an educated accent, which figured, given what I knew would come next.

  The landlord walked away to pick up a cloth to polish some bit of the bar top that he had already polished a hundred times that night.

  "You collect?" the man said.

  "What?" The landlord looked confused. It wasn't one of the questions that he was normally asked, like can I have another, how about a lock in, or where's your bogs, mate.

  "The picture there. Are you a collector? Not the normal pub decor, that one."

  "Oh that. Hardly, mate, failed art at school, I did, and everybody passed art."

  "Sorry, just being nosy. Professional curiosity."

  "You paint then?"

  "No, well, not really, a little, but I work for an auction house, so I'm on the selling side rather than the creative side. That's why I'm in town actually, to look at a small collection that someone wants to sell through us. Usual story—the father's died and the children just want to cash in on the collection."

  "Worth much are they? Paintings, like."

  Everyone at the bar was listening in. Any conversation about money, I thought, and it would have this effect on those who had little and drank most of that.

  "Varies." The man spread his hands wide. "Take that picture behind the bar, for example. It could be a cheap reproduction. Worth ten pounds or so, if you could find someone mug enough to buy it. Best used as firewood. Or it could be an Old Master. In which case it could be worth..." he tailed off, leaving the suggestion hanging.

  "A lot more," one of the regulars said. "Thousands. Tens of thousands."

  The man at the bar laughed. "Think bigger."

  There was a reverent hush around the pub as everyone thought bigger. Then another regular, a man with the sort of ruddy complexion that you get from a lifetime spent working outdoors or a lifetime spent sitting in a pub, broke the silence by noisily draining his glass and then setting it back down on the top of the bar.

  "You should have him take a look Mike, find out how much you've been conned."

  "Conned?" the educated man said. "I don't understand."

  The landlord opened his mouth to explain, but was beaten to it by the regulars, who spoke in turn like the chorus in a Greek tragedy, all trying to embroider the tale with what they thought was great wit at the landlord's expense, but which served only to complicate the story until it was doubtful whether anyone who had just walked in to the pub could understand it. But that didn't matter, because I knew that the man who was standing at the bar now didn't need to understand the story. He already knew it.

  "So you see, we reckon Mike's been conned, and that the bloke is never going to reappear."

  "I can hardly have been conned," the landlord broke in, sounding annoyed at the assumption that he was the fool, "if even cheap rubbish is worth ten quid, all I can be out is eight quid, big deal."

  "One way to settle it," ruddy face said.

  The landlord sighed. "If it'll shut you lot up. And if you don't mind, sir."

  The man shrugged. "No problem, I do it a dozen times every day. Be glad to settle the argument. Mind, if it's a Van Gogh, I want ten per cent."

  Everyone at the bar laughed, and the landlord rolled his eyes as if to say with my luck, you think it likely, look at this place, do you think I'm a man blessed with much luck? But he reached to the shelf behind him and took the painting and laid it out on a beer towel on the bar. Everyone craned their necks to watch, waiting. The man picked the painting up, turned it around in his hands, looking at it from every angle. He held it up close and studied it, brushing some dust away with his finger. He tilted it to the light, peering at the texture of the canvas as if the mysteries of the world would be revealed inside.

  Then he set it back down on the beer towel, lifted his glass and drained it. "Same again please." There was a long pause, everyone still waiting. "So where did this fellow get this from?"

  "Got it off his grandmother," the landlord said, happy to prolong the time until the inevitable bad news. "Out her attic, been up there for years, gathering dust. Present for his daughter or something. Art student, he said she was."

  "So is it rubbish then?" one of the regulars said, but everyone ignored him, waiting for the man to speak.

  He didn't say anything though, just picked up the painting, turned it over in his hands. Then he spoke.

  "Well, it's not an Old Master."

  "Told you, told you," the man with the ruddy face said.

  "But it's not a knock-off piece of junk either. Not by a long way. Tell you, it's a shame that this isn't yours to sell, because if it was, I'd give you three thousand pounds for it, right now."

  Silence again. The man smiled.

  "Shock, is it? It's not the most valuable piece in the world, not by a long way. But
it's a Vennell, a genuine Vennell, and although he's hardly the best known artist around it's in very good condition, and I know—through my work—a certain collector in Switzerland who specialises in just this sort of mid-Victorian stuff. I'd say that when your fellow bought it, neither he nor his dear old gran had any idea what it was worth. Take heart, you've not been conned. If he doesn't come back for it, then I'd certainly be interested in taking it. Three thousand would be fair. I don't mind admitting I'd sell it for something more than that, but then it's my specialised knowledge that would unlock that price. You'd be welcome to try and sell it yourself, but I would reckon you'd only realise a quarter of the value. But that's all moot, as it's somebody else's."

  "Lock the door quick," the bent old man cackled, "don't let the other fellow back in."

  I could see from the landlord's eyes that he was considering it.

  "Of course," the educated man said, finishing his second drink. "If you could convince him to sell it to you..."

  "Reckon I could," said the landlord, turning the idea over in his head. "Reckon I could. He looked short of cash, like. Might offer him a couple of hundred, see if he bites for it."

  The man shrugged, started to button his coat. "Well, I'm only here until tomorrow evening, and then I'm away again, down to Cornwall. I'll call in, about nine. If you've managed to part it from its owner, then I'll be glad to do business with you. If you haven't...well, you keep a nice bitter, and I'll just have another pint before I catch the late train. Good night—oh and good luck."

  Everyone in the bar watched him walk away. The door opened, letting the cold air surge in, and then it banged behind him and he was gone.

  "Bloody hell," the landlord said. "Bloody hell."

  The rest of the evening was spent marvelling that something so ordinary could be worth so much, cursing the fact that its owner would be back the next day to retrieve it, devising devious—and as the drinking went on, increasingly improbable—schemes for parting him from it.

  I just sat there, drinking some more but not too much, and smiling at the jokes. At half-past ten I left, wishing them all good night. Those at the bar said goodbye, and then went back to their plans, back to their dreams.

  ~

  The next day I was back at the pub early, there by half-past six. The landlord said good afternoon, a recognition that he remembered me from the day before. I bought some crisps and some nuts, wanting to pace my drinking, knowing that I needed my wits about me. The regulars were there all ready, and most of them raised their eyebrows or nodded their heads as I sat down on a stool at the bar. I think that they saw in me one of their own, another inhabitant of the world measured out by the staggering ticks of the clock above the bar, and the bell beneath it that marked out last orders, the end of the day.

  I drank my first drink, ordered my second, and then thought that it was time to begin, in case the short man came in early.

  "Sorry to have to break the bad news, but it's a con, you know."

  That got everybody's attention.

  "What is?" the ruddy face man asked, frowning.

  "I thought I recognised it last night, but I wasn't sure. That's why I didn't say anything. But I checked with a friend today, someone I know used to work for the police, long time ago. It's an old, old con. The painting. Doesn't have to be a picture, can be a clock, a violin, anything."

  "What do you mean," the landlord said, coming over. "What do you mean? The auction bloke in yesterday said that it was worth a packet."

  "He would," I said. "It's a two man con."

  There was silence for a moment, and then the landlord said "You mean..."

  "Yes. He's the second man."

  "I don't understand, you can't be right. How can it be a con when he's going to pay me money?" There was a general hubbub of agreement along the bar.

  "He isn't."

  "But he said—"

  "Oh, he said all right. But you won't see him again. First man will be back. He'll come to settle his bar bill, reclaim his picture. You'll make up some story, offer him a couple of hundred quid for it. He'll refuse, say that it's sentimental, present for his daughter, family heirloom, something like that. You'll go higher. Four hundred quid, five hundred quid, cash. He'll hesitate, mention how hard up he is, maybe that his old grandmother needs an operation and the money would be handy like, or maybe for his daughter's college fees because she's doing so well but money's so tight, and then he'll say no, no, can't give up something so precious to the family, he'd love to but no deal. You'll go to a thousand pounds, cash, you've probably got it back there somewhere—" the landlord flushed red—"he'll hem and haw some more but reckon it is as far as he can take you and he'll give in, with regret, maybe with a tear in his eye, but he'll say how it's for the best, dear old gran will get her hip replacement now, dear daughter will graduate from college, and he'll run his hands over the painting and say goodbye to it, and then take your thousand pounds and disappear into the night.

  "You'll feel a bit of regret that you had to go so high, as it eats into your profits from the three thousand pounds that you are going to get, but still, a thousand pounds is worth investing to make two with no work, so you'll wait for the fellow from the auction house coming in. And you'll wait. And you'll wait."

  "And he'll never show," the landlord said, the bitter taste of reality evident in his expression. "And I'll have lost a grand. And I'll take the painting to a dealer's and be told that I'm best off using it for firewood."

  "Crafty buggers," the bent old man said. "They're clever though, got to give them that."

  "I'll have the bastard when he comes in," the landlord said. "I'll call the police out on him."

  "And for what?" I asked. "There's nothing they can do. He's come in, you've voluntarily let him leave his picture in lieu of payment, he's going to come back in tonight and offer to pay you the money that he owes you, and he's not even going to suggest that you buy the painting off him. It's all quite above board. It's the second man who's the fraudster, and where is he? How could they find him. It's an old con. A thousand quid off you. Not bad for two nights' work."

  The landlord shook his head. "Should have known better. Should have known that it was too good to be true."

  "Not everything you said was right though," I said. "There might be something in this for you after all."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You said you'd be out a thousand pounds. That's right. You said that you'd never see the second man again. That's right. And you said that the painting was junk. That's not right."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I looked at it yesterday, when you passed it around. I know a bit about this sort of thing, been a dealer in this and that for some time now, not an art dealer like the second man was pretending to be, but you know, spend a lot of time around the antique auctions, get to see a little of everything. It's not worth what he's scamming you it's worth, no where near it, but even a quick look tells me that these two know nothing about art, nothing at all. Because that picture there, I reckon I could sell for five hundred quid."

  "You're kidding me," the glint of money was back in the landlord's eye.

  "Nope. Needs a bit of a clean, but I think I could get that. I'd give you three hundred for it now. If it was yours to sell."

  "Go on," the ruddy faced drinker said. "Take three hundred off him Mike. Not as good as three grand but better than a kick up the arse." The others round the bar agreed, with nods of heads and slurred mutters.

  "Would be good," I said. "Except of course, you can't, because it's not yours."

  Landlord and drinkers nodded again, muttered agreement, jumping from one side of the argument to the other with every swallow of their drinks.

  We all sat in glum silence for a moment, and then the bent old man raised his head from his scrutiny of the bar and spoke.

  "Who says you have to give it to him? To the first fella?"

  "Well, it's his, isn't it," ruddy-faced man said.

  "Yeah,
but who's he, eh? Someone coming in to con you, that's who he is, to make a right fool out of you. You know he is, you know that what this fella says makes sense. So don't give him his bloody painting back. Keep it. Say to him he's had his eighteen quid's worth of drinks, and he should count himself lucky for that or you might be calling the police on him. That'd soon shut him up and he'll just take the loss and leave if he has any sense."

  "He might," the landlord said. He was wavering, attracted to the idea but still reluctant to take the leap, knowing that it might cause aggravation. He needed just a little push.

  "Not my place to say so," I said, "but at least you'd be giving him one in the eye. Cheeky bugger, tried to con you. If you just let him walk out, yes, you know that you've not been taken for the money, but still, he's going to be cocky, think that he got one over on you."

  "Took you for a fool, Mike," my bent little ally chimed in. "Made you look stupid."

  "All right, all right," the landlord said. "You want this thing? It's yours. But you got to pay me cash now, before he comes back. Cash now or no deal. He comes in later I tell him I know his game, that he's lucky I'm not throwing him out through that window, reckon he'll leave pretty quiet, know that he's been rumbled. No-one tries a stunt like that on me. Cheeky sod. Cash, and it's yours."

  "Back in five minutes," I said, and left the pub.

  I stood around the corner shivering, giving myself enough time to have walked to a cash machine and back. I already had the money, it had been the first thing that I had done that morning. I walked back in, sauntered over to the bar, and counted the money out there, note by note.

  "Of course, only if you're sure," I said. "About not giving it back to the bloke."

  "Oh, I'm sure," the landlord said, and I knew that it had become a matter of pride for him, his small victory, saving face in front of his nightly audience. He picked the picture up from behind the bar, gave it one last look, saying goodbye to his brief dreams of riches and a little bar in Spain, and handed it over to me. I pulled a tatty supermarket carrier bag from my pocket and dropped it in.

  "Pleasure," I said.