Paint. The art of scam. (13 page)

Looking across at
his easel, The Vase Lady seemed to be preoccupied. Ever since he had declared
to himself that she was actually finished, it struck him that she seemed to
have moods. Sometimes she was just there, being a painting, but other times she
was actually part of the room's atmosphere, or even
contributing to
it. Sometime last night Polly had asked him to put a price
on The Vase Lady. He had looked at The Vase Lady as if he was supposed to be
thinking about it. The Vase Lady made him feel uncomfortable, as if she was
about to say what any woman who is about to be given a price tag would say.

‘About 50 quid,’
said Seymour. He could have sworn The Vase Lady's handle arms moved
indignantly.

‘Is that all?’ asked
Polly. The Vase Lady looked at Polly, then back at Seymour: she was waiting for
an answer.

Seymour then went
into his usual rant about how she would be worth a fortune if he was well-known,
and how they should just sell anonymous art by the kilo. This was standard kit
in Seymour’s armoury.

The Vase Lady
rolled her eyes. So did Polly.

At the time,
Seymour was drunk and had a near naked Polly draped around him. Polly had just
declared her willingness to carry on supporting them both. Seymour could hardly
tell the truth: he had privately promised The Vase Lady something. He would
keep her, forever. If he broke that promise, he knew the consequences would be
unthinkable.

As Seymour lay
looking at The Vase Lady, he remembered that Polly had suggested he cut down
his hashish consumption and get out more.
Maybe she was
right
.

The van drove for
a half an hour or so taking several abrupt turns. The tension inside the van
was unbearable, the roar of pounding rain on the metal roof made other sounds
barely audible. Bruno had recovered, but was breathing heavily, his nose
gurgling with blood.

Suddenly the van
began to lurch from side to side; its wheels occasionally spinning as they
tried to get a grip. Another sharp bend, up a hill, the engine screaming. The
driver crunched through the gears, wheels dropping in and out of potholes. Then
the van suddenly lurched to a halt.

Someone in the
front got out and opened the huge wooden doors of an old barn, then signalled
the van in. The tension in the van grew, not just in her but between Bruno and
Roger, who had spent the entire journey scowling at each other. Bruno spitting
blood and panting like an injured bull. The rear doors of the van suddenly flew
open and everybody but Polly got out. It was dark, damp and cold; the musty
smell of rotting hay thick in the air.

Roger pointed the
gun at Polly.

‘Get out!’

Polly slowly
shuffled along the wooden box and eased herself out; steadying herself on the
rear door, her eyes fixed on the gun barrel.

‘Now get over
there.’ shouted Roger nudging the gun at Polly over to the corner of the barn.

"Bruno, get
the fuck over here! Now!"

Bruno appeared
next to Roger. He handed Bruno the gun.

‘Right you
asshole. Now fucking kill her.’ Bruno took the gun and held it limply. He
looked at Polly then at Roger.

‘Go on. Fucking
pull the trigger!’ shouted Roger.

‘Please! No.
Please don't kill me. Please. I'll do anything. Please! Please!’ screamed Polly.

‘Go on, do it!’ shouted
Roger again.

Bruno was
shaking, his eyes darting between Roger and Polly. Roger grabbed the gun from
him, aimed it straight at Polly's forehead and squeezed the trigger. Click.
Nothing.

‘Fuck!’ screamed
Roger as he cocked the gun, ‘Who the fuck unloaded it?’

‘I did.’ said
Doherty from somewhere in the darkness of the barn. ‘No guns we said.’

‘Oh yeh,’ said
Roger calmly, ‘I forgot.’

Roger reached
into his pocket, pulled out a cartridge, slid it into the chamber and slammed
the barrel shut.

Chaos broke out.
Doherty suddenly appeared from behind and grabbed Roger by the throat, dragged
him to the ground and began hitting him in the face. Somehow Roger overpowered
him, stood up and threw him into a pile of empty diesel drums sending them
flying. Bruno leapt on top of them. The driver and the other man in turn piled
on top of them. Polly was unsure if they were trying to stop them or just
joining in. The violence seemed to escalate as if old scores were being settled
at last and at random. She watched them, the viscous violence and fear sending
an uncontrollable shaking through her body. She looked across at the barn door,
her eyes trying to focus on the lock but the low light made it impossible. Again
she looked at the thrusting arms and kicking legs flying, the sound of clashing
flesh and thud of bone echoed. She closed her eyes. She wanted to scream but
couldn't.

Something
happened to her. Her whole body seemed to surge, the lights went out in her
head. She could see nothing but abstract shapes. She stood in the darkness,
panting uncontrollably, pinned against what felt like a stone wall: her heart
pounding. She looked around her. She could just make out various shapes that
looked like farm machinery. Shafts of light and rain streamed in through the
gaping holes in the roof illuminating the choking dust thrown up by the brawl
somewhere in the darkness. The barn door slowly opened. Polly froze. She
watched as two men sneaked in, one with a powerful torch.

‘Oh for fucks
sake!’ said one of the men. He shone the torch into the back of the van,
climbed in and then back out with two bulging bags. He opened them and shone
the torch in.

‘Fuckin' nice
one! Stick 'em in the motor Bill.’

The other man
grabbed the bags and slipped back out of the barn. The man shone the torch in
the direction of the now groaning, exhausted pile of men somewhere in the
darkness.

"What the
fuck are you doing you stupid fucking assholes!" he shouted.

Polly watched as
the other man came back into the barn and headed into the darkness.

‘For Christ's
sake. Fucking stop. Now! Roger! Put the fucking gun down Ok. Now calm down.’

Polly slowly
eased herself along the wall towards the door.

‘Put the fucking
thing down Roger. Put it down! OK!’

Suddenly there
was an ear-splitting crack of gunshot then a piercing scream.

Polly slipped out
the door, into the blinding daylight, the rain had slightly eased and the sun,
for a second, shone before being blocked again out by thick black clouds. There
was a car outside. She spotted the key in the ignition, quickly looked around
her, jumped in, started the motor, slammed it in gear and roared off wheels
spinning, spitting stones.

She had no idea
where she was but the only exit was clear. She quickly looked behind her
through the fogged up and rain-jeweled glass; she could vaguely see two of the
men already out of the barn and running after her. The car thumped into several
potholes, the steering wheel snatching from her white knuckled grip, the
overgrown brambles tugged at the wing mirrors and scratched at the paintwork.
Her neck was as tight as rope: her whole body rigid with fear. She reached a
tarmac lane and smashed onto it with a loud thud. Her foot flat onto the
accelerator the car’s engine screamed, she slammed it into second gear, throwing
the car around a bend, its body heaving over, tyres groaning.

Back at the track
the two men, breathless, stopped. Their punished, unfit legs unable to carry
their overweight slob bodies any further. Roger had already crashed the van
back out of the barn and was heading full pelt at them. They dived out the way
as he flew past them. The van skidded uncontrollably, hit a small tree and
flipped over on its side and landed in a ditch, Roger's head smashing against
the drivers door window. Huge billowing clouds of steam drifted out from the
engine bay.

The two men shook
there heads and turned back to the groaning coming from the barn. Bruno
staggered out of the barn holding his backside, his trousers soaked in blood,
his face battered and bloody. He looked up to the sky, squeezed his eyes shut
and whispered ‘Oh Fuck, fuck, fuck!’

‘What do you
think Johnny?’ said his sidekick, Bill.

Johnny calmly
looked across at the Transit van. Roger had managed to clamber out, fallen into
a blackberry bush, struggled to his feet and was lumbering towards them. Johnny
watched Roger with a resigned disbelief and shook his head. Roger somehow
managing to stumble across the yard, went past them and launched himself at
Bruno sending him crashing to the ground to once again pummel him with his bloodied
fists. Johnny looked at his watch, pulled out his mobile, punched at the
buttons and waited.

‘Spider?......It's
Johnny, yeah I'm fine, yeah good...and you?...That's great yeah great...Yeh I
know it's been a while...Been busy you know...business...Yeh yeh fine...Look
mate I uh need a bit of a favour...Well I need a lift.....It's sort of
urgent.....Nah nah it's not dodgy at all....There's a ton innit for
you......Sussex....Yeh Sussex, North of Brighton.....Well we were just going
for a drive and uh....you know, a bit of sight seeing...and we uh..well broke
down....Look Spider I can't go into it now, can you do it or not?....200? Fuck
me Spider that's a bit much innit? What are you a fuckin’ kosher black cab now
or somthin’?...OK OK 200, now listen...You know where Hassocks is.....Hassocks
yeah Hassocks...Fuck me Spider it's a town in England ...not London, no, South
England..It’s only an hour away from you..No course they haven't got a fucking
tube station...You've never heard of it?....Shit....’

It took some time
for Johnny to explain to Spider the geography of South East England. Spider
always thought of anywhere outside of London as a foreign land where peasants
toiled the fields, traded horses, thatched roofs and nicked Range Rovers for a
living. Why Johnny 'The Knack' would be at a farm sightseeing was a mystery,
but, Johnny was a mate, their friendship as solid as rock, had been for years:
since they had shared a cell in Wormwood Scrubs prison. Johnny had always said
to Spider that mates would do anything for each other: it was like a
brotherhood thing. It made Spider feel indebted to Johnny. Why, he wasn't sure.

Johnny switched
off his mobile and dropped it into his pocket. ‘Right,’ he said calmly to Bill.
‘Get everyone together. We gotta keep our heads down for a couple of
hours...Someone's coming to get us...Jesus Christ what a fuckin' nightmare.’

Johnny slowly
pulled out a huge handgun from inside his jacket and looked at it.

‘Why the fuck do
I get involved with these knob heads.’

Johnny ambled
over to Roger, who was sitting astride of Bruno and pointed the pistol at his
head.

‘Excuse me
gentlemen,’ said Johnny as he pushed the muzzle of his handgun into the nape of
Roger's neck, ‘Sorry to interrupt. We seem to be in, what is known as, a bit of
a fuckin' pickle. You will now all go into the barn and you will all keep
perfectly quiet until our taxi arrives OK? If you have any questions don't ask!
Now fucking move. Please.’

Seymour was still
in bed. He was awake now, having enjoyed a pleasant hour or so in a gentle
daydream and was planning the short trip over to the bathroom to freshen up
with a shower before he ventured into the day again. He had replayed the
previous evening with Polly several times and now, convinced her words were
real and not influenced by his own wishful thinking; he was settling into his
reprieve from responsibility. It was a cosy, smug feeling. Nothing, it seemed,
could go wrong for him now, for he was blessed with an undeniable talent for
attracting fortune without the need for manipulating anything or anybody to
achieve it. He had recounted his entire life thus far about half an hour before
and had come to the conclusion that it was reasonable to assume that something
out there in the big cosmos was watching over him: guiding him through life,
telling him when to duck, catching him when he fell over, and now it had given
him a wonderful woman, whom he loved dearly, to pay for it all. Seymour smiled
at the notion. Only once, in fleeting subtext to his thoughts that morning, did
he consider why on earth the universe would choose to protect him of all people
from the hazards of human existence. He was sent maybe to give something to the
world; something that would show humanity the way to true meaning? For a moment
he had equated his life to those of Jesus Christ, Ghandi and Bagwan Rajneesh,
all of whom seemed to have been blessed with a similar knack for surviving without
actually getting a job. But their ugly, painful deaths soon removed them from
comparison. No, Seymour Capital would die gracefully, naturally, without pain,
having left his mark indelibly and unconsciously: mankind would learn from it.
His message would seep through to his people by osmosis, through his art. It
was all so obvious. But then again, what if he was just lucky? What if all
these things that had brought him to this particular moment in his life were
due to a mysterious quirk of nature: a blunder of karmic energy? Maybe, in the
creation of human existence, he had slipped away to the toilet every time the
masters of destiny were handing out jobs to be done? Was he cheating? Is that
why he felt a chunk of frozen jagged cast-iron lodged in his spiritual gut that
prevented his body from feeling the flowing warmth of true contentment for no
more than a day or so.