Paint. The art of scam. (42 page)

‘Right, get out.’
said Johnny. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them. Just like the fucking
movies.’

Polly held her
hands up in front of her, eased her legs out first, then her body. She stood in
front of him, waiting, her stiletto heels slowly sinking into the soft Earth. Johnny
moved back away from the car and held the gun, both arms outstretched, aimed at
her head.

‘Take off your
pants.’

‘No please,
please don't do this to me.’ sobbed Polly. ‘Just kill me, now. I beg of you.’

Johnny rolled his
eyes, lowered the gun slightly, then looked at Polly.

‘I said take off
your pants.’

Polly shook her
head frantically. ‘No.’

‘We had a deal,
Polly.’

Polly shook her
head more and more, her eyes squeezed shut, tears flicking from her face.

‘This is a fuck
up Polly. It's not your fucking fault. I know that. And I know that you used
that money of mine to pay for Seymour's show.’

Polly froze
suddenly and stood rigid staring at Johnny.

‘Yeh I know
everything Polly. It's my job see. I do me research. Old Queen Carva’s got a
really big mouth when he’s pissed up in those gay bars he goes to.’

‘He told you?’

‘Not is so many
words Polly. He wasn’t even talking to me at the time. But you know what? I’m
quite smart sometimes and you don’t have to be a Rhodes fucking scholar to work
it out.’ Johnny smiled. ‘So. What we have to do is get my money back somehow,
any ideas?’

‘I, I can try.’

‘So why the fuck
did you drag me all the way out here then?’

‘I only used some
of the money.’ said Polly, her mind clearing with the chance to live emerging.

‘How much?’

‘About £15,000.’

‘So that means
there was £45,000 in the woods, is that right Polly?’

‘I don't know. I
never counted it. I just grabbed some a few weeks ago.’

‘Tell you what
Polly, you get that £15,000 back and I'll let you live. How's that?’

‘I, I can try,
but it could take time.’

‘Time? Oh we've
all got loads of time Polly. You've got a month. Is that long enough?’

Polly nodded her
head. ‘Yes, yes. That's long enough.’

‘Good, now take
your pants off, that was the deal. Or are you telling me I can't trust you to
keep a deal.’

‘You can trust
me.’ said Polly.

‘Oh I have to
Polly, even though I'm the one with the gun, funny old world innit.’

‘So you will let
me go, after.’

‘That's right
Polly, scouts honour.’ Johnny lifted his right arm with a scout salute. ‘Dib,
dib, fucking dob.’

‘Do you have
condoms?’ said Polly.

'Condoms? Fucking
Condoms, Are you fucking serious!? Now take your fucking pants off!’

Polly slowly bent
down, lifted dress, hooked her panties with her thumbs, drew them down her
legs, kicked off her stilettos and flicked her panties away with her foot.

‘Kick them over
here.’ said Johnny.

Polly hooked her
panties with her toe and skilfully flicked them over to his feet.

Johnny slowly
bent down, picked them up and sniffed at them, before putting them in his
pocket.

‘Mmmm, nice and
sweet. Right. Now off with the dress then lay down and spread your legs.’

Polly reached
behind her neck and pulled the back zip down, her dress slithered down to her
feet. Johnny smiled as he watched her slowly get down on the ground, her eyes
never leaving his.

‘Mmm, nice body,
cute little tits. Now spread your legs.’

Polly slowly
eased her legs apart.

‘That's what I
like to see Polly, a shaven haven.’

Johnny fumbled
with his trouser belt and fly zip with one hand, yanked his trousers down to
his knees, then his underpants. He knelt down between her legs and touched her
vagina.

‘Dry as a bone
Polly. What's up don't you fancy me or something?’ laughed Johnny as he spat on
his hands and rubbed the spit into her.

Polly closed her
eyes and laid her head back in the damp leaves of the forest floor. She could
feel is flaccid penis, working at her clitoris, getting bigger at every stroke.
Then suddenly, she could feel his breathing close to her, then the cold steel
of the silencer on her ear. She opened her eyes slightly to see his face inches
from hers. His penis was hard now and was poised to enter her. He had that
stupid look on his face that men do at the point of entry. Power, achievement,
dominance, victory. Whatever it is, it is a point when a man is the most
vulnerable.

The gun was in
his right hand, his penis in his left, guiding it into her. With a sudden,
spontaneous jolt, Polly pulled away from him, her hands desperately grabbing at
the damp ground. He pushed harder and began to enter her. Polly suddenly felt
one of her shoes in the damp leaves, grabbed it and with one furious swipe,
smashed the heel into the nape of his neck. Johnny stopped and dropped the gun.
He looked disorientated, as he pulled back and stood on his knees, his right
hand feeling the huge hole in the back of his neck. Polly grabbed the gun,
pointed it in his face and pulled the trigger twice. Spit. Spit. The recoil of
the gun yanked at her wrists, as it flew back out of her grip and landed beside
her head. Johnny fell backwards in a contorted heap of arms and legs.

Cyril sat on the
bed, Roger beside him, leaning against him. Cyril felt overwhelmed with
emotion. He had been rational about his situation until now, almost mechanical.
He was going away, to find a new life. The money was maybe a gift, Natty always
talk about things like that. But Sam was right, the whole estate and everybody
in it was about to be turned on its head, forever. There was nothing that could
be done and it was only now that it hit home how much this place and all its
crazy characters meant to him. It and they meant everything, absolutely
everything.

Roger licked him
on the cheek, Cyril cupped Roger's head in his hand and kissed his silky ears.

‘Bless your
little heart Rogerdog, at least we've still got each other. Eh.’

Roger sighed.
Roger new exactly what was happening. Now Roger had a passport, having suffered
the indignity of having a thermometer stuck up his ass, his lips virtually
ripped apart to check his teeth and bloody great needles stuck into him by that
fucking vet with peanut smelling breath, cold hands and an utter disrespect,
for which Roger would have happily bit his head off for.

There was a knock
on the door. ‘Cyril? You OK?’ came Nastasia's muffled voice.

‘Yeh I'm fine,
I'll back out in a minute OK?’

‘Can we come in
for a moment? It's really important.’ said Nastasia, slowly opening the door.

Cyril looked up
at her. ‘What is it?’

Nastasia edged in,
followed by Suzy, a flaming redhead, who had been Sir Thomas's secretary and
then Edward's until she quit, after a row about what he was doing to the
estate.

Cyril stood up. ‘Hi
Suzy, how are you? Good to see you.’ said Cyril as he kissed Suzy on the cheek
and hugged her.

‘I'm fine.’ said
Suzy.

Cyril looked at
both of them, puzzled. ‘What is it? What's happened? You look freaked.’

Nastasia looked
at Suzy and nodded, as if to coax her.

‘It's Edward.
He's dead Cyril.’

‘What! How? When?’

‘We don't know
yet, he went away a few days ago. I've just got the call from Sir Thomas's
brother, Gerald.’

‘What?’ said
Cyril scrambling to make sense of it all.

‘Edward never
told Gerald I'd quit, or about anything else he was doing to the estate by the
sounds of it.’ said Suzy.

Cyril grabbed
Nastasia and Suzy together and hugged them hard.

‘I don't believe
it.’ whispered Cyril his breathing heavy.

Nastasia smiled
and kissed Cyril's ear.

‘So what happens
now?’ said Cyril to Suzy.

‘Well if it's as
true as I hope it is, Gerald inherits the Estate, lock stock and barrel.’

‘Wow!’ said
Cyril. ‘I only met him a few times, he's seemed OK. He was pretty close to Sir
Thomas wasn't he?’

‘Like peas in a
pod.’ said Suzy. ‘He was supposed to have a casting vote on the Estate board on
any major decisions. Sir Thomas had it written into his will. Edward's lawyers
found some loophole in the law and had it removed. Gerald couldn't fight it,
because he was bankrupt.’

‘Fuck!’ whispered
Cyril as he pulled away from Nastasia and Suzy, rubbing his hair frantically. ‘Jesus
Christ.’

The Beginning of the End.

Seymour rummaged
through the vegetable rack looking for another carrot. Carrots are funny
things. You have to have just the right amount of carrots in a stir fry. Too
many and it looks like you had too many carrots and wanted to use them up and
too few looks like you didn't have enough. It’s a delicate balance: carrots
have a great taste, but can be overpowering if you have too many. He found one
on the floor. Just right. Bit soft, but OK. He sliced it thinly and tossed the
pieces into the sizzling wok.

‘Now where did I
put that bloody soy sauce?’ muttered Seymour. He checked the clock on the wall
and tutted to himself. Polly said she would be home by now. The stir fry would
be ready in ten minutes. You can't reheat a stir fry, unless you want a soggy
stew that is. Because that's what happens.

Maybe if he took
it off the heat now and then blasted it when she gets in. It's risky, because
the sauce can quickly saturate everything and all the flavours blend into a
blob. That's the beauty of a stir fry, if you get it right, all those
individual flavours, especially with fresh ginger to kick it along. Seymour
turned off the gas, sat down at the table and took a healthy glug of red wine.

This baby thing
just didn’t feel real somehow even though Polly’s words still echoed around in
his head, like an uninvited mantra. It was just so hard to imagine. He’d never
even considered the notion before. Seymour loved sex, so did Polly: sex was a
major ingredient of who they were. They had occasionally discussed children,
but more in an abstract way, like; have you ever wanted children? The answer
was always equally abstract like; nah not really but you never know. Maybe one
day. Seymour didn’t even like babies. On the rare occasions that he’d
encountered them, he’d found them nothing more than irritating, selfish,
attention seeking freaks and found it impossible to share the wonderment people
seemed to have for them. But that smile Polly was wearing when she had told
him, had burned into his mind’s eye. She looked so happy: it was intoxicating.
Maybe babies are different when they are yours? Suddenly there was a pounding
on the front door: a violent pounding that made Seymour shake. He went over to
the door and stood a few feet away.

‘Polly? Is that
you?’

‘Police, can you
open the door please sir?’

‘What? What's
happened?’

‘Open the door
please sir.’

Seymour slowly
unlatched the door and opened it.

‘Detective
Sergeant Bradshaw, Scotland Yard. Mind if we come in sir?’ said the huge, stern
looking man offering his I.D. There were two other uniformed officers with him,
carrying what looked like machine guns.

‘What? What’s
happened?’

‘Is Mrs. Polly Capital
here sir?’

‘No, she's gone
to see someone about some chairs. She said she'd be back by now. Look what's
going on?’

Bradshaw looked
around the apartment and nudged his head to the other policemen to go in.

‘Mind if we take
a look around sir?’ said Bradshaw.

‘Oh no, not
again.’ said Seymour indignantly.

‘Again sir?’

‘Yes again. Why
can't you people just leave us alone?’ said Seymour as he went over to the
carefully laid out table, opened his stash box, pulled out a lump of hash and
offered it to Bradshaw. ‘There. Happy?’

Bradshaw looked down
at the hashish in Seymour's hand and smiled politely.

‘We’re
investigating a shooting at The New Carva Gallery this afternoon. I believe you
have a connection with the gallery sir. Is that correct?’

‘Shooting?’
whispered Seymour, in shock, holding on to the door to steady himself. ‘Who,
what?’

‘We need to speak
to your wife as a matter of urgency sir. Now, do you know where she is?’

Seymour shook his
head. ‘No. She, she won't be long. She knows I'm doing a stir fry.’

Polly drove
slowly along the lane, trying to retrace her tracks: her face expressionless,
her body cold. She had no feelings left after what she had done back there.