Paint. The art of scam. (12 page)

The whole
episode had disgusted Polly at the time. Compulsory redundancy was the only
thing she wanted to achieve in her career
.
She
dreamed of Hogarth Heavy Industry throwing in the towel, out-priced by some
Chinese monster that cared less about pollution than Hogarth cared about its
consequences.

Everybody on the
bus got off, except for Polly. This happened every time she got the number nine
and it was a moment she relished. This was the only moment in the day when she
could be alone, apart from in the toilets at the office. She only had two stops
in which to enjoy her solitude but she always made the most of every precious
second.

She looked
around the bus to check that her experience was complete. It was.

The bus stop was
a few metres from the entrance to Hogarth Heavy Engineering. The smell
instantly sent her spirits into a nose dive.

As she stepped
from the bus onto the pavement, trying to open her pathetic cheap umbrella, she
felt sick. The wind had dropped and despite the pouring rain the usual acrid
smell of oil and hot metal was thick in the air, making breathing an unpleasant
necessity. They had told her when she first got the job that she would get used
to it, but she hadn't, nor had she any intention of doing so. For a second she
had to remind herself of why she was doing this. The answer was the same every day.
Money, to live with Seymour. And a sound concept it was: last night, drunk.

The bus pulled
away. As she emerged from the parting belch of bus diesel smoke, she saw a
figure walking toward her. It was Mr. Arnold. She checked her watch and grinned
sadistically.

As they walked
towards each other, Arnold's eyes were fixed to the pavement ahead like dipped
headlights in the fog. He was embarrassed, thought Polly. How humiliating. Busted
by Polly -Sorry I'm late- Capital.

They reached each
other at the factory gates.

‘You're late Mr.
Arnold’ said Polly brightly.

‘I am not late,
Mrs. Capital!’ growled Mr. Arnold, suddenly looking up, his words spitting like
a pump gun.

‘Oh,’ said Polly,
disappointed.

‘If you must
know, I had a doctor's appointment.’

‘Oh, sorry I'm
late then,’ said Polly smiling, trying to keep things light.

‘You are always
late, Mrs. Capital, and that is nothing to be proud of!’

Polly was never
surprised at Mr. Arnold's inability to find things amusing, but this time she
could see a weakness in him. He seemed to be struggling to maintain his
authority, as if he'd had his strength disabled. She even felt a strange
compassion for him, a feeling she had never had before.

Passing through
the gate, the security guard immersed in his comic, Polly allowed Mr. Arnold to
walk ahead of her, in the hope it would make him feel somehow stronger. Mr.
Arnold pushed through the main doors to the office block with his full weight
and staggered over to the opposite wall, his hands grabbing a hot radiator. The
shock of the heat on his hands seemed to straighten him out for a moment and,
although dazed, he was able to collect himself and clumsily close his umbrella.
Polly pushed hard against the closing door, cursing Arnold for his lack of
courtesy. ‘Dick head,’ she whispered, as she struggled to hold the door open
with her foot, and sidle through. The door pushed her inside the corridor as
soon as she removed her foot. The outer handle caught her bag strap, ripped it from
her shoulder and poured its entire contents to the floor. She stood there a
moment, furious. Among the scattered mess of her belongings lay a small chunky
bottle of Dior perfume in two halves, the thick glass cleanly broken and lying
in the tight pool of perfume. It was the last icon of her former, more affluent
days, a gift from someone whose name escaped her.

Polly yanked
hard at the bag strap, the door opened slightly then slowly pushed shut again,
cutting the strap cleanly with its aluminium strip draught excluder. She kicked
it hard. Pausing for a moment, she drew a large breath and looked at the door.
It stood there like a thug. She kicked it again to provoke it. She yanked her
umbrella shut, looked down at the floor and bent down to pick up the mess.

Mr. Arnold's
highly-polished sensible shoes appeared next to her. Polly looked up. He
seemed to be fighting to keep his composure and was wavering slightly as he
nudged a pack of cigarettes over to her with his foot and shook his head.

‘You should be
more careful, Mrs. Capital.’

‘Quite right, Mr.
Arnold,’ said Polly, as she inspected the broken bottle with sadness in her
eyes. She gently wrapped the two halves in a tissue, placed them in her bag
and piled the rest of her belongings on top of them. She stood up. Mr. Arnold
looked down at the pool of perfume and touched it with his foot.

‘Better get a mop
and clean it up before somebody slips up on it. Perfume will stain the floor. Disgusting
stuff.’

‘What a great
idea. Thank you Mr. Arnold!’

Mr. Arnold,
accustomed to Polly's insolence, again shook his head before wandering off. As
he walked down the long gloss corridor his pace seemed to falter. He suddenly
stopped to steady himself against the wall. Polly looked up, saw he was in
trouble, threw the last few items in her bag and ran up to him, grabbing his
arm.

‘You OK?’

Mr. Arnold was
struggling to maintain his balance, but pulled away from Polly's hold. Taking a
deep breath and closing his eyes, he straightened up and headed for the next set
of doors to the offices. Polly, left standing there, watched him as he lightly
bounced twice against the wall en-route.

Arnold pushed
himself through the next set of doors and disappeared. Polly waited for a
moment, choosing to give him enough time to get far enough away to negate her
responsibility for him, but not long enough for her to miss witnessing the
mass of crawling clones in the office who would come to his aid when he
staggered in.

Polly fought the
self-closing doors again, this time with more vigour. Once through them, she
saw Mr. Arnold had stopped again, resting against the wall just before the
office door, his head bowed. He saw her coming towards him and straightened
himself again, then pushed the office door and stopped, holding it open. Polly
smiled.

‘Well, thank you
Mr. Arnold!’

‘Fucking freeze!’
bellowed a male voice from inside the office.

Polly couldn't
see everything until Mr. Arnold fell, his skull crashing against the floor with
a dead thud. A neat toupee cart-wheeled off his head like a dustbin lid,
settling about a metre away.

Polly froze.

‘Put your arms
up, bitch!’

She slowly raised
her arms and scanned the room. Three men stood in various positions around the
office, their heads covered with stockings. One particularly heavy-looking man pointed
a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun at her. All of the office staff were
slumped over their desks unconscious, some snoring peacefully. Polly looked
down at Mr. Arnold. ‘Jesus.’ she whispered involuntarily.

‘Who the fuck is
you?’ said another man.

Polly looked up
and saw a smaller man. Even through the stocking she could see his big bug
bespectacled eyes waiting for an answer.

‘What the fuck's
wrong with him? ‘ said the little man, panic in his voice. Polly looked down at
Mr. Arnold's limp body.

‘He's , . . he’s
. . . I don't know . . .’

‘Well, get down
there and look at him then, you stupid bitch!’ barked the man with the gun.

Polly slowly
knelt down at Mr. Arnold's side.

‘What do I do?’
she muttered, staring at him, unable to move. Her mind flashed to Seymour for a
second.

‘Check his pulse
for fuck's sake!’

Looking up, she
saw the shotgun still aimed at her. She grabbed Mr. Arnold's right arm, and
went through the motions of checking a pulse. She felt nothing.

‘I think he's
dead,’ said Polly, dropping his limp arm, her voice breaking up.

‘Fucking great,’
said the armed man. ‘Let's get the fuck out of here, come on, fucking move!’

The gang sprang
into action, gathering what money they could from the desks. Another gang
member stuffed bundles into a sack from the safe in Mr. Arnold's office. Polly
stood up, shaking. All the men were panicking as they started heading for the
back door, clumsily pushing each other out of the way. The little man grabbed
her by the arm and tugged her toward the door with him. The big man with the
gun grabbed him.

‘What the fuck
are you doin'?’

‘What do you
think?’

‘Fucking leave
her you fuck head!’

‘She's comin'
with us all right!’

‘No she fucking
ain't!’ said the man with the gun, and pushed the barrel into the small man's
throat. He pulled back and staggered, catching the stocking covering his head
on a coat hook, pulled it clean off.

‘Oh for fucks
sake!’ said the man with the gun as he darted out of the door. The little man
looked at Polly. Polly looked at him.

He grabbed her by
the arm and yanked her towards him. Polly struggled to free herself and took a
swing at him with her umbrella, hitting him across the face with a pathetic
clatter. Unaffected, he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her head to his.

‘One fucking
sound out of you lady, and you're fucking dead. Understand?’

Polly
frantically nodded, repulsed by the foul stench of his spitting breath. Her
eyes flashed everywhere as she was pulled out of the door. Rushing through the
back entrance, the little man dragged her into a waiting Transit van parked
against the door, throwing her to the floor at the other two men's feet. Then
he jumped in as the van screeched away: the third man struggled to close the
door.

‘Fucking slow down
as we go out the gates!’ yelled the man with the gun.

The security
guard's hands nervously clenched the war comic: Squadron Leader 'Bunny' Warren
was about to be attacked by that bastard Stuka
. It
was
sneaking up from behind and Bunny was too busy fighting with the joystick to
control the Spitfire after a close shave with an anti-air craft shell. Flight
Lieutenant 'Jingle' Bell saw the Stuka and went after it, climbing up hard,
pushing the Spitfire’s airframe to its limits to get it from above before it
had a chance to get Bunny. The Security guard knew that Bunny would make it -
he always did - just in the nick of time. But that didn't matter, it was still
exciting.
The
van slowed and Polly felt the jolt of the speed bumps. She was tempted to scream.
A pair of feet pushing down on the small of her back and the metal of a gun
barrel on her neck persuaded her otherwise.

The van gathered
speed. Polly felt the pressure of the feet lighten a little. After a few
minutes, someone grabbed her hair and pulled her up.

‘Get up lady.’ It
was the voice of the little man again. Polly slowly got onto all fours. Someone
grabbed her arm and pulled her up to sit on a wooden box between two of the
men.

The eyes of all
three men were burning through her. The van was half full of wooden crates
blocking her view of the front.

Polly was
sandwiched between the little man and the huge ape with the gun. The third man,
sitting opposite her, seemed calmer and was smiling. He looked her up and down.
The van accelerated.

‘What a fuck-up.
Oh yeah, I got it all worked out, piece of piss. You fucking dick head, Bruno!’
said the man with the gun.

‘Great, now she
knows my name. What's your name darling?’ asked Bruno, his foul breath once
again making Polly recoil.

‘P-P-Polly.’

‘Right Polly,
this is Roger, Roger, this is Polly,’ said Bruno, gesturing to the big man.
Roger leant across Polly and lunged his fist at Bruno, smacking him squarely on
the nose, then shoved the barrel of the gun into his throat. Polly, jammed
between the two of them, squeezed her eyes shut, shaking uncontrollably.

‘Shut it, you dick!
I'm fucking warning you! What the fuck are you going to do with her?’

The other man
opposite smiled calmly. ‘I wanna fuck her.’

‘Shut up,
Daherty!’ screamed Roger, as he swung the gun towards Daherty. Daherty smiled
at the barrel, then at Roger. Roger, unable hold Daherty's stare, swung the
barrel around to Bruno's throat again.

‘You fuckin'
wait, you bastard,’ snarled Roger. He pulled back, looked up at the roof of
the van and drew a deep breath. Bruno slowly raised his hands to his nose and
blew a blob of blood into them.

Polly opened her
eyes to meet Daherty's piercing stare. His sadistic smile exposed chipped and
rotting teeth.

Seymour, having
decided he'd started the day badly, had returned to bed to lose a few hours.
He hoped that things would settle before getting up again. He lay there
rehearsing his explanation, but nothing seemed to work. He gave up.
What's the point?
This
was new territory. Being caught masturbating is not something that happens to
everyone, and stock excuses, like . . . sorry, I haven't been well . . . do
not exist. The fact that everybody masturbates, whether they admit it or not,
was the only comfort Seymour could draw. The fact that nobody gets caught was
the problem. Seymour hoped that it would be one of those things that he and
Polly would never discuss.