Paint. The art of scam. (29 page)

‘Um. Shoal,’ said
Shoal, feeling strangely intimidated by the man's gushing confidence.

‘Shoal?. You mean
like fish?’

‘Mmm, well. I um.
I suppose yes.’

‘Oh what an
unusual name! Is that your real name or some sort of nom de plume.’

‘Pardon?’

Quentin laughed
at Shoal mockingly and turned his back to him. Shoal looked around and tried to
catch some of the chatting in the crowd. There was so much laughing and
giggling going on that he couldn’t make out any words. He felt uncomfortable.
It always puzzled him. What it is that makes people have fun? What do they say
that’s so funny? His therapist had told him just last week, to integrate more,
have more normal social experiences. He had, apparently, lost his perspective,
hence the violence, anger and lust for revenge. He was punishing his suspects
for the loss of his own identity. Shoal was trying hard to get better. He
really wanted to get back to work. He missed the buzz. But, as his therapist
told him, it was the buzz that was the problem.

Polly slipped
outside onto the street to get some air. She had calmed herself down by now but
had lost the excitement she'd had for the show. She sniffed at the air and
checked her shoes. People were starting to leave at last: taxis began pulling
up outside.

‘You Ok, Polly?’
Shoal's voice came from behind her.

‘Oh God, you made
me jump. Yes. Yes. I'm just getting a breath of fresh air.’

Shoal stood in the
doorway, smiling at her. He sniffed the air and checked his shoes.

‘Smells like dog
poo round here, don't you think?’

‘Yes. It does.
Mr. Shoal. Why have you come here tonight? You weren't invited.’

‘I was just
passing Polly, that's all. You don't mind, do you?’ said Shoal.

‘Well no, I
suppose not. It's just, well, strange, that's all.’

‘Strange? Why is
it strange?’

‘Well, you know,
it's a long way to come, from Brighton.’

‘Oh I see. Yes,
my wife's sister lives nearby, we've been here for a few days. I spotted the
poster in the window.’

‘Look, I've got
things to do, excuse me please.’ said Polly as she turned to go back into the
gallery.

‘Well. I'll be
off then Polly,’ said Shoal, ‘I'll see you again maybe. Oh and congratulations.’

Polly looked at
him inquisitively. ‘Congratulations? What do you mean?’

‘The show.
Seymour's show. I really like his paintings, very nice. Good luck with it all
Polly. I hope it all goes well for you both.’

‘Thanks.
Good-bye.’ said Polly, forcing a smile as she pushed past him and slipped back
inside.

Shoal stood there
for a moment watching Polly disappear into the crowd, then went to his car and
sat for a moment staring at the windscreen, scratching his beard. He was
thinking about how he felt so out of place there amongst all those people. He
really liked Polly, as a person, and yet, because of who he is, she could never
like him. Nobody likes a policeman. The emptiness of his days during his
suspension, which were still ongoing, had sent him on a strange journey.
Suddenly he was truly alone and not by choice. The Police service was his life.
Even his wife didn't fit anymore. She was a policeman's wife. Not his wife. And
as much as he had tried to deny it, there was no way they were going to let him
back in. That was becoming clear. The enquiry had a low priority status and
could go on for months more. It was a waiting game, Shoal suspected. Will he
jump, or be pushed. The week before, Cecil Snowden-Smythe's mother had tracked
his home address down and banged continuously on his front door until he answered
it. When Shoal opened the door she just stood there and screamed. ‘You Bastard!’

The fury in her
shaking body, her eyes blasting hate, and the power of those two words, sent a
shiver through his soul that he still felt now.

Shoal started the
engine and bit his lip, as tears flooded his eyes. Every muscle in his face
contorted to fight back the black knot in his gut that needed to get out. Time
had allowed it to show itself. After a moment, Shoal took a deep breath and
pulled away into the night.

Back inside,
Polly looked for Seymour.

‘Hello darling.
Where have you been?’ said Seymour, wavering.

‘Oh, around.’

‘I didn't know
you invited that policeman, you know, the one that was investigating the
robbery at the factory. What was his name?’

‘Shoal, Detective
Sergeant Shoal. No, I didn't. He said he was just passing.’

‘Robbery?’ said
Shoal interrupting.

‘Didn't you know
about that, Simon?’ said Seymour turning to Carva.

‘No, no I didn't.’
said Carva, intrigued

‘Polly worked at
this factory, Hogarth Heavy Engineering, and this gang, right, doped all the
pay clerks. Then Polly turns up, late as usual, and walks in on the whole
thing. Bastards took her hostage. Let her go though. They took off with all the
wages. Thousands of quid.’

‘Good Lord!’ said
Carva, looking at Polly.

‘Yeh, they never
caught them, well not yet anyway. Shame the office manager died though.’ Seymour
drained his glass and looked around for another bottle.

‘You never told
me about that, Polly.’ said Carva.

‘No. Well, it was
all a bit upsetting. I was quite fond of Mr. Arnold. I don't like talking about
it much.’

Polly tried to
catch Seymour's alcohol-dazed eyes

‘Oh bollocks
Polly. You hated his guts. You reckon they only found out he had a heart when
they did his post-mortem hah, hah, hah.’

Carva and Seymour
laughed until Polly grabbed Seymour's ass and squeezed it, too hard to be
affectionate.

‘Can I have a
word Seymour, please? It's about one of the paintings.’

Carva seemed
puzzled by Polly as she dragged Seymour away, but was too drunk to think about
it and chose instead to look for that old queen he'd been flirting with
earlier.

As Polly led
Seymour through the diminishing crowd, as subtly as she could, Seymour could
see he was in trouble, she had THAT look on her face. Polly threw open the
office door and pulled him inside.

‘Seymour! For
fuck's sake! Don't go around talking like that!’

‘Like what?
What's wrong?’ said Seymour innocently.

‘About the
robbery. You make me sound like some sort of sicko.’

‘What do you
mean?’

‘Oh shit Seymour.
I really don't like you very much when you're drunk like this. Look, I've told
you before, I don't want you to talk about the robbery to people. Ok?’

‘But Simon's all
right, it's a good story, he likes a good story. What do you mean drunk like this?
Drunk like what?’

Polly could see
the genuine innocence in Seymour's face.

‘It's just. I
don't like it, that's all. People might get the wrong idea.’

‘About what?’
said Seymour.

‘Oh, fuck you
Seymour. Forget it.’

‘Ok. God, I love
you when you're pissed off with me. Give us a kiss.’ said Seymour leaning
forward with his lips roughly aimed at hers.

Polly stepped
sideways. Seymour grappled with his controls to keep his balance and smiled to
himself.

‘So what's the
problem with this painting, then?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh, good.’

‘Seymour. I'm
really proud of you, you know that don't you?’ said Polly.

‘Yeh. Me too.
Come on, let's go back out there.’

Seymour took her
by the arm and led her back out to the crowd.

Polly slipped
back into the office as soon as she could and sat at the desk.

‘Must have been a
traumatic experience, Polly.’

Polly looked
across to see Carva sat in an armchair in the corner

‘What?’

‘Well, you know,
a wealthy woman like yourself, working in a factory and the robbery and all.’

Polly stiffened
up.

‘I'm not that
wealthy Simon and I like working. It kind of keeps your feet on the ground. You
should try it sometime.’

Carva fought to
focus on Polly's eyes.

‘Oh, I'm sorry
Polly I didn't mean to make you angry it's just....’

‘Forget it Simon
Ok!’ said Polly. ‘Look, I'm sorry, I'm just exhausted. We all are.’

‘Simon darling,
there you are! We've been looking for you for simply ages.’ said the
ridiculously drunk pink cravat man who burst into the office, grabbed Carva's
hand and dragged him out in one smooth move.

Polly was
relieved when the evening started to wind down and the last of the guests
finally filed out of the door, giggling. Carva slumped down in the sofa next to
Seymour and slung his arm around his shoulder.

‘Well, I think I
can safely declare this evening as a total success,’ he said, his head dropping
onto the back of the sofa.

Polly came out of
the office pulling on her coat.

‘Can we go now,
Seymour? I'm exhausted. I've phoned for a taxi, it should be here in a minute.’

‘Nah, let's walk,
it's a beautiful evening.’ said Seymour, looking up at Polly with one eye
closed.

‘No!’ snapped
Polly. Both Carva and Seymour looked up at her.

‘You all right
darling?’ said Seymour

‘I'm really,
really tired, come on. Please?’

Seymour slapped
the arm of the sofa and smiled at Carva.

‘Ok. Let's go.
Can we give you a lift Simon?’

‘No, it's Ok.
I'll lock up and maybe pop into town for a drink or something. I was hoping we
might all grab a bite to eat. You know, to celebrate.’

Seymour looked up
to Polly who looked to the ceiling and started tapping her feet.

‘Not tonight
apparently. Now don't you go getting yourself into trouble Simon. There's some
weird people stalking around the streets at this time of night.’ said Seymour.

‘Oh, really?
Well, maybe I might meet them! No harm in picking at life's buffet occasionally’
said Carva.

‘You old queen,’
said Seymour as he heaved himself up from the sofa.

‘See you, Simon,’
said Polly as she guided Seymour over to the door. Seymour tumbled out onto the
pavement; Polly stood there, waiting, holding onto the open door. Seymour
sniffed the air and checked his shoes.

The taxi pulled
up and Polly stood there in the gallery doorway until Seymour had opened the
taxi door, then dashed across the pavement, into the back seat as if it were
raining.

‘Couldn't afford
the limo home, darling. Sorry.’ said Seymour as the taxi pulled away.

Polly smiled and
kissed him dutifully on the cheek, discretely looking out of the back window,
at the headlights of a car pulling out of a parking space fifty metres behind
them. A car driven by Tom Wilson, who’s wife, Suzy, was laid out on the back
seat, just about to give birth.

.

Carva woke up the
next morning feeling hideous. He’d got home at five o'clock that morning,
having gone to Oh Boy, a club in the backstreets Regent Street. He had left
feeling more than usually depressed, after spending hours staring at the
gyrating, near-naked, pretty young men, fantasising what he would do with them
if they were attracted to him, which they weren't. Why he kept going there was
a mystery to him and he again pledged to himself that was the last time. Those
damn mirrors.

He admired the
exhibitionism that young gay men could explore. He had missed out on that. His
youth had been spent hiding his sexuality with shame in the discriminating grey
days of the fifties.

These days he
could make it obvious that he was gay, especially in the world he was involved
in: It was almost expected. When Desmond was alive he never thought about sex,
there was enough spontaneous sparkling life with Desmond around. Now he wanted
some sort of attention.

His involvement
with Polly and Seymour and the influence Seymour's work had had on him, had
changed Carva’s view on life substantially. As the gallery had been
transformed, so too had his apartment. He had discarded the grim old oil
paintings, had the whole place painted white and replaced his tragic little
single bed with a grand king size four poster in anticipation that his new
found spirit would make it a necessary part of his life. It hadn't been yet. But
you never know.

He lay there flat
on his back with his hands on his dick trying to conjure up an erection. But
every time he focused on those oily young men at the club and dreamed of their
tight little bottoms, his fat belly, which blocked a clear view of his dick,
reminded him of the truth.

He gave up on the
idea and began thinking about the success of the gallery. It was a better, as
it was real and ultimately far more satisfying. He smiled to himself.