Paint. The art of scam. (32 page)

‘Come on boy,
let's go.’ whispered Cyril.

Cyril shuffled
off the trunk and slipped on the damp humus, his foot slipping down in the
crack among the roots. It wasn't a big hole and he steadied himself easily.
Pulling out his foot, the heel of his shoe caught a root and slipped off. Reaching
down in the hole to retrieve it, he felt something, something with skin, dead
and damp. Craning his head down into the crack he could just see his shoe,
lodged between what looked like two old leather bags. Reaching in again, he
grabbed his shoe and slipped it on.

Roger sat next to
him, looking in at the bags, his tail wagging, nudging Cyril's arm with his
muzzle. Cyril slowly pulled out one the bags and dusted off the sawdust. There
was a brass catch holding the two ribs of the top together. A hole nibbled in
the side, oozed damp fragments of what looked like paper. Cyril slowly eased
open the catches and looked inside.

‘Shit’ whispered
Cyril and closed it again, when he suddenly he heard footsteps, running
footsteps. He and Roger crouched and froze, quickly realising it was Laurel and
Hardy, two New Forest Donkeys, once destined for Belgian butchers, that Sir
Thomas had rescued from a cull last year, who wandered freely on the estate,
spending their days visiting everyone for a chat and maybe a carrot or two.

Cyril and Roger
kept down, silent breathing. Laurel and Hardy looked like they were on their
way somewhere, maybe back to their stables for a nap. If they spotted Cyril or
Roger they would be thrilled, start prancing around like maniacs, hee hawing
and probably want to come home with them. Normally they'd be welcome, but not
now. They waited until Laurel and Hardy were well out of earshot; before Cyril
grabbed the heavy bags out of the hole and they headed back home.

Seymour fumbled
with his keys and opened the front door of the flat. His time with the ducks
had calmed him, things seemed a lot clearer. He had sorted through the chaos of
his mind and hooked out a thought. It was the ducks that did it. He had stared
at them for over two hours, floating around together, grabbing a snack or two
from the water, some taking a nap and some taking off for a spot of flying.
Their life was all so simple and all because; they were ducks. It was quite a
conclusion and it took Seymour a while to know what to do with it. The extremes
of the Cafe Loco, which he had promised himself to leave out for a few days,
had now subsided and he was now, just mentally numbed. And then it clicked.
Simplicity, he must have simplicity and at that moment, his life was far from
simple.

In the previous
few hours he had virtually replayed his entire life, not necessarily in
chronological order, more in puffs of episodes that always seemed to end badly.
There were some memories that had made him laugh out loud, much to the bemusement
of the ducks who were still wondering where the bread was. There was some
really bad stuff there too, stuff that stood out, things he had done, that, at
the time he thought reasonable, some with no thought at all, that now made him
cringe. His conclusion was that everything he did in his life always ended in
shit. And here he was again. That sort of thing doesn’t seem to happen to
ducks.

But this time
things were different. He now had a sword to wield. He was now independent. No
need for a hand to feed him. He was going to confront Polly once and for all.

He had planned on
bursting in the door and just hitting her with his well rehearsed question.

‘Right Polly! I
want you to tell me right now. What the hell is wrong with you?’

The flat was in
darkness. Seymour switched on the lights and walked in cautiously in case Polly
was sleeping. She was doing a lot of sleeping lately and to wake her was not a
good idea.

‘Polly?’ Seymour
waited. Nothing. He looked across at the table, there was a note underneath his
stash box placed strategically where Seymour always sat at the table.

One of the many
scenarios that Seymour had invented that day, was the big possibility that
Polly would leave him. She had left Kevin and God knows how many other men in
the past, so why not him? This was the note, he thought as he went over to the
table on tiptoe. He sat down and snatched the note from under his stash box and
read it.

‘Had to go out,
back later. XX Polly’

‘Oh yeh, had to
go out.’ mumbled Seymour sarcastically.

Seymour suddenly
felt confused. He really didn’t want to feel like this. He was angry with
Polly. Before he had been worried about what was wrong with her. Now he had
come up with so many reasons to be angry with her, most of which he could
barely remember, that they had just become a big blob of anger. How dare she
poison his mind-boggling joy, that people wanting to buy his work and therefore
enable him to be paid for just being himself. It is more than any man, or
woman, can ever hope for: to want more than that is just greedy.

Seymour put the
note down and looked across at his empty easel, standing there, legs spread,
waiting. He hadn’t made any new work, since about a week before the opening.
That was another thing he was angry about. That she, and her adolescent
sulking, can have the nerve to create so many bad vibes that it was impossible
for him to work. She knows what happens when he can’t work. He goes fucking
mad: that’s what happens.

Seymour looked
around the flat. It felt empty, dead. It was as if everything he had imagined
that day had come true. It was all over, again.

Suddenly the
front door burst open, followed by a chaotic Polly brandishing two bulging
shopping bags.

‘Hi Seymour. God
I’m glad your home.’

Seymour looked
across at Polly. This was not supposed to happen.

Polly dropped the
bags and closed the door. Seymour watched her suspiciously, as she walked up to
him, kissed him firmly on the lips, smiled lovingly, went back to the door to
pick up the bags and took them across to the kitchen. Was this part of some
game she was playing? Was he supposed to forget about the last weeks and all
the tension she had caused. Tension, that had driven him to the edge of
insanity back at Rosey’s? Is this the same game she had played with Kevin just
before she left him?

‘Polly.’ said
Seymour attempting to be stern. His voice felt weak, his throat taut from
nervousness. It was also only the second time he had spoken that day. Polly
stopped in her tracks and looked at him. Her face suddenly took on a look of
defeat, as if she had been caught out. The fear of a child.

‘Seymour? What’s
wrong?’

‘Please sit down
Polly. I want to talk.’

Polly dragged a
chair out from the other end of the table and sat down, her eyes fixed on his.
The distance she had chosen to sit away from him, meant something, as if she
were expecting bad news and needed to be safe.

‘I want to know
exactly what on Earth has been wrong with you Polly?’

Polly momentarily
dropped her head down, then returned her eyes to his. ‘I saw you today Seymour,
in the park.’

‘Oh yeh, you
should have come and said hi.’

‘You didn’t look
like you wanted company. You were crying.’

‘I was not!’
snapped Seymour. As he said it he remembered. The ducks had been lined up in
front of him in a strange formation. He had been thinking about his early days
with Polly; how wonderful they were: how natural it had felt. He had suddenly
burst into tears. He thought he had hidden it well, for the sake of the ducks.

Seymour looked
away from Polly’s eyes.

‘Whatever. So are
you going to tell me, or have I got to carry on making it all up myself?’

Polly stood up,
sat next to him at the table and took his hand. He wanted so much to childishly
snatch his hand away, but didn’t.

‘Seymour. Believe
it or not I was going to tell you everything tonight. When I saw you in the
park, I realised what I was putting you through and it’s not fair. Seymour, I
am so, so sorry.’

Seymour looked at
Polly, horrified. This is it. He was about to have his head blown away. ‘So,
who is it then?’

Polly smiled to
herself. ‘Oh Seymour it’s not another man, do you really think I would do
that?’

‘Why not, you’ve
done it before.’ Seymour wished he hadn’t said that, but he was trying to
maintain his anger, which was slipping fast.

‘Oh Seymour,
please don’t do that. We haven’t spoken to each other like that for months. I
don’t want to fight anymore. Please.’ Polly stood up and pulled a bottle of red
from one of the bags. ‘I really think we need a drink.’

Seymour watched
her as she opened the bottle. Those wonderful tanned forearms, those perfect
breasts jiggling with every screeching turn of the corkscrew, the way she put
the bottle between her legs and pulled the cork. Looked like a good bottle too;
it had wire around it: probably a nice Rioja.

Polly came back
to the table with the last remaining pair of their best wine glasses and
generously filled them as she sat down.

‘Cheers.’ said
Polly offering her glass up for chinking.

Seymour touched
her glass lightly with his. ‘Cheers.’

‘Ok, here goes.’
Polly took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Oh God I don’t know
where to start Seymour.’ Polly reached for his hand again and held it tight,
massaging it nervously. ‘You see..... Oh shit.....When I escaped from the gang
after the robbery, I, um, used their getaway car.’

‘I know that.’
said Seymour.

‘Please Seymour.
Let me finish. What I didn’t tell them was that. Well. The money was in the
boot. And I.... I hid it somewhere.’

Seymour brow
furrowed: puzzled.

‘I don’t know why
I did it Seymour, I just, just, did it. I thought I could tell the police where
I hid it. But I didn’t. I didn’t think it through Seymour, there was no time.
It wasn’t like I was lying or anything. I just didn’t tell them. And then it
was too late. I couldn’t suddenly say after I made my statement, Oh by the way,
I found the money in the boot and hid for you for safe keeping, could I?’

Seymour shook his
head slowly in agreement, as he took in Polly’s words.

‘And then, as
time went on, I was sure Shoal was suspicious of me. Like he knew something
wasn’t right. I thought I’d been convincing. But he’s not stupid. I had to go
along with it. God I wish I’d told them there and then. But then. None of this
would have ever happened.’

‘What do you mean
none of this would have ever happened.’ said Seymour.

‘Your show.’

‘Sorry Polly, my
mind just collapsed, I don’t get it. What has my show got to do with it?’

‘I used some of
the money to pay Simon Carva to put on your show.’

‘You what! You
bribed Simon Carva to show my work?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why the hell
didn’t you tell me any of this?’

‘I couldn’t
Seymour. Believe me. I am so sorry. I was going to tell you when I was sure I’d
got away with it. I thought I had, until Shoal turned up at your show. Then it
all started again. Fucking paranoia, I really thought he was on to me! God! I
was so scared. For months after the robbery I was convinced I was being
watched. Besides, if I told you, then you would have been involved.’

‘So.’ said
Seymour, his face contorted. ‘That explains everything. So what’s changed? You
still think Shoal is on to you?’

‘I don’t know.
That’s the trouble. I just don’t know. The whole thing is just a confusing
mess. I’ve spent so long lying my head off, I just don’t know what the truth is
anymore.’

‘For fuck’s sake
Polly, this is serious shit.’

‘I don’t blame you
for being angry with me Seymour. I have deceived you and I am truly, truly
sorry.’

Polly took a
large gulp of wine and looked down to her lap for a second. Seymour, deep in
thought, picked up his glass and downed it in one go.

‘You were right
all along Seymour, nobody would show your work. And when I met Simon. I don’t
know. It happened again. I just did it without really thinking. I offered him
money to show your work. I knew he had financial problems and I had this
strange feeling that somehow he would be up for it. So, I pounced.’

Seymour grabbed
the bottle and clumsily refilled their glasses.

‘So that’s it
Seymour. That’s why I’ve been behaving so fucking crazy lately.’

Seymour stood up
and paced around. Polly stared at the table, waiting.

‘So Simon didn’t
like my work at all.’

‘No, he hated it.
At first anyway.’

‘I’m not
surprised, I suppose you’d love anything if someone paid you to.’

‘Yes, that’s true
Seymour. But look what happened in the end. Your work sold. I was going to buy
the lot. That was the deal. I could have washed the money and we would have
ended up with legitimate cash. But I didn’t have to.’

‘I feel like a
right twat Polly. Simon told me he loved my work.’

‘I told him to
say that.’