Paint. The art of scam. (16 page)

‘Thank you. Uh,
how much do I owe you? Um.’

‘Name's Spider.
Nah. No problem darlin', see you round, 'ere hang on a minute, you gotta map?’

‘No, no sorry.’

‘Bloody
countryside. How the fuck you s'posed to find your way around wivout a fuckin'
a-z, no fuckin' wonder everyone looks fuckin' whacko round here, they're all
fucking lost.’

Spider slammed
his car door shut, fired up the snarling' motor and launched the huge car
backwards: within seconds he was gone. Polly listened as the car's whining
gears and deep throated exhaust faded into the distance; then came a squeal of
brakes followed by spinning screaming tyres.

Polly scrubbed
her hands on the sodden leaves just under the surface. The smell somehow took
her back to something. It was a comfort and momentarily; she felt safe. Her
thoughts crashed and she dashed back over to the car and started the engine.
The motor idled, waiting. Polly drew a deep breath and looked in the rear view
mirror. Those eyes. She stared at them for a second, then slammed the gear
lever into reverse. Looking back over her shoulder she eased off the clutch and
the car crawled backward until she reached the tarmac road. She checked both
ways and pulled out. Her eyes flashed frantically everywhere as she yanked the
gear stick into first, revved the motor and dropped the clutch. The car wheels
snatched at gritty tarmac and pushed the car forward. Slamming through the
gears Polly gripped the steering wheel, her white knuckles almost bursting
through her skin, her eyes darting between the windscreen and the rear view
mirror.

Seymour was
watching Sesame Street when he heard the stairs outside of the flat creak.
Without hesitation he zapped the remote hard, the TV screen popped off and he
sprung up to his easel looking like he had been there forever. He looked at his
watch. 3 o'clock. Shit, she's early. The TV! Seymour's heartbeat doubled at the
thought of it. Blood filled his face and glowed with pre-emptive embarrassment.
Don't touch the TV Polly, don't touch the
TV.

He waited, brush
in hand, poised for creation, his brow furrowed as a turtle's neck: hopefully
simulating the strain of extreme concentration. The blank canvas stared at him;
waiting. Seymour quickly calculated how long it was since Polly had gone to
work. 5 hours? Shit! Blank canvas? Post modern conceptualism? Already been
done, he didn't know what it meant anyway. He grabbed the canvas, tossed it
into the corner and picked up I never plan the outcome 'cause I never see it
through, placed it on the easel and re-established his pose. Final touch-up.
That's it, final touch-up. He waited. Nothing. He could hear more floorboard
creaking again from outside the door. It sounded different somehow. Normally
there would be just the one creak, then the door latch would go and Polly would
come in: he knew it well.

Seymour, puzzled,
dropped his arms, put down his brush and slowly crept over to the door. There
was a knock. He stood there for a moment. Another knock; this time louder, more
persistent, then the mumbling of male voices from outside in the hall.

"Who is
it?" said Seymour, putting on what he thought was a deep, threatening
tone.

‘Mr. Capital?’
came a strong male voice.

‘Yes.’

‘It's the
police.’

Seymour bent down
and looked through the broken pane and was met by a serious looking man’s face.
Seymour smiled back. They stared at each other for a second.

‘Can you let us
in sir?’ said the face.

‘Look, If it's
about the postman I have nothing more to say OK? I don't want to get involved
in his stupid game. And I've paid the electricity bill. No thanks to him.’

‘It's about your
wife sir. Mrs. Polly Capital?’

Seymour snatched
at the door and yanked it open to see four uniformed police officers and a
plain clothed man.

‘What's wrong?
What's happened?’

‘She's fine sir.
Just a bit of an accident, may we come in sir?’ said the plain clothed man
holding out his opened I.D. wallet. ‘I'm Detective Constable Ricketts.’

Seymour looked at
the I.D. then stood aside as the policemen poured in and scattered around the
flat, their eyes scanning the room.

‘Detective? Look.
Where's Polly?. What's happened to her?’

‘She's fine sir,
she's at the hospital for a check-up. Had a bit of a car accident.’

‘But we haven't
got a car!’

‘I know sir. I'll
explain in a moment if that's OK. Mind if we take a look around sir?’

‘Hang on a
minute. What the hell is going on here? How did you get in the front door?"

Ricketts wandered
across the room, looked around, sat at the table and pushed a chair with his
foot; gesturing with his hand for Seymour to join him.

‘It was unlocked
sir. Please sit down sir and I'll explain.’ said Ricketts. Seymour looked at
the policemen, waiting patiently and nervously edged over to the table and sat
down.

‘Good,’ said
Ricketts calmly, ‘Now can we have your permission to search the premises sir?’

‘You can't do
that! Not without a warrant.’

‘Quite right sir,
so you watch TV too. But that can be arranged. Just a phone call away. There
really is nothing to be worried about sir. It's just routine. Won't take a
minute.’ said Ricketts, dragging Seymour's ashtray towards him and poking at
the remnants of a joint.

‘OK. OK. Go
ahead’ said Seymour, ‘But what about Polly? What's happened to her?’

Ricketts nodded
to the rest of the policemen who snapped into action; vigourously searching the
flat.

‘You see sir,
there was a robbery at the factory. She was taken hostage apparently. She's all
right, believe me, just a few scratches. They are just making sure she's OK
down at the hospital. I'll take you down there to see her in a minute. Oh, and
could you bring your wife a change of clothes?’

‘Clothes? They
took her clothes? Oh God!’ said Seymour hysterically.

‘No, no sir,
forensics need to hang on to her clothes, just in case we find something.’

‘Like what? They
didn't. You know. Touch her did they?’

‘Not as far as we
know sir, I'm sure it'll all unfold down at the station.’

‘The station?
But.....’

‘Yes sir. The
station. Now, before we go, um." Ricketts stood up, ambled over to the
door and kicked at the broken glass on the floor.

‘Had a break in
sir?’

‘No, no, it was that
bloody postman.’

‘The postman
sir?’

‘Yes, he rings the
bell when the post arrives, so I can go and get it straight away. We've had
mail going missing you see, that's why the electricity bill wasn't paid. Then
the door slammed shut. Oh, it's a long story." said Seymour giving up;
knowing that Ricketts wouldn't understand. He looked at the Policemen still
rummaging through the flat.

‘What are you
looking for?’

‘Evidence sir.’

‘Evidence? Of
what?’ said Seymour indignantly.

Ricketts sighed
and calmly went back over to Seymour.

‘Don't know sir.
Now get your wife some clothes and we'll be on our way. Ok?’

Ricketts looked
across at the officers who seemed to be winding down their search. They all
shook their heads one after the other. Ricketts reached across Seymour, opened
the small carved wooden box on the table and pulled out a lump of hashish.

‘Tut, tut sir,’
said Ricketts as he pulled out a plastic bag from his pocket and dropped the
lump inside it.

Seymour stopped
being indignant.

Ricketts drove
calmly through the heavy traffic while Seymour fidgeted with the seat belt
buckle as he imagined the hideous injuries inflicted on Polly. Could he handle
living with an invalid wife, physically or emotionally? She would never let him
touch her again after being mauled, tortured and possibly raped by malicious
criminals. Sure Ricketts had said she was OK, but then he would say that
wouldn't he, just to put him at ease, they always did that.

‘When did you last
see your wife, Mr. Capital?’ asked Ricketts.

‘When she went to
work this morning.’

‘What time would
that be sir?’

‘Oh I don't know
nine, nine thirty. Why?’

‘Well, it seems
she was late for work that's all. Apparently she walked into the office right
in the middle of the robbery.’

‘Ah she's always
late, she hates the place. How much further is it?’

‘Not far sir. She
hates her job you say?’

‘Yeah. Are you
sure they didn't rape her?’

‘Yes sir. Why
does she work there if she hates it?’

‘We need the
money, why else would anybody work? Can she walk?’

‘Yes sir. She's
fine. Just a bit shaken that's all. And you Sir. What do you do for a living?’

Seymour flashed a
sideways glance at Ricketts with the velocity of a punch.

‘I am an artist.’
said Seymour, once more indignantly.

The lies begin.

Seymour -in the
company of a bored overweight policeman- had been waiting in a small side room
at the hospital for half an hour. By then he had run through several hypothetic
scenarios of what had happened and what was about to happen: none of which went
anywhere. The hashish was wearing off now and along with it the bubble that it
put him in. It hadn’t registered when he’d arrived at the hospital, but there
was a lot of activity going on out there in the corridor: armed police in flak
jackets, urgent screeching voices from two-way radios and a general sense of
emergency. If you watch a lot of daytime television, hospitals can be like
that. But suddenly it occurred to Seymour: all of this activity was about
Polly.

‘Mr. Capital?’

Seymour looked up
to see a nurse, a big woman with Brillo pad hair, her little starched nurse's
hat petrified in place.

"You can see
your wife now."

Seymour jumped up
obediently and followed her to a room down a long telescopic corridor. The
nurse pointed to the door, smiled and left.

Seymour looked in
through the small window in the door. Polly, her back to him, dressed in a back
tied white gown, was drying her hair with a towel. Seymour waited a moment;
watching her to measure the situation, then knocked at the door. Polly turned
around and waved him in. Seymour entered slowly, not knowing what to expect.

‘Polly? You OK
darling?’ whispered Seymour standing well back to give her space to adjust to
his presence and holding out the bag of clothes, like a tempting gift to a
newly discovered native. Why he was behaving like this he wasn’t sure.

‘Oh Seymour.
Thank God!’ Polly threw her arms around him and held him tight. ‘What a
nightmare!’

‘It's OK Polly.
You're safe now. What’s happening?’

‘Oh Seymour.
Let's just get out of here.’

Polly opened the
bag and laid a crumpled dress neatly on the bed before pulling the gown over her
head in one smooth movement, slipped on the dress and stood in front of him.

‘Seymour, please
just take me home.’

Polly cupped his
face with both hands. She smiled, but it was forced.

‘Home? Well I
don't think we're going home yet. The police have been searching it and the
Detective that brought me here said we'd be going to the station.’

‘What? But why?’

‘I don't know
Polly, he was asking me all sorts of questions.’

‘Oh for Gods
sake!’ said Polly as she broke away from him and yanked the door open.

Shoal was waiting outside with Ricketts and two armed policemen.

‘Ah, Mrs. Capital.
How are you feeling now?’

‘Oh, you know,
tired, shaky, scared, but I'm OK.’

‘Good, good.
Well, um, I'm sure you realise that we'd like to have a word with you.’

‘Can't it wait? I
really would like to go home.’

‘Sorry Polly, out
of the question. It's important we get this sorted out as soon as possible.’

‘Yes. Of course.’
said Polly, disarmed by his insistence and looking at the policemen's guns.

‘Good, there's a
car outside waiting’

‘A car? But where
are we going?’

‘To the station.
Shouldn't take too long.’

Polly looked at
Seymour nervously as Shoal led them away.

The journey to
the police station was swift, thanks to the
skilful
driver who wove the car with ease through the heavy traffic. There was an air
of tension in the car exacerbated by the idle small talk between Shoal,
Ricketts and the driver that somehow seemed designed to put Polly and Seymour
in a state of unease. Polly felt a tremble run through her and clasped her
hands together to control what could have developed into a violent spasm.
Seymour on the other hand sat back relaxed in the back seat enjoying the ride.
They would be going home soon, Polly was OK: thank God and the TV will have
cooled down by now. A close call.