Paint. The art of scam. Read Free Page A

promenade, rickety stalls appeared in the early hours manned
by various sub-culture characters selling their wares. Seymour watched as
strolling punters suddenly found themselves becoming customers, drawn in, Seymour
suspected, by the romantic whiff of the fringe dwellers who served them. It was
here that Seymour opened his first gallery. He had never attempted to sell his
work before, beyond exchanging it for long overdue debts. It had never occurred
to him, but the opportunity, staring him in the face, was obvious even to him.
He had managed to salvage a few paintings from Madeleine's house after her
ridiculous outburst; some were lacerated beyond recognition by her lashing
talons, others were repairable. But he needed more stock.
    The spooky
environment that was now his home and workplace was strangely inspiring,
possibly due to the groaning spirits that wandered around the old pier in the
dead of night, the strolling masses that ambled past him by day, and the new-found
liberation he had thrust upon himself.
    Within a just a
fortnight he had pulled together a healthy body of work. He had set up shop
next to Sean, a rough but amiable retired blacksmith from Glasgow, who sold
bizarre metal animal sculptures fashioned by welding rusty nuts, bolts and cogs
together. On his other side was Tracy, a large handsome gypsy- looking woman,
who read Tarot cards.
    Tracy had been
largely responsible for Seymour's newly found dynamic spirit. On his very first
morning of waking up in the caravan she had knocked on the caravan door with a
cup of disgusting flask coffee. He later learned that it wasn't because she
fancied him, which of course was the conclusion that he had jumped to, despite
the fact she had never laid eyes on him before. Which, it must be said, never
occurred to him. No, the few stall-holders who set up there, as a matter of
course, always welcomed the new night watchmen. They had no permits and were
convinced that bribery would secure their immediate future. Truth was, the Brighton
council didn't give a damn about them, provided they didn't cause any trouble.
In fact they were unofficially glad of them, as it was possible they might
divert attention from the embarrassing skeleton of a pier that was, and always
would be, in the council's 'too hard’ basket.
    Tracy and Seymour
became friends easily. Once Seymour had got beyond assessing her as a sexual
possibility, he realised that despite her hairy armpits, abnormally sagging
breasts and bulbous bottom, she was in fact a sound person. She was funny,
intelligent and to his surprise unimpressed by his now ingrained, unfounded
elitism. She had a way of grounding him with her honesty without using cruelty,
a tool that he had both used and been a victim of in the past.
    Seymour,
intrigued by Tracy's Tarot cards, asked her for a reading, which turned out to
be uncannily, almost offensively accurate in its assessment of his state. This
was, according to Tracy, a time for great change, a rebirth. An exciting
opportunity awaited him that would lead him to a new level of achievement. If
he listened to it when it arrived, great things would mysteriously occur, but
if he didn't listen to it, the chance would pass him by and boredom would
swallow his spirit. It all sounded quite exhausting the way Tracy had put it.
It was a strong reading she said, very strong.
    ‘How will I know
when it comes?’ asked Seymour, after allowing Tracy to calm down from her
animated proclamation.
    ‘You will know,’
she intoned, staring deep into his eyes.
    She was deadly
serious. She scared him. Nobody had ever pinned him down with words before, not
that he had noticed anyway, and Tracy was visibly exhausted after the reading.
Seymour, digesting what Tracy had told him, suddenly felt the uncomfortable
weight of responsibility on his shoulders. It hurt, but Tracy had put his mind
at ease in her final words: ‘It’s unstoppable. It will happen, and there is
nothing you can do to encourage it or stop