Paint. The art of scam. Read Online Free PDF Page B

ankles as he took a step
forward and promptly fell like a tree, landing flat on his nose. After a moment
of being stunned, he rolled over groaning, blood pouring out of his nostrils.
    ‘Oh my God,’ he
moaned.
    Polly, snapped
out of her desperate drug-numbed dilemma by the slow-motion crash of Seymour's
fall, went over to him and knelt beside him.
    ‘Oh shit Seymour.
What a mess! Hang on.’
    Polly shuffled
over to the kitchen. Seymour, dazed, heard a tap running, then seconds later
felt a cold tea towel smothering his face.
    Somehow Polly
managed to negotiate him onto the sofa and threw a blanket over him.
    ‘Seymour, listen
to me. Can you hear me?’
    Seymour nodded at
her distant voice.
    ‘You stay here on
the sofa until you sober up, OK? Then you have to go. Kevin will be
back in the morning. I'm going to bed. I'll set the alarm for six and get you
up. OK? Do you understand?’
    Seymour nodded. ‘Oi
wona cumb wid you,’ he mumbled.
    ‘Forget it,
Seymour! It's not going to happen. Now get some sleep. OK?’
    Polly quickly
left his side and clumsily ran up the stairs whispering ‘Fuck fuck fuck.’
     
     
    Seymour didn't
really sleep. It was more like a puzzling suspended animation, frozen in some
timeless dark waiting room, his nostrils blocked with a mixture of congealed
blood and remnants of dubious cocaine. It seemed dark, but slowly his
raspberry eyes adjusted to the incidental light from the full moon, cruelly
tinted by the yellow sodium street lamps outside. He could just make out the layout
of the room and vaguely remembered the proximity of the stairs out there in the
hall. The evening's events were just starting to take shape. He had to get
out. He remembered Polly's final words. He also needed to pee urgently. The
kitchen sink, of course. That was not far away. Yes. Yes, he could get
there easily.
    Easing himself
off the sofa, he slowly stood up and noticed he was wearing only his
underpants. Where were his trousers? His bladder screamed at him. Bugger it.
After taking a moment to get his bearings, he made his way to where he thought
the kitchen was. There it was: he could just make it out from the moonlight
shining through the skylight. Taking a step forward Seymour felt something
prick his toe. He stepped back and tripped over backwards onto the sofa. The
ceiling turned more slowly now and his bladder moved up to join his heart. More
of the evening’s events began seeping through: snapshots appeared then faded,
fantasy and reality merged in a post-drug numbness. Something tickled the sole
of his foot; he shook it. It didn't feel right. He reached down and felt the
warm blood oozing from his foot and he felt something sharp jutting from his
toe's webbing. He pulled out a shard of champagne flute.
    His eyes had
adjusted to the light now, or maybe it was getting light - he wasn't sure. He
looked around and found the door. Easing himself up, he limped towards the
door. Ah, there they were, the stairs. He looked up. It was dark up there.
Where was the light switch? He ran his hands along the wall and found a wire
hanging out the wall. Fucking builders. He could make it, stairs are easy once
you get started. One step at a time. He made it to the top and into what seemed
like a small corridor. He could just make out three or four doorways. One of
them was open: it must be that one at the end. Yes! He reached it, felt around
inside and grabbed a vacuum cleaner. Fuck. He noticed another door next to it,
ajar. Pushing it open, he could see it. The toilet.
    Outside the house
a purring Porsche 911 slowly pulled up. The passenger door opened and Kevin
stumbled out, leant back into the car, steadying himself with his hand on the
roof.
    ‘Thanks a lot,
Steve. Sorry to put you to so much trouble. . . I'll see you later at the
office. Oh, and by the way, it was a great night, eh? Good result,’ said Kevin.
    Kevin slammed the
car door, and staggered up the steps, opened the front door, grabbed a torch
from a table