Warhol's Prophecy

by Shaun Hutson

  All that was left was pain.

  Up ahead, she spotted the place she’d been heading for.

  3

  THE INFORMATION CENTRE was usually busy, but to Hailey it seemed even more crowded this day. Visitors, both frequent and infrequent, could go there to obtain free maps of the large shopping complex. It was also where wheelchairs could be hired, or small buggies for young children. There were several children in there now. The atmosphere inside was one of amiable chaos, a little like the entire precinct itself.

  There were two women working behind the small counter, dealing with various queries and enquiries, each managing to retain the fixed smile of those in public service.

  Hailey found herself queuing behind a woman in her seventies who was balancing unsteadily on two crutches and glancing around sniffily at the other occupants of the information room, and indeed at most of those passing by outside. She turned and looked appraisingly at Hailey, who was more intent on getting past her to attract the attention of one of the two officials behind the counter.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Hailey, wiping away her tears.

  The old woman glared at her disdainfully. ‘I’m next,’ she said, moving closer to the counter.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, but this is an emergency,’ Hailey told her.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for ten minutes already. They’re not very fast here, are they?’ the woman sneered audibly.

  Again Hailey moved slightly forward.

  ‘You must wait your turn,’ the old woman snapped, scowling at Hailey full in the face through eyes milky with cataracts.

  This time Hailey ignored her and pushed towards the counter, where one of the two women glanced first at her, then at the old woman, who looked as if she was about to strike Hailey with one of her crutches.

  ‘I was first,’ the old woman said angrily.

  ‘My child is missing,’ pleaded Hailey. ‘Please put out an announcement.’ She wiped away more tears.

  The official, whose badge proclaimed CHRISTINE, looked at her companion then back at Hailey.

  ‘Would you like to come through?’ she offered, gesturing Hailey towards a door at the end of the counter.

  ‘I shall report this,’ the old woman shrieked, as Hailey disappeared into a small office beyond.

  Christine Palmer closed the door behind them, and motioned for Hailey to sit down.

  She pulled a pad and pen towards her and took a seat opposite Hailey, studying her briefly, taking a mental note of the swollen, puffy eyes and red cheeks. The shoulder-length brown hair looked unkempt, and her mascara was smudged around one eye. She offered Hailey a tissue, which she gratefully accepted.

  ‘What’s your child’s name?’ Christine asked with a practised tone that implied she had asked the same question hundreds of times before, when dealing with hundreds of equally distraught parents.

  Hailey told her – adding Becky’s age as an afterthought.

  ‘And what’s she wearing?’

  ‘A red knee-length coat, white sweatshirt and black leggings with stars on the seams.’ She blew her nose.

  Christine wrote dutifully.

  ‘Can I have your name, please?’

  Again Hailey told her.

  ‘And age?’

  ‘What’s the point of that?’ Hailey snapped.

  ‘Some kids remember things like that instead of their addresses. They remember strange things.’ The woman smiled efficiently. ‘Every little helps.’

  ‘Twenty-nine,’ Hailey said. ‘Just get an announcement read out, will you, please?’

  ‘Where did you lose her?’

  ‘I didn’t lose her: she wandered off,’ Hailey retorted. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was. I just asked.’

  ‘One minute she was beside me, the next she was gone. It wasn’t my fault.’

  Shifting blame? Justifying yourself? Tut-tut.

  There was a second of silence.

  Then Hailey explained to Christine what had happened, and where – watching as she finished scribbling it all down on her pad. Then the woman nodded and got to her feet.

  ‘I’ll get this read out,’ she reassured Hailey.

  ‘Someone will find her, won’t they?’ Hailey said quietly, as if expecting the other woman to respond to a question that couldn’t possibly be answered with any certainty.

  ‘Let me get this read out first,’ Christine Palmer said, and disappeared momentarily, leaving Hailey alone in the small room.

  The walls were painted a dull yellow, and adorned with a number of leaflets advertising attractions within the shopping centre itself – including, Hailey noticed, a crèche.

  If you’d put Becky safely in there, she’d still be OK.

  But, for the most part, Hailey absorbed very little. Or, at least, what she did see didn’t register. She could still think of nothing but Becky. How could she not?

  The door opened a moment later and Christine Palmer re-entered.

  ‘They’ve made an announcement,’ she said.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘All you can do is wait, Mrs Gibson.’

  Hailey ran a hand through her hair and exhaled almost painfully. She noticed that Christine Palmer was carrying two steaming styrofoam cups. The older woman sat down and pushed one towards Hailey.

  ‘Coffee,’ Christine explained. ‘Out of a machine, but it’s better than nothing.’ Her tone was apologetic.

  ‘Shouldn’t it be tea and sympathy?’ said Hailey, annoyed at herself for the acidity of her tone. She sighed and accepted the coffee with a wan smile.

  ‘This happens here fifteen or twenty times a day,’ Christine said, sipping her own coffee. ‘Missing kids, I mean.’

  I don’t care about the others!

  ‘I can’t believe I let it happen,’ said Hailey.

  ‘You can’t keep your eyes on them every second.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to tell myself that,’ Hailey continued, fiddling around in her handbag for her Silk Cut. She pulled one from the packet and lit it, ignoring the NO SMOKING sign on the wall behind her.

  ‘They usually turn up within about twenty minutes,’ Christine reassured her.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Either someone recognizes the description and brings them here, or they make their own way once they’ve heard the announcement. The older ones at any rate.’

  ‘Someone brings them in!’ Hailey said incredulously. ‘You mean any bloody stranger?’

  Christine watched her impassively.

  ‘Look, I’ve got kids of my own. I know how you feel,’ she said.

  ‘Do you?’ Hailey snapped. ‘My daughter is lost out there somewhere. Do you know what that feels like?’

  ‘Were you on your own when she went missing?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Were you with a friend or boyfriend or husband who might have seen something? Perhaps . . .’

  ‘My husband’s at work,’ Hailey said, cutting her short. ‘There was no one with me.’

  ‘Would you like to call him?’

  Hailey shook her head.

  ‘No sense in two of us worrying, is there?’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a partner in a local removal and haulage firm.’

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘Any other kids?’

  Hailey smiled. ‘I appreciate the consoling small talk,’ she said quietly. ‘Is it part of the job? To keep the distraught parents’ minds occupied?’

  ‘That’s some of it.’ Christine smiled. ‘And I am nosy too.’

  Hailey took a drag of her cigarette, then a sip of coffee.

  ‘We got married in Barbados,’ she said, as if content to speak of something else – something other than the disappearance of her daughter. As if that act alone would help her forget the pain she was feeling.

  ‘That’s romantic,’ Christine offered.

  ‘Rob said he never could have
got married over here. All the messing about before the wedding day, and then the ceremony itself, he said it was too much. We might as well spend the money on a good holiday and get married at the same time.’ She chuckled. ‘We had a little do for some friends when we got back, but that was it.’

  ‘Did you get married on the beach?’ Christine asked with genuine interest.

  ‘No, in a church. Just the two of us, and a couple of locals they hauled in to be witnesses. Then we went back to the hotel for photos.’

  Hailey looked at her watch. ‘How long now since the announcement was read out?’

  ‘About five minutes.’

  ‘It feels like hours.’

  Christine reached across the table and gently touched her hand.

  ‘You can go back to work if you like,’ Hailey said. ‘I’m not going anywhere, am I?’

  Again she glanced at her watch.

  It felt as if time had stopped, and she wondered if it would ever begin again.

  4

  HOURS . . . MINUTES . . . SECONDS . . .

  Hailey had lost track of time and its meaning. All its divisions seemed to have blurred into one. Every small movement of her watch seemed to take an eternity. She eventually checked her own timepiece against the clock on the wall behind her.

  How long had she been sitting here now?

  An hour. Two hours? Longer?

  Thirty-seven minutes.

  She swallowed hard and looked over at the phone on the desk.

  No sense phoning Rob.

  Not yet.

  She looked at her watch again, as if by doing so she would cause it to speed up – cause time to accelerate.

  Where is Becky?

  Hailey could hear sounds of organized chaos from the information office outside. Occasionally she heard children’s voices. More than once she had been tempted to run to the door and look out, in the vain hope that one of those voices belonged to Becky. She could picture the scenario in her mind: she would hear the voice, rush out to see her daughter, they would fall into each other’s arms, cry, hug each other, and all the pain would turn to joy. Then they would happily head for home.

  And the other scenario?

  The policeman would enter the office quietly and officiously, with Christine Palmer behind him, and he would apologize for what had happened to Becky, and he would ask Hailey if she could come with him to the hospital to identify the body of a little girl in a red coat, wearing a white sweatshirt and black leggings. A body that they’d found in an abandoned car no more than five minutes’ drive from the city centre.

  Hailey tried to drive this particular chain of events from her mind, but it stuck there stubbornly. What initially had been fear was turning into icy conviction.

  Thirty-eight minutes.

  She was also beginning to wonder why she was the only parent in this room. If, as Christine Palmer had assured her, fifteen or twenty children went missing every day in this shopping centre, why had she not been joined by other devastated parents? Was hers to be the only lost child today? Was she to suffer alone?

  She lit up another cigarette, took a couple of drags, then stubbed it out in her empty styrofoam cup.

  Jesus Christ, she felt so helpless. She wanted someone to put an arm around her and tell her everything was going to be all right.

  Rob, perhaps?

  She feared it might be the comforting arm of a policewoman instead.

  Hailey looked up as the door to the small office opened and Christine Palmer peered round.

  She was smiling.

  Hailey saw a small shape push past her.

  Heard a word shouted.

  ‘Mum!’

  Dear God, what a joyous sound.

  Becky swept into the room and crashed into Hailey, who had already dropped to one knee, throwing her arms around her daughter and lifting her into the air, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. She held onto her child so tightly it seemed she must break her in half. Hailey didn’t want to let go of her again, ever.

  Becky was smiling, kissing her mother and, by the look of it, altogether less concerned about her recent predicament than Hailey had been. She looked hard at her daughter, checking her face as if searching for any telltale signs of injury. She didn’t even see puffy, red eyes – no sign of tears. No indication that Becky had been as distraught as Hailey through this ordeal.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Hailey smoothed a hand through her daughter’s hair.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ Becky said, her blue eyes like sapphires lit from behind by incandescent light.

  Hailey hugged her again, for brief seconds fearing that she was imagining all this. She looked into her daughter’s face once again, then touched both her cheeks with her shaking hands.

  ‘Where did you get to?’ Hailey said finally, a slight edge to her voice, her concern now almost overridden by anger. ‘Why did you walk away from me? I’ve told you before never to leave me when we’re out in a crowd.’

  ‘I went to look for a CD for Dad,’ Becky said apologetically. ‘I could still see you from where I was. Then some men stood in front, and I couldn’t see you. You ran away.’

  ‘Because I thought I’d lost you,’ Hailey snapped. ‘I was looking for you.’

  Again she hugged her daughter. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she persisted. ‘No one touched you, did they? Where have you been all this time?’

  ‘Adam found me,’ said Becky, turning. Now, for the first time, Hailey noticed that there was someone else at the door.

  She straightened up, still holding Becky as if frightened to release her.

  The newcomers moved sheepishly into the room, nervous of intruding on this reunion. One wore the dark blue uniform of a security guard.

  ‘That’s Adam,’ said Becky, jabbing her small index finger in the direction of the other man by the doorway.

  ‘Adam Walker,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘My name’s Stuart Jenkins,’ the uniformed man told her. ‘I’m with Security here.’ There was an officiousness to his tone.

  ‘Where did you find her?’ asked Hailey.

  ‘By the fountain outside,’ Walker said. ‘She was looking at the fish – weren’t you?’ He winked at Becky, who smiled coyly.

  ‘What were you doing by the fountain?’ Hailey demanded of her daughter. ‘That’s nowhere near where we got separated.’

  ‘Mr Walker actually prevented an accident,’ Jenkins offered. ‘Your daughter wandered outside onto the road. If it hadn’t been for Mr Walker’s intervention . . .’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.

  ‘What were you doing out on the road?’ Hailey rasped, gripping her daughter by the arm. ‘You could have been killed.’

  ‘I was looking for the car,’ Becky said, tears welling. ‘I thought I’d wait for you there.’

  Walker cut the child short. ‘You’ve got her back, that’s all that matters,’ he said, still smiling that infectious smile.

  He took a step back.

  ‘I’ll leave you alone now,’ he said, retreating. ‘Unless there’s anything else I can do to help. Do you need a lift home or anything? You must be a bit shaken up after what’s happened.’

  ‘We’ll be OK. Thanks for offering, though.’

  ‘Goodbye, then, Becky,’ he said, waving to her. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’ He bowed exaggeratedly. ‘Although I wish it had been in happier circumstances.’

  Becky sniffed back a tear and managed a smile.

  ‘’Bye, Adam,’ said the little girl, waving back at him.

  ‘Thanks again, Mr Walker,’ Hailey offered.

  ‘Adam,’ he insisted. ‘It was my pleasure, Hailey.’

  She looked surprised that he knew her name.

  Noticing this, he pointed at Becky.

  ‘You can’t have any secrets when you’ve got a five-year-old, can you?’

  And he was gone.

  Jenkins followed him out of the room.

  ‘Are we going home now, Mum?’ Becky wanted to know.

 
Hailey looked at her and kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘What do you think?’ She smiled.

  16 WARDLE BROOK AVENUE, HATTERSLEY, GREATER MANCHESTER

  It was too cold to be out at this time of night. Standing waiting for the door to be opened. What was the big deal anyway? Why the secrecy?

  Mind you, Ian was always like that. But Ian knew what was what. Clever man, Ian.

  He’d lent him books and recommended others for reading. Part of an education, he had joked.

  It was Ian who answered the door now. He looked smart for such a late hour: waistcoat and cufflinks. He looked as if he was on his way out somewhere, not on his way to bed.

  He ushered his visitor inside, said something about those miniature bottles of alcohol he’d been promising to show. Then he disappeared for a moment.

  The scream came from the sitting room.

  Then a voice he recognized.

  ‘Help him. Help him.’

  He dashed into the sitting room, stopping dead at the threshold.

  The room was in virtual darkness. Thick shadows, cast by the lamp on top of the TV set, carpeted the small room.

  On the floor next to the couch a figure lay on its stomach.

  It was screaming.

  Ian was standing astride it.

  Hitting it with something.

  Great savage blows across the back of the skull, and the figure continued to writhe and scream.

  He realized that the figure was a youth barely older than himself. Or wasn’t it real?

  No, this had to be some kind of joke, didn’t it?

  Ian was playing a joke on him.

  The figure had to be a life-size model the way it jerked about with each fresh impact.

  Each fresh impact on the skull.

  With the axe.

  The weapon was wielded with expert ferocity. And now he saw blood spurting, and he knew for sure that this was no joke.

  He looked at Ian, who continued striking with the axe. He heard words like ‘bastard’ and ‘cunt’ shouted with each blow.

  Fourteen blows.

  And there was blood everywhere.

  On the carpet. On the sofa. The walls. The fireplace.

  It would have to be cleaned up.