Warhol's Prophecy

by Shaun Hutson

  What now?

  Walker knew what he must do.

  He found a fresh canvas and prepared himself.

  Never give up.

  As he moved about the study, he glanced occasionally at the portrait of Becky.

  The sight of the child made him think of Hailey.

  He’d rung her office three times that morning. The first time, she hadn’t arrived yet. No return call had been forthcoming, despite his urgent request to her secretary.

  Perhaps she’d forgotten to tell Hailey.

  Yes, that was it. The secretary hadn’t told her he’d rung. Otherwise she’d have called him back, wouldn’t she?

  He’d rung twice since then.

  Hailey was out at lunch, he was told. Again he’d asked if she could call him on her return. He hoped the secretary would give her the message this time.

  He wanted to make sure she got his flowers. Wanted to be certain that she knew he was sorry for what had happened the day before.

  If he could just speak to her.

  He would stay in and work, wait for her call.

  He had to leave the house later, though. If she called and he wasn’t there, he could catch her tomorrow or the next day.

  She would understand if he wasn’t at home.

  He wouldn’t be out very long.

  But there was something he had to do.

  46

  THE BAR OF the Crest Hotel was relatively empty when Hailey walked in.

  However, she got the impression that, even if it hadn’t been, she would still have had little trouble finding the person she sought.

  The young woman was in her mid-twenties: tall, statuesque even. She was wearing a black dress that ended several inches above her knee. A slit in the material revealed what little thigh was unexposed already. She was tottering around on a pair of platform boots that laced up as far as her knees. These platforms, plus her normal height, convinced Hailey that the woman was fully six feet tall. Her hair was so brilliantly platinum blonde it was practically luminous.

  She wore purple eyeshadow and, as she strode towards Hailey and extended one sinewy hand, the black fingernails she sported seemed to glint menacingly.

  ‘Trudi,’ said the girl.

  ‘Without the “e”,’ Hailey said, smiling, shaking the proffered hand, feeling how thin it was.

  This young woman, Hailey felt, was likely to be on intimate terms with an eating disorder. Had been, would be, or was currently.

  ‘You must be Hailey,’ Trudi said, looking down at her. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  She spoke quickly, distractedly, one hand constantly brushing through her hair.

  Hailey accepted a Bacardi and Coke.

  Trudi ordered a margarita and sipped at it like a sparrow drinking at a bird-bath.

  ‘Where are the band?’ Hailey wanted to know.

  ‘They’re up in their rooms. They’re very busy doing interviews with the local press. One of my colleagues is up there with them.’

  Hailey nodded slowly.

  ‘It’s quite an event for a place like this to have them here doing interviews. A big thrill for the local journos,’ Trudi announced. ‘I mean it’s not exactly London, is it?’

  ‘That’s why so many people like it,’ Hailey told her. ‘How long have you been in this business?’

  ‘I went in straight from college. Messed about, really. Didn’t know what I wanted to do. I originally studied drama, but the music business is more me. The vibe is awesome.’

  Again Hailey nodded. ‘Isn’t it just?’ she said, barely managing to suppress a grin.

  ‘What about you?’ Trudi asked. ‘Have you been in the business long?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘And you work for Jim Marsh?’

  ‘Part-time now. I’ve got a little girl.’

  Trudi shrugged.

  ‘I couldn’t have kids,’ she said, almost dismissively. ‘They tie you down too much, don’t they? All that shitting and puking all the time. Not very cool, is it?’

  ‘There’s a bit more to it than that,’ Hailey informed her.

  ‘A friend of mine had a baby a few months ago. God, she put on so much weight. She still hasn’t got her figure back.’

  Hailey was aware of Trudi running appraising eyes over her.

  Perhaps you could do with having one then, you elongated stick insect.

  Hailey laid her handbag on the bar as she sipped her drink.

  ‘I don’t recognize the make,’ said Trudi, peering at the bag as if it was some kind of precious stone.

  ‘You wouldn’t. I got it locally,’ Hailey told her.

  ‘I bought a Versace bag last week. It’s so cool. It cost me half a week’s wages, but it was worth it. I got it down the King’s Road.’ She sipped her margarita. ‘How do you manage, being so far out of London?’

  ‘We’re only thirty miles away. Twenty minutes on a train.’

  ‘But you have to be at the hub of things in my business. You know, on top of it all. And I couldn’t live anywhere but London. I’d feel too cut off. You must go mad sometimes.’

  ‘This whole city is mad actually,’ Hailey replied earnestly. ‘We have the highest incidence of insanity per head of population anywhere in the country. Especially women. Apparently it’s the lack of designer shops that does it.’

  Trudi looked on with concern. ‘Really?’ she murmured, gazing at Hailey as if mesmerized.

  ‘Still, they’ve got running water in most of the houses here now, and they think that in a couple of years we might even have television.’

  Trudi’s look of concern turned to one of bemusement.

  Hailey saw a flicker of irritation on those gaunt features.

  ‘We can go up now,’ Trudi said brusquely.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Hailey told her.

  She watched as the tall PR girl slid off the bar stool and wandered away in the direction of the lifts.

  Hailey picked up her handbag and followed.

  They rode the lift in silence, standing on either side of the mirrored car until it bumped to a halt on the third floor.

  ‘Do you enjoy working for the band?’ Hailey said conversationally.

  ‘It’s mega,’ Trudi said. ‘They’re so cool, so funny. Especially Craig. He writes all the lyrics, you know. His wife’s really nice, too. She used to be an actress.’

  Hailey nodded.

  ‘If you wait here a minute I’ll check they’re ready,’ Trudi told her.

  She disappeared inside one of the rooms, leaving Hailey alone in the corridor.

  She shook her head, smiling.

  No, the record business never changes, does it?

  She inspected her reflection in the large mirror opposite, satisfied with what she saw.

  The door opened and Trudi stuck her head out.

  ‘You can come in now,’ she said, almost reverentially. ‘They’re ready for you.’

  23 CRANLEY GARDENS, MUSWELL HILL, NORTH LONDON

  He brought the Dyno-Rod van to a halt and checked his clipboard to ensure he had the right address.

  Yes, this was it. Number 23.

  It looked a little run-down compared to some of the properties in the same street, and the address he’d been called to was actually converted into flats. It had been one of the residents who’d called, complaining that she’d been unable to flush her toilet. This problem had been going on since the previous Saturday – almost a week now.

  No wonder she wasn’t happy.

  Michael Cattran wrote down the current time on his worksheet, then hauled himself out of the van, moving round to the rear of the vehicle to collect his tools.

  The sky was darkening with the onset of evening. Great banks of dark cloud gathering in the sky promised rain.

  Best get this job finished with and get home. It was his last call of the day and he wasn’t sorry.

  He made his way up the path to the front door, rang the bell and waited for someone to answer.

  When a woman
appeared at the door, he saw the look of relief on her face.

  It had been she who had called him, and Cattran listened while she rambled on about blocked drains and inconvenience, adding his own sympathetic comments every now and then.

  She showed him round to the side of the house and stood there.

  Cattran hated it when customers stood and watched him work, peering down at him while he toiled away. He warned her that he would have to inspect the blockage first, and that could take some time.

  She offered to make him a cup of tea and he accepted readily, happy when she retreated back inside number 23 and closed the front door.

  He looked down at the manhole cover then reached into his toolbox for the metal implement he would use to prise it open.

  The cover was rusted slightly around the rim, and he was forced to use more strength than he’d anticipated, but finally, with a loud clang, it came free and he lifted it away from the manhole.

  The stench that erupted was vile beyond belief. A putrid, virulent odour that clogged his nostrils and sent him reeling backwards, clutching his stomach. It was all he could do to prevent himself vomiting.

  For a moment or two he stood away from the yawning hole, sucking in several lungfuls of clean air, as if to flush away the noxious smell that filled his nostrils. Finally he returned to the manhole, bracing himself for a fresh dose of the nauseating stench it contained.

  A rusted ladder led down into the cistern itself, and Cattran realized that this was indeed a major blockage. He would have to take a closer look to determine how bad.

  He took a torch from his toolbox, jammed it into his belt, and began his descent, the stench growing even more intense as he drew closer to the bottom.

  Cattran was beginning to wonder if he would make it. Was he going to faint before he reached the foot of the ladder? But he persevered, and finally made it into the conduit itself.

  It was about three feet round, and he pulled the torch from his belt and shone it in both directions.

  When he saw what was blocking the drain it took an almost superhuman effort to stop him vomiting.

  Lumps, chunks, scraps of rotting meat clogged the drain.

  The entire conduit was packed with the decaying white matter, much of which had already begun to putrefy. At first it looked like chicken flesh, but when he touched it he realized it had a different consistency: softer. There was something familiar about this seething mass of carrion. Something appallingly familiar.

  The stench. The feel of it.

  The realization hit him like a thunderbolt.

  This rancid flesh wasn’t chicken.

  It was human.

  8 February 1983

  I wished I could stop but I could not.

  I had no other thrill or happiness.

  Denis Nilsen

  I’ve crashed to the bottom of the barrel,

  I’ve got feelings that could kill . . .

  Harlow

  47

  IT SOUNDED LIKE an explosion.

  As Rob Gibson heard the first rumble of thunder, he turned in his chair and looked out at the slate-grey sky.

  Rain was already pelting down on the Velux windows of his office. Beating out a machine-gun tattoo on the glass.

  He stood up and looked out, seeing the first phosphorescent shaft of lighting tear across the heavens. It looked like a luminescent vein against the mottled grey flesh of the sky.

  Rob thought about Becky. She was terrified of thunderstorms. Had been since she was a baby.

  He remembered, on more than one occasion during the last five years, how he and Hailey had woken to find she had climbed into bed between them. Or was crying for them in her own room.

  Rob himself had gone in to comfort her the last time. Cuddled her and held her close. Told her that the storm was nothing to worry about.

  The thunder, he’d told her, was just the clouds bumping together. Then he’d taught her the trick his father had taught him. The one where you counted between the flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder, so you could tell how far away the storm really was.

  He’d stayed with her for an hour or more that night, counting the seconds between each flash and rumble. Counting the miles as the storm moved away. Then he’d sat in silence beside her bed until she fell asleep.

  The thought of it brought a smile to his lips.

  Hailey would be thinking about her too, he guessed.

  Wherever the hell she was. Whatever she was doing.

  The rain hammered even harder on the roof and windows, as if trying to break through them.

  Hailey?

  He wondered precisely what she was doing, how her meeting was going.

  Taking an interest in her job? Watch it, you’re slipping.

  He watched the sky, washed out by so much rain. The clouds that only promised more.

  Rob glanced at his watch. He’d be home in another three hours. He’d see them both.

  His wife and his daughter.

  He smiled again.

  The office door opened and he turned slowly to see who it was.

  Sandy Bennett looked at him and smiled.

  He didn’t return the smile.

  ‘Am I missing something?’ she asked.

  ‘I was just watching the rain,’ he told her.

  ‘The storm’s getting worse. I think we’re in the best place. Although I could think of one better.’

  She pushed the office door shut and moved across to his desk.

  ‘Like where?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Bed. We’d be nice and cosy tucked up in bed together.’

  ‘What do you want, Sandy? I’m busy.’

  ‘I typed up that stuff you wanted, and there’s a couple of faxes.’ She handed him the sheets of paper, touching his hand as she did so.

  ‘Is that it?’ he said, glancing at the fax communications.

  ‘I wondered if you might want to nip round for a drink tonight. You could always call Hailey and tell her you’d got a meeting or something.’

  He regarded her impassively.

  ‘Yeah, I could,’ said Rob quietly, ‘if I wanted to. The thing is, I don’t want to.’

  ‘Rob, I know how you feel. I know you didn’t want to stop what was going on between us. If Hailey hadn’t found out, we’d still be together.’

  ‘We were never together, Sandy,’ he reminded her. ‘The sooner you get a grip on that, the better.’

  ‘Don’t tell me it isn’t a problem for you, too,’ she hissed. ‘Because I don’t believe you. You see me here every day, and you still want me.’

  ‘You’re right about one thing: it is a problem. And it’s about time I did something about it. You’re sacked. I want you out of my firm as well as my life. I’ll have your P45 sent on with any wages we owe you.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I’m doing it. Don’t come in tomorrow, Sandy. I mean it. I’m doing what I should have done when all this first happened. Hailey was right.’

  ‘I thought it would be her fucking idea. Is she scared she’s going to lose you? Scared she can’t compete?’

  ‘I tell you what: don’t wait until tomorrow. Get your stuff and go now.’

  Sandy held his gaze for a moment, then spun round and left his office, slamming the door behind her.

  Rob stood up, watching, as she crossed to her desk, picking up her handbag, pulling on her jacket. He saw Frank Burnside peering out, also watching the activity.

  Then Sandy was gone.

  Burnside had already left his office. Rob met him at the door.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Burnside wanted to know.

  ‘Come in, Frank,’ Rob said quietly. ‘I’ll explain.’

  Outside, there was another loud rumble of thunder.

  Redemption

  ALL HE HAD in the world, he carried with him in a Puma sportsbag. Some socks. A clean pair of jeans. A couple of shirts. A broken Walkman. T-shirts. A Zippo lighter.

  There were a few other th
ings in the bag that David Layton carried towards the main gate of HM Prison Wandsworth, but nothing of any worth.

  He walked between two warders: the tall screw, Collinwood, and another man he hadn’t seen before.

  None of the trio spoke. Not even when Collinwood selected a large key from the many on his chain and slotted it into the lock of a smaller door set in the larger gates.

  He pushed open the door and motioned with his head for Layton to step out – when he gladly did.

  He looked up at the sky, feeling the rain on his face. Glad to feel it.

  It felt like freedom.

  It was freedom.

  ‘Anyone meeting you?’ Collinwood asked, surveying the empty street beyond.

  Layton shook his head.

  ‘There isn’t anyone,’ he said, looking around.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘What do you care? I’m not your responsibility any more, Mr Collinwood.’

  He stared directly at the uniformed man.

  ‘That’s the first time in eighteen fucking months I haven’t had to call you “sir”,’ he snarled. ‘And it feels good.’

  ‘You’ll be back. Your kind always are.’

  ‘We’ll see. Don’t wait up for me.’

  ‘The nearest train station is—’

  Layton cut him short.

  ‘I know where it is,’ he interrupted.

  ‘See you soon, Layton,’ the uniformed man intoned.

  ‘Mr Layton,’ he said, grinning.

  The door closed behind him and, for long moments, he stood motionless in the rain. Staring back at the locked gate. The gate that kept him out now.

  ‘Fuck you, Collinwood,’ he rasped under his breath.

  He swept his wet hair back, and began walking. He had about twenty-five quid on him.

  It would be enough to get him where he wanted to go.

  48

  HAILEY’S FIRST THOUGHT: ‘Jim was right.’

  As she entered the hotel room occupied by two members of Waterhole, she smiled at them, surprised when they both stood up . . . then turned their backs to her, bent over and broke wind in unison.

  They both laughed hysterically and flopped back down on the sofa.

  Trudi was laughing also. A high-pitched caterwaul of a laugh that echoed through the spacious room.