Warhol's Prophecy

by Shaun Hutson

  Happy now?

  She swallowed hard and pressed her foot down on the accelerator, anxious to be away from this scene of confrontation.

  A little hard on him, weren’t you?

  She switched on the radio and turned the volume up as far as it would go.

  The first drops of rain began to spatter the windscreen.

  56

  ‘FUCKING THING,’ SNARLED Russell Poole, banging the fruit machine.

  He stood glaring at it, while fumbling in his denim jacket pocket for some more small change. He fed in more coins and watched as the three reels spun once more.

  Again nothing.

  ‘Fucking fix,’ he rasped and turned away in anger.

  The Black Squirrel was busy. Both bars were full of noisy drinkers. It was one of the most popular pubs in the city centre despite its reputation. There were five or six other pubs, each with a somewhat calmer atmosphere, but Poole had always looked on this one as his local. All his mates drank here. He’d met his last two girlfriends here (fucked one of them in the Gents to be exact). The recollection brought a grin to his ravaged features.

  He was twenty-seven: slightly built and with long, lank hair. His hands and most of his neck were covered in pink, puckered skin that a doctor had once told him was eczema. A scar ran from the corner of his left top lip to just above the nostril, giving him the appearance of constantly sneering.

  Poole pushed his way through the mass of drinkers to the bar, downed a pint of Carlsberg, then made his way to the toilets to ease his already over-filled bladder.

  The stench hit him as soon as he walked into the Gents.

  ‘Fuck sake,’ he hissed.

  The other man inside glanced round from the urinal where he stood, ran appraising eyes over Poole, then continued urinating.

  The doors of the three cubicles were open and Poole chose the first one.

  ‘Dirty fucking bastard,’ he grunted, looking at the filthy, excreta-filled pan. ‘Don’t people know how to flush toilets?’

  He moved to the next cubicle.

  Clean.

  He smiled and bolted the door.

  Poole urinated gushingly, then zipped up and sat on the cracked seat.

  He slid the small plastic bag from his inside pocket and regarded it on the palm of his hand, grinning down at it.

  He pulled the small bag open carefully and dipped the tip of his index finger into the powder.

  The cocaine tasted cold on his tongue.

  It was the only drug he dealt in that he actually used.

  He never touched crack or smack, and E was for stupid fucking teenagers. Another one had died at the weekend. Taken a tab at some fucking club and died bleeding from every orifice. One less clubber, he mused, grinning. One less arsehole.

  Stupid cunt – had it coming.

  But he still sold them. He sold anything and everything if people wanted it. But the only stuff he’d touch himself was Charlie.

  The odd joint, naturally, but otherwise he was very particular about what he shoved into his body.

  Some silly fucker had asked him for acid the other week.

  He’d got it, naturally. Poole prided himself on being able to deliver, no matter what the request.

  Even the nitrous oxide had been easier to obtain than he’d thought. He had a contact at the local hospital.

  Piece of piss.

  He tipped a little of the coke onto the palm of his hand and regarded it almost lovingly.

  Poole snorted the tiny pile: some of it into each nostril.

  Fucking ace.

  He re-sealed the bag and slipped it back into his inside pocket.

  It was good shit. He only used the good stuff himself. The stuff he sold was chopped with washing powder, Vim and any other fucking thing. But what did he care. The punters paid the same price, no matter what the quality.

  He flushed the toilet again and brushed his nostrils with the back of one hand.

  The Gents was empty when he emerged from the cubicle.

  At least he thought it was.

  He never saw the hand that grabbed him around the throat.

  57

  POOLE FELT A moment of panic as he was pushed back against the cubicle door.

  ‘Still using that shit?’ a voice rasped close to his ear.

  Poole found himself gazing into a face he knew.

  The grip on his throat eased.

  David Layton was grinning at him crookedly.

  ‘Good job I wasn’t the Old Bill,’ Layton said.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Poole demanded, massaging his throat with one hand and looking at Layton warily.

  ‘I saw you come in here. I thought I’d surprise you.’

  ‘Well, you fucking did that all right. When did you get out?’

  ‘A couple of days ago.’

  Poole walked across to the row of basins on the other side of the room and washed his hands, glancing at Layton’s reflection in the cracked mirror.

  Layton was puffing on a cigarette.

  ‘You don’t seem very pleased to see me, Russ,’ he mused. ‘Something bothering you?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like some money you owe me.’

  Poole shrugged and wiped his hands on the grubby roller-towel nearby.

  ‘Just before I went down,’ Layton reminded him, ‘I helped you shift some gear. You owe me for that. Two hundred sheets.’

  ‘I haven’t got that sort of money on me, Dave.’

  ‘Then get it,’ Layton snapped. ‘I need some cash.’

  ‘You could sign on,’ Poole offered, attempting a smile.

  Layton regarded him contemptuously in silence.

  ‘What are you going to do now you’re out?’ Poole enquired.

  Layton shrugged. ‘I haven’t got anything lined up yet. But I’m sure something’ll come along.’

  ‘Where you staying?’

  ‘With my sister, until I can find a place of my own.’

  ‘She was always a cracking bit of cunt, your sister. She—’

  Layton had stepped towards Poole and grabbed him by the front of his jacket, shoving him back against the sink.

  ‘She’s what?’ he snarled.

  ‘A good-looking girl,’ Poole corrected himself, seeing the fury in Layton’s eyes.

  Layton released his grip.

  ‘Sorry,’ Poole said, swallowing hard.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. She is a good-looking girl. Way out of your fucking league, so don’t even think about it.’

  ‘She still married?’

  ‘No. The geezer was a twat anyway.’ He flicked his cigarette butt onto the floor, where it hissed in a puddle of spilled water.

  ‘So, are you back for good, then?’ Poole wanted to know.

  ‘I told you, I’m looking around. Testing the water, you could say.’ He grinned.

  ‘What was it like inside?’

  ‘Same as it always is. You’ve done bird. You know the s.p.’

  ‘I was in a remand home, not proper nick.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. You always were small-time, though, weren’t you, Russ?’

  ‘So what do you want from me, Dave?’

  ‘You mean apart from my two hundred quid?’

  ‘I’ll get it for you, right?’

  ‘I know you will. In the meantime you can buy me a drink. There’s some business I want to talk to you about.’

  58

  ADAM WALKER OFTEN asked himself why he still bothered to visit his father.

  It wasn’t guilt that brought him regularly to the nursing home. Not his own guilt.

  And it wasn’t love.

  Was it?

  Why did he come here to see this shell of a man? This wrinkled effigy who looked as if all the life had been sucked from him. What did he hope to gain by it?

  Adam sat opposite his father, gazing at the old man, watching as he pulled at the flesh on the back of his hand. Sometimes his lips would move, as if he was about to say something
, but no words would spill forth. There would be no sound.

  Just the silence.

  Sometimes the old man would look at Adam. Very occasionally there would be a flicker in those glazed eyes. Adam then wondered if a miracle was about to happen: if the dementia that was slowly consuming his father’s brain was about to be wiped away. Was Philip Walker about to regain his powers of thought? Would he look at his son and suddenly remember who he was?

  And what he’d done to him?

  Adam wondered what he might say to his father if such a miracle were ever to happen.

  But it wouldn’t, would it? There were no miracles left. Not for Philip Walker anyway. His God had not so much abandoned him as simply lost interest – or so it seemed to Adam.

  He had changed the water in the vase. Thrown away the dead flowers from last time, and replaced them with the new blooms he’d brought along. He’d tidied up the room – even sat for a few moments combing the thinning strands of his father’s hair.

  All in total silence.

  Outside the room, a bird sat singing happily on one of the lower branches of a tree, its song filling the room. When it finally took off, the silence returned, thick and oppressive.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Adam, getting to his feet.

  He took a step towards his father.

  The old man was still sitting up in bed, gazing blankly across the room. His expression didn’t change.

  Adam moved towards the door, took one last look at his father, then stepped out into the corridor.

  He exhaled deeply and leant against the door, as if trying to recover his strength. Strength that felt as if it had been sucked from him during his time inside that room.

  As he turned to make his way towards the reception area, he saw one of the nurses approaching him.

  Adam smiled at her, but she returned the smile weakly.

  ‘Have you got a minute?’ she asked.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Dr Simmons wants to speak to you. It’s about your father.’

  ‘So, why isn’t he in hospital?’

  Adam Walker sat forward in his chair and looked across the desk at Dr Raymond Simmons.

  He was a tall, sinewy man in his late forties, with sad eyes and waxy skin.

  The suit he wore was immaculately pressed and had, Walker thought, been dry-cleaned recently. Simmons took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Mr Walker, the state your father is in, we can do as much for him here as any hospital could,’ the doctor said quietly. ‘There’s no need to move him unless his condition worsens.’

  ‘And is it likely to?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Renal failure,’ Walker mused. ‘What will happen to him?’

  ‘His kidneys will simply stop working. Dialysis can prolong their function but . . .’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.

  ‘He’s going to die,’ Walker offered.

  Simmons nodded. ‘I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Walker said flatly.

  Simmons looked surprised, and met the younger man’s gaze.

  ‘It’s probably a blessing in disguise,’ Walker explained. ‘I mean, he isn’t going to get any better, is he?’

  He got to his feet.

  ‘His mind’s gone,’ he continued, heading towards the door. ‘Now his body is decaying too. There’s nothing left for him.’

  ‘We’ll do all we can, Mr Walker,’ Simmons reassured him.

  ‘I’m sure you will. How long’s he got?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say. A month? Perhaps longer with the right treatment, and provided there are no more complications.’

  ‘You know he used to be a vicar, don’t you?’ Walker said quietly.

  Simmons nodded, looking a little perplexed.

  ‘A man of God,’ Walker continued, smiling. ‘I wonder where his God is now? Sitting up there laughing at him?’ He reached for the door handle. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ And he was gone.

  Walker headed back to his car and slid behind the wheel of the Scorpio, sitting there for a moment.

  So his father was dying.

  At last it was happening.

  ‘A month? Perhaps longer.’

  Walker gazed through the windscreen at Bayfield House Nursing Home.

  He wondered how many more times he would have reason to return here.

  ‘A month? Perhaps longer.’

  And then what?

  He’d expected to feel something akin to exultation upon hearing the news that this man who had made his life such a misery was going to die. But, no, all he felt was a kind of emptiness. And he wondered why.

  Just as he wondered why a single tear rolled down his cheek.

  He wiped it away almost angrily.

  Don’t cry for him. He doesn’t deserve your tears.

  Walker started the engine, swung the car round and guided it back down the long, tree-lined drive.

  Bayfield House disappeared behind him.

  59

  HAILEY CLOSED HER eyes as the excited babbling around her began to grow in volume.

  There was a moment of near silence. Then the screams began.

  And she joined that chorus of shrieks.

  She gripped the safety bar with both hands as the rollercoaster hurtled down the precipitous slope. It sped down with such incredible speed it seemed certain it must crash. But, instead, it merely shot up the next incline, its momentum carrying it onwards.

  As the brightly coloured carriages began to climb, Hailey continued to cling tightly to the rail.

  She, Rob and Becky sat side by side in the lead car. All three were clutching the bar. All three were yelling at the tops of their voices.

  Becky was laughing, too, amused by her mother’s apparent terror and also at the sheer exhilaration she felt. Rob looked across at Hailey as they prepared to speed down the next slope. He grinned broadly, reaching out quickly to touch her face before the rollercoaster went hurtling towards the bottom again.

  Hailey kissed his outstretched hand, then looked down at Becky, opened her mouth and screamed again as they were catapulted earthwards.

  The rumble of the wheels on the track was loud in her ears and she could feel the car vibrating beneath her as it took each curve.

  Becky was loving it – just as she had loved all the other rides before it. As she’d loved the funhouse and the dodgems. She’d earlier watched Rob at the rifle range, shooting down the small metal targets. Cheering, like her mother, as each one fell. Then she’d watched him hurling small beanbags at a pyramid of tin cans. She had shouted in delighted triumph as the pyramid was shattered, hugged him when he presented her with the large fluffy panda he’d won. It sat between them now, blank eyes watching every twist and turn of the rollercoaster.

  Hailey felt the wind surge through her hair, pull at her face, and, when she screamed, it rushed into her open mouth.

  The feeling of exhilaration was infectious.

  It had been Rob’s idea to visit the funfair, which was in town for four days. He had mentioned it that lunch-time, and his suggestion had taken Hailey by surprise.

  They had arrived here about four, oblivious to the threatening clouds above, all three of them determined nothing would spoil their evening out. And now, three hours later, with the whole fairground illuminated by the multicoloured lights and flashing neon of the stalls and rides, they were still enraptured by it all. As the roller-coaster reached the top of another incline, Hailey looked out over the sprawling mass of brilliant lights below. They burned in the darkness like fallen, multi-hued stars.

  Up and down, the rollercoaster careened madly for another few minutes, then came to a halt. Laughing passengers spilled from the cars, to be replaced by others eager to taste the thrill.

  ‘That was great,’ said Becky, reaching up to hold Hailey’s hand. ‘You were scared, weren’t you, Mum?’

  ‘Pe
trified,’ Hailey admitted, laughing.

  ‘We’d better get home soon,’ Rob said, as they walked along.

  ‘Oh, Dad,’ Becky complained.

  ‘Dad’s right,’ Hailey told her. ‘We have been here for a long time, haven’t we?’

  Becky nodded reluctantly.

  ‘One more ride?’ she said imploringly.

  ‘We’ve been on all the rides there are,’ Hailey insisted.

  ‘We haven’t been in there,’ said Rob, pointing ahead of him.

  The hall of mirrors bore a huge clown’s face that leered down at them as if daring them to enter.

  Hailey looked at the large wooden face, and thought how menacing it appeared. Not the usual benevolent visage of a clown, but something darker. The mouth looked more like a sneer than a smile.

  Rob saw her slow her pace and he reached for her hand.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He smiled.

  ‘Nothing,’ she told him, squeezing his hand. ‘Nothing at all.’ She leant across and kissed his cheek.

  ‘Come on,’ said Becky, pulling them both towards the entrance. She ran ahead, beckoning to her parents, who sauntered along behind.

  ‘I got lost in one of these when I was a kid,’ Hailey said quietly. ‘I was in there for ages before they got me out. I was terrified.’

  ‘Well, hold my hand,’ Rob told her. ‘I’ll make sure you don’t get lost.’

  They looked at each other for brief seconds, then Becky’s excited cries sent them running towards the cashier.

  Rob paid the entrance fee and they walked in.

  Immediately, Becky began to laugh as she was confronted by a bank of distorting mirrors that elongated and squashed her image alternately.

  Hailey and Rob also stood gazing at their own warped reflections.

  Oh, how appropriate.

  Both of us twisted. Bent out of shape.

  A little like how some marriages get.

  All three of them posed before each mirror in turn, Becky’s musical laughter filling the musty, wooden-floored hall. Then they moved on.

  The labyrinth of mirrors seemed impenetrably confusing.

  On all four sides, Hailey saw her reflection staring back at her.

  Guilt on every side? Is Rob feeling the same thing?

  She glanced across at him, or at his reflection, she wasn’t sure which.