Warhol's Prophecy

by Shaun Hutson

  ‘Thanks for what?’

  ‘Coming back to work for me. Organizing this anniversary gig and the party so efficiently.’

  ‘You’re paying me well to do it, Jim, remember?’

  ‘Christ, that’s a point,’ he chuckled. ‘Perhaps I should let you buy the lunch instead.’

  He signalled to the waiter to bring him another drink. The restaurant of the Pavilion Hotel was fairly quiet. The main rush of diners had long since departed, back to their offices or wherever else they plied their various trades. Marsh had no such need to hurry.

  The Pavilion was an old building – early 1920s he guessed – but it had undergone such major refitting and refurbishment during the past five years that it looked as if it belonged with the new structures that made up the rest of the small town that had sprung up around it. The only thing that hadn’t changed much was the restaurant itself. It was a massive conservatory-like building framed on three sides by huge glass panels that allowed diners to look out over an orchard and an ornate garden.

  Sumptuously decorated with original furniture and carpets, it also boasted an enormous chandelier suspended from the centre of the glass roof. To Hailey, it looked as if thousands of crystalline tears had been fused together to create this magnificent adornment.

  Marsh had hired the entire hotel for the night of the gig. Members of Waterhole would stay here, too. The party itself would be held in the room in which they now sat. Huge oak tables, each seating up to twenty, would be attended by waiters and waitresses bringing food prepared by three master chefs.

  The list of guests had swelled from sixty to over one hundred. Record company people, local dignitaries, media, friends and family.

  Family . . .

  Marsh ran his finger slowly around the rim of his glass.

  ‘What’s the matter, Jim?’ Hailey wanted to know, noticing his pensive expression.

  ‘I was just thinking about my kids,’ he told her.

  ‘Aren’t any of them coming to the party?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he said bitterly, draining what was left in his glass. ‘They don’t approve of their dad’s plans.’

  ‘Are you still going to announce your wedding at the party?’

  He nodded. ‘Do you think there’ll be lots of disapproving looks? Much silent tutting amongst the morally righteous?’

  ‘Who cares if there is? Who you marry is your business,’ said Hailey defensively.

  ‘Even if that someone is half my age?’

  ‘It’s your life, Jim.’

  ‘One of my sons called Paula a gold-digger. I don’t think he likes the idea of having a stepmother who’s only a year older than himself.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what they think, as long as you’re happy. You love Paula and she loves you. She wouldn’t be marrying you otherwise.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. A personal fortune of thirty million does make a man that little bit more attractive, doesn’t it?’ He smiled.

  Hailey also managed to grin.

  ‘Anyway, what about your family?’ Marsh asked. ‘How’s Rob?’

  ‘He’s due home tomorrow. I’m picking him up from the hospital.’

  ‘And the police still haven’t got any idea who attacked him?’

  Hailey shook her head.

  ‘I wish I had,’ she said quietly. ‘I’d kill them.’

  He regarded her silently across the table. Saw the anger in her expression.

  ‘He’ll be well enough to come to the gig and the party afterwards, won’t he?’ Marsh asked.

  Hailey nodded. ‘I think Becky would drag him along, even if I didn’t,’ she said, grinning. ‘She can’t wait to see Waterhole in the flesh.’

  ‘Even though they are a bunch of arseholes. I was right, wasn’t I? People like Lennon, Hendrix and Janis Joplin would be spinning in their graves if they could see those dickheads now. Tell me I’m wrong.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she admitted.

  ‘At the risk of sounding like an old fart,’ Marsh said, ‘this world really has turned to shit, hasn’t it? It makes you long for the good old days.’ He chuckled. ‘Do you know what we had in the good old days? Malnutrition, rickets, TB and poverty.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘You’ve come a long way, Jim,’ Hailey said. ‘We all have.’

  ‘Let’s drink to that,’ he echoed.

  They both raised their glasses.

  ‘To rickets,’ he said.

  Again they laughed.

  90

  ‘PLEASE LET US call an ambulance.’

  Dr Raymond Simmons stood beside the bed, looking down at Adam Walker, watching for any flicker of emotion on the younger man’s face.

  Adam sat in a chair beside his father’s bed, staring at the old man lying on his back, eyes closed.

  Every now and then his lips would flutter silently, as if he was trying to speak. But no sound would emerge.

  ‘Mr Walker—’ Simmons began.

  ‘I heard you, Doctor,’ Adam said flatly, without taking his eyes off his father.

  ‘The longer we delay, the less chance there is for your father. Please let us call.’

  ‘You once told me that you could cope with his condition here as well as any hospital could.’

  ‘I meant his ongoing condition,’ Simmons protested, ‘his kidney problems. This is entirely different. This is a medical emergency.’

  Adam heard the urgency in the doctor’s voice, but it made little impression on him.

  ‘You called me an hour ago,’ he said, his tone measured. ‘I told you then that I wanted no ambulance. That I didn’t want my father taken to a hospital.’

  ‘He’s my responsibility while he’s here at Bayfield House.’

  ‘He’s my father,’ rasped Adam, finally turning to look at the doctor.

  ‘Then let us help him,’ Simmons said. ‘Let the hospital help him.’

  Adam continued to gaze down at his stricken father.

  ‘A stroke, you said?’ he murmured.

  ‘It looks like it,’ the doctor answered. ‘And that means speed is important. The quicker he can be taken to hospital, the better his chances of survival.’

  Adam chuckled sardonically. ‘Survival,’ he muttered. ‘What has he got to look forward to, Doctor? If the hospital manage to keep him alive, he’s looking at weeks – months, if he’s lucky – on a life-support machine. That’s about it, isn’t it?’

  Simmons nodded slowly.

  ‘Not really much in the way of survival, is it?’ Adam said, shifting slightly in his seat. His hands were resting on his lap, the fingers entwined. Slowly he pulled them apart, and pressed one to his father’s temple. ‘He’s dead in there now. He has been for years. Alzheimer’s, renal failure – he’s better off dead.’

  ‘I can’t just stand here and watch a man die, Mr Walker,’ Simmons protested.

  ‘Then get out,’ Adam said flatly, looking up at the doctor once more. ‘No one’s asking you to stay.’

  Simmons was momentarily taken aback by his tone. He looked into the other man’s eyes and saw nothing.

  No emotion. Nothing . . .

  Just a cool detachment that raised the hairs on the back of the doctor’s neck.

  ‘I’ll stay with him,’ said Adam quietly, returning his attention to his father. ‘This is what he would have wanted. He never wanted to die in a hospital. He always said that.’

  Simmons hesitated.

  ‘Please go, Doctor,’ Adam insisted.

  He heard the door close as Simmons left.

  The only sound now seemed to be the ticking of the clock.

  ‘You’re going to die,’ he said softly to the wizened form in the bed before him.

  Philip Walker made a low gurgling sound in his throat.

  ‘And I’m going to watch you,’ Adam said, leaning closer.

  For fleeting seconds his father’s eyes opened, and Adam found himself gazing into those watery orbs. He saw something there, didn’t he?

  Was it
a final moment of clarity?

  Was it pain?

  Or fear?

  His father reached out a hand, gnarled fingers scratching across the sheet towards Adam, who sat motionless.

  Still he gazed into his father’s open eyes.

  ‘You’re going to your God,’ Adam whispered. ‘You should be pleased – or perhaps not. How are you going to explain to Him some of the things you did to me?’

  His father’s eyes closed again, but his hand continued to flex as if seeking contact with his son.

  Adam looked down at the hand.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ he said scathingly. ‘You’re never going to touch me again.’

  Again the eyes opened. Wider this time.

  ‘Just die,’ Adam said, his words barely audible.

  In the silence of the room the clock continued its somnolent ticking.

  Each second a fragment of life.

  Adam sat back in the chair and looked on.

  91

  AT FIRST SHE’D been terrified.

  Becky had looked up at her father’s face and recoiled from the sight that greeted her. The patchwork of cuts and bruises: some still vivid purple, others yellowed and black at the edges.

  But, within a matter of minutes, she had run to him and embraced him.

  Hailey had carried his holdall as they’d walked to the car, happy to see that Becky had chosen to hold his hand.

  On the way home she and Rob had chatted in the car, while Hailey drove in virtual silence. Now, as they pulled into their driveway, Hailey hurried around to help Rob out.

  ‘I can manage,’ he said sharply, pulling himself out of the car, but wincing as he felt the pain from his still-healing ribs. He paused a moment, sucking in lungfuls of air, as if the effort of clambering out of the Astra was too great. He straightened up, then made his way slowly towards the front door, Becky close by.

  Once inside, Becky hurried off to play in her room. Rob wandered into the sitting room and slumped in an armchair.

  ‘Do you want a coffee, or something stronger?’ Hailey asked.

  He sat in silence for long moments, gazing around the room as if he’d never seen it before.

  ‘Coffee, please,’ he told her. ‘Whisky doesn’t mix too well with the painkillers they gave me.’

  ‘Do you want anything to eat?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Can I get you the paper?’ Hailey persisted.

  ‘Stop treating me like a fucking invalid, Hailey,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not a cripple.’

  ‘I’m just trying to help,’ she protested.

  ‘Then let me do things on my own. You might not always be around.’

  She pushed the sitting-room door shut. ‘Meaning what?’ she demanded.

  ‘You might not be here if there’s something I want,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve got to learn how to manage. Besides, it’s only two cracked ribs I’ve got, not a broken spine.’

  ‘The doctors said you had to take it easy for a week or so,’ she reminded him.

  ‘I can’t afford to take it easy for a week or so,’ he told her. ‘I’m going in to work as soon as I can.’

  ‘Rob, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘What do you want me to do? Sit around here in an empty house every day feeling sorry for myself? Thinking about how lucky I am to be alive? Thinking about the bastard who did this to me? Thinking about other things, too?’

  She knew what he meant.

  ‘I’m not going to keep telling you, Rob,’ Hailey said wearily. ‘Nothing happened between Walker and me.’

  In fact, Adam had asked if there was anything he could do to help.

  Rob didn’t answer.

  She crossed to his chair and sat on the arm.

  ‘What have I got to do to convince you?’ she wanted to know.

  He could only shake his head.

  ‘What about that coffee?’ he asked finally.

  She reached out a hand and gently touched one of the yellowish bruises on his left cheek.

  ‘If I knew who’d done this to you,’ she said softly, ‘I’d kill them.’

  Rob met her gaze. ‘Am I supposed to say thanks?’

  ‘Don’t make it any more difficult than it has to be, Rob.’ Hailey got to her feet.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I now know what you felt like – when you found out about me and Sandy.’

  ‘No, Rob,’ she told him, one hand on the door, ‘it isn’t any consolation.’

  92

  SANDY BENNETT TURNED the key in the lock, then twisted the handle once or twice to check it was secure. Satisfied, she made her way towards the lift and jabbed the CALL button.

  She rode it to the ground floor, then strode out into the cool night air.

  She paused for fleeting seconds, looking up at the darkening sky, searching the heavens for signs that it was going to rain or turn colder. She wondered about returning for a heavier jacket, but finally decided she’d be fine in what she wore already.

  The black trouser suit was made of wool; it should be absolutely fine.

  She selected her car keys from her pocket and wandered over towards the Nova. It was, she realized, the first time she’d been out socially since she was sacked from her job at BG Trucks. A friend of hers she’d known since college had called and asked her out for a drink. Sandy had hesitated, then finally decided that she couldn’t spend the rest of her life living like a hermit, so had accepted the invitation.

  She was looking forward to it now. It would give her a chance to forget about Rob.

  The bastard!

  She was angry with herself for even thinking about him. Where would he be now? At home playing happy families with his wife and kid?

  Forget about him.

  She opened the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel.

  Her brother was out for the night, and she didn’t even dare to imagine what he might be up to.

  Sandy was wondering how much longer she could let him stay with her. How long before he became a burden? She knew all the clichés about family and blood being thicker than water, but all the same he couldn’t stay with her indefinitely, could he?

  She twisted the key in the ignition.

  Nothing.

  No spark. No sound.

  She tried again, glancing at the dashboard.

  Flat battery?

  ‘Shit,’ she murmured. Typical! Her first night out for Christ knows how long, and the car’s playing up.

  She turned the ignition key again.

  Still the car didn’t react. Not even the splutter of an engine trying to start.

  Sandy banged the wheel irritably, and swung herself out.

  She had two choices now: either ring the RAC and stand around waiting, or call a taxi and deal with the car tomorrow.

  Sandy looked at her watch. She wasn’t due to meet her friend until 8.30.

  Taxi or RAC?

  She slammed the door and headed back towards her flat, where she dialled a cab.

  He’d be there in five minutes, he told her. Still slightly irritated, she made her way back outside again.

  The Nova stood there defiantly.

  Try it once more. If it works, you can always cancel the cab.

  She crossed to the car and slid behind the steering wheel again.

  Sandy pushed the key into the ignition and turned it.

  This time the Nova started immediately.

  ‘Yes!’ said Sandy, fists clenched in triumph.

  It was then that she noticed the condensation on the windscreen.

  It was on the inside.

  As if someone had been breathing on the glass.

  Someone inside?

  Someone . . .

  She heard a grunt behind her, then came a terrifyingly powerful impact just below her left ear.

  Sandy felt agonizing pain, but she couldn’t scream.

  Not even when she realized that the knife had been rammed into the angle between her jawbone and skull, so powerfully it practically s
hattered the lower mandible. Blood erupted from the wound and spattered noisily against the side window.

  She felt her head flopping backwards. Felt a strong hand grabbing her hair, slamming her back against the headrest.

  Then she felt the freezing blade against her throat. Felt the grazing as its serrations rasped against her flesh.

  Then the knife was drawn across her throat with incredible force.

  The gash it opened spread from one ear to the other, her riven throat yawning like the gills of a fish. Blood exploded from the massive wound, arteries and veins spewing their crimson load onto the windscreen.

  She felt consciousness slipping from her.

  By the time the knife was driven into her face for the third time, she was already close to death. Slumped in her seat, the life draining from her.

  Even when the tip of the blade sliced one of her eyeballs in two, and sent vitreous fluid spilling down her chest to mingle with the thick viscosity of her blood, she didn’t move.

  And she knew nothing of the ten wounds that followed.

  93

  THE RAIN BEAT out a steady tattoo on Adam Walker’s umbrella but he barely noticed it.

  He stood gazing at the grave, every now and then drawing in a deep breath.

  The smell of wet earth and grass was strong in his nostrils. Piled high on either side of the deep hole, the clods of dirt were turning to brownish-yellow mud under the downpour.

  Raindrops battered the cellophane-wrapped flowers around the grave, the crackling sound mingling with the beating of rain against his black umbrella, and he glanced up at the sky, wondering when the dark clouds would pass. Great solid banks of them hovered there. All they offered was the promise of more rain – more misery.

  All the mourners had left.

  He’d been surprised at how many people had turned up to see his father laid to rest. Some staff – even some patients – from Bayfield House. Even a few of the old man’s ex-parishioners. Other people he didn’t recognize.

  He’d accepted their condolences and their apologetic handshakes, then thanked them for coming. Expressed his gratitude for their floral tributes.

  All these tasks he’d performed like some kind of automaton. And most of the time he’d looked right through them, in the direction of the grave itself. As if afraid that his father wasn’t actually dead. Perhaps the old man was going to clamber up from that six-foot-deep hole and announce his own resurrection. Just as he’d spent his time as a vicar preaching about the resurrection of Christ.