Warhol's Prophecy

THE CHILD WAS standing alone, looking towards the entrance of a cafe.

She had her back to Hailey, who had already set off towards the little blonde figure, sometimes politely weaving in and out of knots of shoppers, sometimes barging straight through them in her haste to reach the child.

Red coat!

That was the one thing she saw: the beacon drawing her like a moth to a flame.

God, she loved that coat: that beautiful, incandescent piece of craftsmanship that was about to reunite her with her daughter. The daughter she had feared was dead! And how ridiculous that thought now seemed. How could she be dead? She’d been momentarily lost. For a moment of terror and extreme anxiety admittedly, but only a moment.

Hailey was mere feet away from the child now.

The child who was standing stock-still outside the cafe entrance.

That must have been the instructions Becky had been given. The instructions that Hailey herself, as a responsible parent, had at one time or another given her.

‘If you ever get lost, stand outside a cafe and wait for Mum.’

God, it was simple. So wonderfully, transparently simple.

And Becky was doing as she’d been told, and everything was all right in the whole twisted, stinking world, and there was nothing else now but to sweep her daughter up in her arms and hug her and kiss her, and they would both cry with relief and then they would laugh.

And then . . .

And then?

The child turned around.

The little girl was older than Becky by a year or two.

She stared with bewilderment at Hailey, who had already dropped to one knee close by, looking into her face – searching that alien face, that strange, unfamiliar visage.

The child took a step back, as if shocked by the sudden approach of this insane-looking woman. The kind of woman her own mother had always warned her to keep away from.

Hailey gazed into the child’s eyes.

Frightened eyes?

The little girl took another couple of paces back. Hailey straightened up and advanced towards her, as if reluctant to believe that this red-coated figure was not her daughter after all. The child suddenly turned and ran into the cafe, and Hailey could see her pushing her way through the maze of tables towards two women inside. The child was now pointing out towards Hailey, that one index finger fixing her almost accusingly. Hailey could see the women’s lips moving, could see their expressions darken as they stared angrily back at her. She turned and walked away from the cafe entrance, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks.

Becky . . .

The sight of that red coat had raised her hopes. The identity of its wearer had shattered them. And now she felt a sense of crushing despair unlike anything she had ever felt in her life before. Fear, anxiety, hopelessness and thousands of other emotions swirled around inside her mind, and that unthinkable, monstrous thought resurfaced with renewed venom.

My child is dead.

Hailey trudged robotically through the shopping centre, eyes occasionally flitting right or left, but there was no longer conviction in the thought that she might yet catch a glimpse of her missing daughter. And now other thoughts began to intrude with equally unwanted force.

Perhaps Becky hadn’t just wandered off on her own in the crowds. What if she had been snatched?

Whoever had taken her could have been trailing them all morning, waiting for a split second when they became separated. You couldn’t keep your eyes on your kid every second of the day, could you?

Justifying yourself now?

No one could – especially not in a crowded shopping centre. You could hold their hands, you could keep an arm around their shoulders if possible, but at some point there would be a break in contact, and in that split second it would happen. Once you were physically separated, the child could be snatched. Whisked away into the crowd, their screams muffled by a strong, determined hand across the mouth. And who else would interfere? Who would do anything more than look on with bemused or irate disinterest? And, while those blank looks registered their indifference, the child could be bundled effortlessly out of the centre and into a waiting car.

Jesus, it was all so easy. So clear.

Hailey had read about it – of parents whose children had been abducted

(no, don’t even think about words like ‘abducted’. They carry the same terror as ‘malignant’ and ‘terminal’)

from their very sides. Parents who, hours, days, weeks or months later, were called to the local police station or hospital to identify their dead child.

Hailey no longer bothered to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

Whoever had snatched Becky might not even have needed to wait until mother and daughter had reached the shopping centre. The kidnapper could have already been watching that morning as Hailey reversed the Astra out of the garage. He could have followed them the five or so miles to the mall, parked close by, then tailed them into the building, his eyes never leaving Becky. Just waiting for the right moment.

And now?

Was Becky already dead?

Hailey continued her trance-like journey through the shopping centre, every child she passed seemingly smiling as it clutched its parents’ hands. Laughing even.

All around her so much joy.

Inside her, pain such as she had never experienced.

But it could grow far, far worse, couldn’t it?

She passed another mother, Hailey guessed in her early twenties, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two: six or seven years younger than Hailey herself. The woman had two children with her, one in a buggy. The other was aged about three, and he was crying while his mother shouted angrily at him to stop, that he couldn’t have any sweets yet. That she’d break his toys if he didn’t shut up.

Something like that.

What did it matter what the words were?

Hailey wanted to grab that woman, to tell her she shouldn’t shout at her child, because she could lose him all too easily. Lose him for ever, as Hailey had done with her own child.

The thought that Becky was already dead or else in the clutches of some child-molesting psychopath was so strong now that Hailey had virtually accepted it as fact. She could imagine no other possibility.

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.