Warhol's Prophecy

She looked at him and shook her head gently.

Walker smiled. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘I bet your friend Caroline knows all about it.’

Hailey laughed.

‘I went to the library today and tried to find her books.’

‘I’m sure she’d be flattered if she knew,’ Hailey chuckled.

‘You shouldn’t take the piss. She’s made her mark too, hasn’t she? Those books she wrote mean that her name will live for ever. People will know she was here long after she’s dead. And that’s what it’s all about. What’s that saying, “Life’s a bitch and then you die”? It’s true.’

Hailey regarded him over the rim of her glass.

Walker held up his hands. ‘All right, I’ll shut up. I’m starting to sound like a nutter, aren’t I?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘You sound passionate, Adam,’ she told him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘You know about passion, don’t you? You’re passionate about your job. You must be or you wouldn’t have gone back to it.’

She nodded.

‘Are you still enjoying it?’ he enquired.

‘It’s good to be back.’

‘Is Rob pleased you’re back?’

‘Not really. I told you before, he was never too keen. But, then again, I didn’t exactly expect him to throw a party when I went back to work.’

She sipped at her drink again, finally putting the glass down and running the tip of one index finger around the rim.

‘What’s wrong, Hailey?’ Walker wanted to know.

‘How long have you got?’ she said bitterly.

‘If you want to talk about it . . .’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘OK,’ she said quietly.

When he looked into her eyes, he saw they were glazed with tears.

Walker leant forward and touched her hand softly.

‘Shall I start with Rob’s affair?’ she murmured.

38

SHE HAD NO idea how long she’d been talking. It felt like hours.

Every now and then Hailey would stop and take a sip of her drink but, other than that, she felt as if she’d been spewing out words for ever.

Walker merely sat gazing at her, nodding occasionally, sometimes shaking his head.

But always listening intently. Sometimes touching her hand as it rested on the table.

The only thing that seemed to be missing was ‘Bless Me, Father, for I have sinned’.

It felt like a confession.

‘And that’s it,’ she said finally. ‘Now you know.’

Walker didn’t speak.

‘Are you going to tell me I should have left him?’ Hailey wanted to know. ‘Caroline thinks I should.’

‘Who else knows about it?’

‘Just you. It’s not the sort of thing you shout from the rooftops, is it? I don’t know who Rob’s told.’

He shook his head almost imperceptibly.

Happy now? You’ve told a complete stranger one of your most intimate secrets.

Hailey reached for her glass and realized it was empty. She sipped at the melted ice in the bottom.

‘And he still works with the girl he had this affair with?’ Walker said finally.

‘Yes, he sees her every day.’

‘Why didn’t he sack her?’

‘He claims it isn’t as easy as that.’

‘I’m sorry, Hailey,’ Walker said quietly.

‘So am I, Adam.’

‘Do you still love him?’

‘Of course I do. When it first happened, I hated him for what he’d done. Not him – but what he’d done.’

‘Has it affected Becky?’

‘It’s difficult to say. We’ve kept it from her. At least we think we have. No real slanging matches in front of her – that kind of thing. But she’s not stupid. She doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, but she knows everything’s not like it used to be between me and Rob.’

‘I wish I could say something that would help.’

She reached across and touched his hand.

‘You have been a help,’ she told him, tracing a pattern on the back of his hand with her index finger.

You want him, don’t you? And you want him to know it.

‘I only met you a few days ago and I feel like I’ve known you all my life, if you’ll excuse the cliche.’ She forced a smile.

Beneath the table her foot brushed against his calf, but she didn’t move it away.

‘Those paintings you mentioned: the ones you want me to show to Waterhole. When can I see them?’

‘Whenever you like. They’re in my studio at home.’

She squeezed his hand.

‘Take me there now,’ she said flatly.

Confrontation

DAVID LAYTON FELT the sweat running down the side of his face. A combination of the heat inside the large kitchen and also of his current exertions.

The boxes each held twenty-four tins of baked beans, and by anybody’s reckoning that was fucking heavy. He’d been humping them for most of the morning, from the back of the lorry in the prison yard into the kitchen, then beyond to the storeroom.

Beans, tinned spaghetti, Smash, tinned fruit . . .

Boxes and boxes of tins, all of them heavy.

He’d been allowed a fag break only once since he had started, and that felt like hours ago.

The man helping him, a small thin-faced individual whose name he didn’t know, seemed to be having even more trouble than Layton. He was pale and looked undernourished, and hadn’t said much during the time they’d been working together. Hadn’t said much during the entire time he’d been working in the kitchen. He looked frightened, nervous.

Layton had come to the conclusion this must be his first time inside.

Shit-scared, forever looking over his shoulder. Silent. Whatever he’d been dubbed up for couldn’t have amounted to much, or he wouldn’t have got kitchen detail. Layton thought maybe burglary, or receiving – some bullshit charge that had got him probably six months. He looked the sort who cried himself to sleep every night.

But what did he care. He was out in a couple of days. This pasty-faced little cunt could rot as far as he was concerned.

He set down the latest box of beans and headed back to the lorry outside.

The driver was sitting in his cab, talking with a warder. Another uniformed man stood at the rear of the lorry, watching the two prisoners as they unloaded the goods.