Warhol's Prophecy

‘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.

Hailey recognized the two men immediately.

Craig Levine and Matt Dennison. Vocalist and drummer respectively. Early twenties, unshaven, long shirts undone and flowing loose outside their grubby jeans. Levine was wearing a pair of Caterpillar boots, which he had resting on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Hailey noticed chewing gum stuck between the treads of the sole.

Dennison was wearing a pair of yellow wrap-around Ray-Bans, despite the fact that every light in the room was on.

Sitting next to him was a girl Hailey thought could be no older than twenty. She was blonde, dressed in a pair of jeans that looked as if they’d been sprayed on, and a tightly fastened black jacket that pushed her ample breasts together to form a cleavage you could lose a Filofax in.

She was stroking Dennison’s hair, occasionally flicking at strands of it with one index finger. Every time she did so, she giggled.

There was a large ghetto-blaster propped on top of the television in the corner of the room. Hailey recognized the sound of Waterhole’s latest album coming from it.

‘This is Hailey Gibson,’ Trudi said, waving a hand in Hailey’s direction.

‘I suppose you know who we are?’ said Levine, grinning. ‘Most people do.’

The room was filled with raucous laughter again.

‘Jumped-up little shits.’

From the bedroom of the suite another man appeared.

Mid-thirties, a little overweight. The Armani suit he wore fitted a little too snugly, Hailey thought, as she shook his hand.

‘Ray Taylor,’ the man said. ‘Manager.’

‘You’re supposed to curtsy now,’ Levine said.

More raucous laughter.

Hailey sat down opposite the two band members, trying to prevent her gaze from straying too often to the blonde, who was still stroking Dennison’s hair.

‘Leave it out, Sophie,’ said the drummer finally, looking round at the girl, who pouted for a moment then wandered off towards the bedroom.

‘I’m going to help Jenny try on those clothes she bought,’ said Sophie before disappearing from view.

‘Women,’ said Dennison, shrugging his shoulders and grinning.

Hailey was aware of his gaze travelling up and down her slender legs. He had barely looked at her face since she entered the room.

I’d eat you alive, you little bastard.

‘You’re from Jim Marsh, aren’t you?’ said Taylor, pouring himself a drink from the mini-bar.

Hailey nodded.

‘Worked for him long?’ Taylor persisted.

Hailey told him.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, we’re going to have one, aren’t we, Matt?’ said Levine, also grinning.

Trudi hurried to the mini-bar to fetch what they wanted.

‘I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you,’ Hailey said.

And the quicker I can get out of here the better.

‘I just came to check some details about the gig and the party afterwards.’

‘Are you coming?’ Levine wanted to know.

‘No, it’s just the way she’s sitting,’ Dennison offered.

More laughter. Hailey smiled politely.

Christ, it was an effort.

‘I’ll be there, yes,’ she said.

‘I’ve seen the guest list,’ said Taylor. ‘Why the local politicians?’

‘It’s a charity gig, isn’t it? It’s good publicity for them. It makes them look hip and they’re doing something for a good cause. The local papers will be running the pictures for weeks.’

Taylor smiled.

‘So we’ve got to have our photos taken with a load of old cunts, just for charity?’ Dennison sneered.

‘It won’t take long,’ Hailey reassured the drummer. ‘And Jim wants some photos of the band taken inside his factory, too. But that can be done the following day.’

Taylor nodded and sipped at his gin and tonic.

‘I hope he realizes how lucky he is getting us to do this gig,’ the manager said. ‘I can’t remember the last time I let the boys do something for nothing. It’s against my principles.’ He smiled crookedly.

‘Well, it’ll be good publicity for the band, too,’ Hailey reminded him.

‘The last thing this lot need is more publicity,’ Taylor told her.

‘Making headlines for helping people is better than making headlines for trashing hotel rooms and punching photographers,’ mused Hailey.

‘I don’t like fucking photographers,’ Levine interjected.

Trudi laughed, but found she was the only one. Her cheeks coloured and she looked down, fumbling for a cigarette in her handbag.

‘Well, as long as you promise not to hit any of them before, during or after this gig,’ said Hailey, looking directly at Levine.

‘I’ll do my best,’ he said scornfully. ‘The last one was trying to get pictures of Jenny’s tits. He wasn’t showing her any respect. That’s why I smacked him.’