Warhol's Prophecy

‘Goodbye, then, Becky,’ he said, waving to her. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’ He bowed exaggeratedly. ‘Although I wish it had been in happier circumstances.’

Becky sniffed back a tear and managed a smile.

‘’Bye, Adam,’ said the little girl, waving back at him.

‘Thanks again, Mr Walker,’ Hailey offered.

‘Adam,’ he insisted. ‘It was my pleasure, Hailey.’

She looked surprised that he knew her name.

Noticing this, he pointed at Becky.

‘You can’t have any secrets when you’ve got a five-year-old, can you?’

And he was gone.

Jenkins followed him out of the room.

‘Are we going home now, Mum?’ Becky wanted to know.

Hailey looked at her and kissed her on the forehead.

‘What do you think?’ She smiled.

16 WARDLE BROOK AVENUE, HATTERSLEY, GREATER MANCHESTER

It was too cold to be out at this time of night. Standing waiting for the door to be opened. What was the big deal anyway? Why the secrecy?

Mind you, Ian was always like that. But Ian knew what was what. Clever man, Ian.

He’d lent him books and recommended others for reading. Part of an education, he had joked.

It was Ian who answered the door now. He looked smart for such a late hour: waistcoat and cufflinks. He looked as if he was on his way out somewhere, not on his way to bed.

He ushered his visitor inside, said something about those miniature bottles of alcohol he’d been promising to show. Then he disappeared for a moment.

The scream came from the sitting room.

Then a voice he recognized.

‘Help him. Help him.’

He dashed into the sitting room, stopping dead at the threshold.

The room was in virtual darkness. Thick shadows, cast by the lamp on top of the TV set, carpeted the small room.

On the floor next to the couch a figure lay on its stomach.

It was screaming.

Ian was standing astride it.

Hitting it with something.

Great savage blows across the back of the skull, and the figure continued to writhe and scream.

He realized that the figure was a youth barely older than himself. Or wasn’t it real?

No, this had to be some kind of joke, didn’t it?

Ian was playing a joke on him.

The figure had to be a life-size model the way it jerked about with each fresh impact.

Each fresh impact on the skull.

With the axe.

The weapon was wielded with expert ferocity. And now he saw blood spurting, and he knew for sure that this was no joke.

He looked at Ian, who continued striking with the axe. He heard words like ‘bastard’ and ‘cunt’ shouted with each blow.

Fourteen blows.

And there was blood everywhere.

On the carpet. On the sofa. The walls. The fireplace.

It would have to be cleaned up.

Perhaps the woman watching would do that, he thought. The woman with the platinum-blonde hair, who stood gazing raptly at the scene of carnage before her. She was patting her two dogs, who had been in the room the whole time – but he had only just noticed them.

The woman paused for a moment, as if waiting for orders, then she wandered into the kitchen and he heard the sound of running water.

Ian told him to go and help. Help to clean the place up. Myra couldn’t be expected to do it all on her own, could she?

And, when they’d finished, she’d make them all a cup of tea.

Good old Myra.

As he stepped across the blood-slicked carpet, he almost trod in something.

Something reddish-grey in colour.

Something with the consistency of jelly.

It took him only a second to realize it was a sliver of brain.

He thought he was going to be sick.

6 October 1965

Do you see the terror in her eyes, Ian?

Myra Hindley

God save Myra Hindley, God save Ian Brady,

Even though he’s horrible and she ain’t what you call a lady . . .

The Sex Pistols

Preparation

THE BLADE WAS no more than three inches long.

Fashioned from a single piece of iron, it was triangular in shape, rough-sharpened on both sides and needle-sharp at the tip.

The makeshift handle had been formed by driving the sharpened metal into a piece of thick wood. That wood had then been repeatedly wrapped in masking tape.

The whole lethal weapon was less than six inches in length.

‘And how the fuck did you get that out of the machine shop?’ asked Paul Doolan, looking at the blade.

David Layton didn’t answer.

He sat silently on the edge of his bunk, gazing down almost lovingly at the knife that rested on his pillow.

‘If the screws flip this fucking cell, we’re both in the shit,’ said Doolan. ‘If they find that, we’ll . . .’

‘They’re not going to find it,’ snapped Layton irritably. ‘The fucking thing won’t be here long enough for that. Besides, if we don’t give the fucking twirls reason to flip us, then they won’t, will they? This’ll be gone by tomorrow.’

‘When you doing it?’ Doolan wanted to know.

Layton shrugged.

‘When the time’s right,’ he said quietly.

‘Who is this geezer anyway? Why does Brycey want him cut?’

‘It’s family business, so I hear. This Morton bloke, the one who Brycey wants cut, they stick him in here for receiving, or something like that. Only it turns out, while he’s been in the real world, he’s been shafting Brycey’s cousin, hasn’t he?’