Warhol's Prophecy

She moved slowly towards the bed, her eyes narrowing as she saw again the mass of abrasions and bruises that covered his face and body.

Clutching a small bunch of flowers in one hand, Sandy stood at the end of the bed, watching the gentle rise and fall of Rob’s chest.

She had bought the blooms from a small shop in the foyer, just after she’d entered the hospital almost three hours ago.

There was a florist, a coffee shop and a small gift shop on the ground floor, where she’d sat patiently since her arrival, watching the visitors come and go. So many people.

Some had arrived with packages, with flowers. Some with balloons, some with toys.

She had wondered where they were all heading – what kind of illnesses the patients they were visiting suffered from.

That passed the time.

She had seen Hailey arrive around 7.30, watching her as she strode towards the row of lifts.

Sandy had been sure to remain well hidden amongst the other visitors and patients who populated this busy area of the hospital. She had positioned herself at a table behind a concrete pillar, able from there to see both the lifts and the main entrance to the hospital, but hidden from view should Hailey glance in that direction.

At one point a man in his mid-forties, dressed only in a dressing-gown and pyjama bottoms, had joined her at her table and sat there drinking his tea. He’d told her all about his prostate operation, and she listened politely, her attention hardly wavering from the lifts across the way.

The man had finally left her in peace to continue her vigil, drinking more of the strong coffee that the cafe sold. Continuing her game of guessing who each visitor had come to see. New-born children? Relatives with terminal illnesses? Mothers with arthritis? Fathers with kidney trouble?

She’d seen Hailey leave about fifteen minutes ago, but Sandy had waited deliberately before she’d headed briskly towards the lifts. When she’d first entered the hospital she’d checked with the receptionist which floor and room he was in. She now rode the lift to the third floor.

She was forced to lie to the ward sister at the nurses’ station, telling her she was Rob’s sister. She said she’d come a long way to see him, and that was why she was so late. But she’d promised not to stay long. Visiting hours were almost over.

The sister had relented and allowed her into his room.

Sandy moved nearer to him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered close to his ear.

He didn’t stir.

Sandy laid the small bunch of flowers on the bedside cabinet.

The small card bore the words: FROM SANDY.

She stepped back, gazing at him once more, before turning and heading for the door. She didn’t look back.

As she closed the door behind her, a draught swirled across the room.

The card on the flowers fell to the floor. It floated down like an autumn leaf, and lay unseen beneath the bed.

Sandy never realized she was being followed.

The same eyes that saw her clamber into the Nova also watched the car from behind as she drove home.

In the gloom, she wasn’t even aware that there was another car within fifty yards of her during the whole drive home. Similarly unaware that those same eyes watched her parking outside the flats where she lived.

Watched the light go on in her kitchen window.

She had no reason to think that anyone was interested in her movements.

Or those of her brother.

The same eyes that had watched her saw David Layton return to her flat just before 11.00 that same night. Saw Russell Poole wave him off as he headed into the small block.

The watcher waited another ten minutes, then left.

89

‘YOU DIDN’T HAVE to do this, Jim,’ said Hailey, smiling.

She looked across at James Marsh, who was sipping his Southern Comfort.

‘I know I didn’t have to,’ he told her. ‘I wanted to – just to say thanks and all that old crap.’

‘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?’