Warhol's Prophecy

The gash it opened spread from one ear to the other, her riven throat yawning like the gills of a fish. Blood exploded from the massive wound, arteries and veins spewing their crimson load onto the windscreen.

She felt consciousness slipping from her.

By the time the knife was driven into her face for the third time, she was already close to death. Slumped in her seat, the life draining from her.

Even when the tip of the blade sliced one of her eyeballs in two, and sent vitreous fluid spilling down her chest to mingle with the thick viscosity of her blood, she didn’t move.

And she knew nothing of the ten wounds that followed.

93

THE RAIN BEAT out a steady tattoo on Adam Walker’s umbrella but he barely noticed it.

He stood gazing at the grave, every now and then drawing in a deep breath.

The smell of wet earth and grass was strong in his nostrils. Piled high on either side of the deep hole, the clods of dirt were turning to brownish-yellow mud under the downpour.

Raindrops battered the cellophane-wrapped flowers around the grave, the crackling sound mingling with the beating of rain against his black umbrella, and he glanced up at the sky, wondering when the dark clouds would pass. Great solid banks of them hovered there. All they offered was the promise of more rain – more misery.

All the mourners had left.

He’d been surprised at how many people had turned up to see his father laid to rest. Some staff – even some patients – from Bayfield House. Even a few of the old man’s ex-parishioners. Other people he didn’t recognize.

He’d accepted their condolences and their apologetic handshakes, then thanked them for coming. Expressed his gratitude for their floral tributes.

All these tasks he’d performed like some kind of automaton. And most of the time he’d looked right through them, in the direction of the grave itself. As if afraid that his father wasn’t actually dead. Perhaps the old man was going to clamber up from that six-foot-deep hole and announce his own resurrection. Just as he’d spent his time as a vicar preaching about the resurrection of Christ.

Perhaps, Adam told himself, that was why he had stayed so close to the grave for so long. Maybe he had to be sure that his father was gone for good. He wondered if that realization would only come when the hole was filled in with earth. When the headstone finally stood there. When the floral tributes had died and rotted away.

The vicar performing the short ceremony had babbled on about his father going to a better place, then he’d shaken hands with Walker and told him not to worry about his father any more. That he was at peace now.

Walker had nodded slowly.

A peace the old man didn’t deserve.

He had looked into the eyes of the vicar, then at his dog-collar, and he had felt anger. Whether it had showed or not, he neither knew nor cared.

And what words would the headstone bear?

‘Beloved Father. Sadly missed.’

‘At Peace.’

‘Rot in Hell’?

Walker gripped the umbrella more tightly, and prepared to turn away from the grave at last.

‘Adam.’

He heard the voice and recognized it immediately.

Hailey Gibson made her way slowly across the wet grass towards him.

Walker smiled.

‘What are you doing here?’ he wanted to know.

‘I heard about your father’s death,’ she explained. ‘Caroline told me. She said the funeral was today.’

‘It’s good of you to come – but why did you? You didn’t know him.’

She caught the slight edge to his voice.

‘I came to see you,’ Hailey said quietly, her voice almost lost beneath the falling rain. ‘To see how you were coping. Whatever’s happened between us, I still wanted to say I’m sorry about your father.’

His expression softened a little.

‘I appreciate it,’ he told her. ‘Especially considering, a week or two ago, you wouldn’t even speak to me.’

Hailey opened her mouth to say something but then decided against it.

Walker turned back to face the grave.

‘I always thought I’d feel differently when it happened,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d throw a party when I found out he was dead.’ He smiled wanly.

‘He was still your father,’ Hailey reminded him, ‘no matter what happened between you.’

‘You mean even though he brutally abused me when I was a child, I should still shed a tear for him? I don’t think I’ve got any tears left, Hailey. Not for him. I cried them all when I was younger. Usually after he’d just left me alone in my room, when he’d finished punishing me. After he’d told me it was God’s Will. And I believed him then. Stupid, wasn’t I?’

Hailey shook her head. Thought about reaching out to touch his arm. To offer some words of comfort.

She realized there were none that were adequate.

Above them, the wind set the lower branches of the trees rustling. The rain continued to fall.

Hailey regarded him silently for a moment, then turned away.

‘Thanks for coming,’ he said softly. ‘I mean it. I’ll see you around.’

She nodded.

‘Do you need a lift back?’ she wanted to know.

‘I’ll walk. Perhaps it’ll clear my head. Thanks, anyway.’

Hailey was a few feet away from him when he spoke again.

‘I am sorry he’s dead,’ Walker said. ‘Do you know why? Because I had to sit and watch it happen. And what really bothers me is that he died too soon, too quickly. He didn’t have enough pain. I wish he’d died in agony. I wish I’d killed him.’

94

DAVID LAYTON SWALLOWED what was left in his glass and banged it down on the bar top.

‘Your round,’ he said, belching loudly, and prodding Russell Poole.

Poole was fiddling around with a small calculator, and muttered something under his breath as the figures suddenly disappeared. He ordered two more pints and readjusted his position on his bar stool.

The Black Squirrel was busy. The jukebox was thundering out the latest sounds and the never-ending electronic buzz of numerous fruit machines mingled with several loud conversations to form one discordant cacophony.

Layton surveyed the other drinkers dispassionately, glancing at their faces – taking a little more interest in the young women who occasionally entered. One in particular, a blonde in a black mini-dress who had come in with two friends, had already smiled coyly at him. If she was more than eighteen, he’d be surprised. Perhaps not even that: the make-up was too heavy, and she tottered on her high heels like a tightrope walker. Still, she looked good, and eighteen months inside had made him less discerning. He smiled back at her.

The youth who approached Russell Poole did so nervously.

Layton saw him coming: easing his way through the crush near the bar, his gaze never leaving Poole.

Late teens, thought Layton.

The lad’s face was pitted, and his hair was so slick with gel it looked as if someone had dipped his head in a vat of grease.

He stood looking at Poole, then reached out and touched his shoulder.