Warhol's Prophecy

The car was spinning out of control.

Rob Gibson could see that it was going to crash. Beside him, Becky opened her mouth to scream.

There was a bright red flash.

‘I won,’ shouted Becky.

Rob gazed at the TV screen and watched the remains of his own car going up in smoke.

‘I win again, Dad,’ Becky said, holding up the Playstation joypad triumphantly. ‘Shall we have another go?’

‘On a different game,’ Rob insisted, tickling her.

He grinned as his daughter dissolved into fits of giggles.

‘I might have a better chance of winning without that racket in the background too,’ Rob observed, looking towards the CD player. ‘I can’t concentrate with that noise going on.’

‘That’s not noise, Dad,’ said Becky, searching through her other games. ‘It’s Waterhole. They’re great.’

‘Do all your friends listen to them as well?’

‘Some of them are going to the concert tonight. Billy and Megan asked me if I could get them autographs.’

‘I don’t know if we’ll get to meet them, sweetheart.’

‘Mum said we could.’

Rob nodded. ‘Then I’m sure we will.’ He smiled.

He watched as Becky selected another game, held it up and then pushed it into the Playstation.

‘This one’s tennis, Dad. You might have a better chance with this one,’ she told him.

‘Thanks. Haven’t you got any football games?’ he wanted to know.

‘No,’ she told him. ‘You never bought me any.’

Rob laughed. ‘Tennis it is then.’

They began playing.

‘Dad,’ Becky said, staring at the screen. ‘You still love Mum, don’t you?’

Rob looked at her, but saw that she was concentrating on the game.

‘Of course I do, babe,’ he said softly. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I’ve heard you and Mum shouting at each other, and people who don’t love each other shout at each other, don’t they? Megan said her mum and dad used to shout at each other a lot, and then her dad moved away.’

‘I love your mum,’ Rob told her. ‘People sometimes disagree about things, so they shout. It doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.’

Becky looked at him and smiled.

‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘Look, I’ve just won the first game.’

She laughed out loud.

In the background, Waterhole continued to thunder from the stereo.

Caroline Hacket spun the taps, then tipped some bubble-bath into the churning water, stirring it around with one hand.

The delightful aroma of lemon began to rise from the steaming water.

She was wearing just a bathrobe as she padded back through the bedroom and into her office.

She’d been working most of the day. The book was nearly finished, and she’d always found she wrote quicker when she was nearing the end. The thought of a publisher’s cheque due on delivery of the manuscript always seemed to aid creativity, she mused, listening to the water running into the bath.

She had another hour before Walker arrived to pick her up.

A nice soak would ease away the aches.

Caroline looked at the screen, reread what she’d written.

One more paragraph should do it.

She decided to finish it while the bath was filling up.

THE GUN METAL felt cold against his hands.

The weapon was heavy as he hefted it in his fist, admiring the sleek lines of the pistol.

The Steyr Model GB.

Nearly six inches long and weighing over twenty-nine ounces, the entire gun was constructed of steel, even the grip plates.

He checked the eighteen-round magazine, thumbing several more of the hollow-tip rounds into the slim steel frame. Then he worked the slide and laid the pistol inside the case, alongside the four spare clips.

The Scorpion machine-pistol, the CZ68, was only slightly larger, but infinitely more lethal. Capable of spewing out over eight hundred 9mm rounds a minute. It had been chambered to take the same kind of slugs as the Steyr.

Like the rounds he’d loaded into the pistol, the bullets he’d fed into the six spare magazines of the Scorpion were also hollow-tipped.

When fired, they would be travelling in excess of one thousand feet a second, but when they struck their target they would explode.

The Scorpion also had a folding shoulder stock and a silencer, but he doubted if he would need either.

The Heckler and Koch MP5SD3 featured a telescoping butt, should he require it. But, again, he didn’t expect the need to arise. Both of the machine-pistols could be held in one fist, if necessary. The MP5’s thirty- round magazines were capable of firing six hundred and fifty shots a minute.

It was a beautiful gun and he couldn’t resist running his hands over the frame before he slid it into the case with the other two weapons.

The Sig-Sauer P225 was, like the other weapons, a 9mm. Eight-round magazine. Capable of putting a hole in a brick wall from close range.

He studied the pistol a moment longer, then laid it alongside the others.

Before he sealed the small carrying case, he looked almost lovingly at the awesome array of firepower before him. Then, smiling, he fastened the two combination locks of the case.

The time had come.

103

HAILEY COULDN’T HELP but think how lacking in genuine VIPs the VIP stand was.

There were lots of music-industry people, friends of James Marsh, business associates, local dignitaries – but precious little to satisfy the hordes of celebrity-spotters who had gathered close to the rear of the stand, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone even remotely recognizable.

As another limo drew up and disgorged its faceless passengers, Hailey saw one watching girl shake her head in irritation.

The area behind the makeshift stand had been roped off, its perimeter patrolled by enormous men in yellow jackets with SHOWSEC stencilled on them. Hailey had watched the desultory dribble of nobodies entering the VIP stand, and thought that the security men might be better employed elsewhere. It didn’t seem likely that the arrival of two more local councillors was going to test their crowd-handling abilities.

Hailey smiled dutifully as she showed the two councillors to their seats in the makeshift stand, hearing the older of the two men complaining about the sound from the stage.

One of the support bands was in the middle of its set, and was meeting with nothing short of indifference from the waiting crowd. Still, Hailey reasoned, indifference was better than the hail of urine-filled plastic bottles that had accompanied the departure of the first support band. The lead singer had dashed back and forth across the stage looking for hands to slap, but had received only an apple core on the back of his head for his trouble.

The joys of being in a support slot, thought Hailey.