Warhol's Prophecy (43 page)

‘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.’

D
AVID
L
AYTON 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.

Poole spun round to face the youth.

‘Someone told me to talk to you,’ said the younger man, swallowing hard. ‘They said you could get stuff.’

Poole hawked and swallowed. ‘Fuck off,’ he snapped, turning his back.

‘I’ve got money,’ protested the youth, and shoved a balled-up twenty onto the bar in front of Poole.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Poole rasped, looking first at the money, then at the youth.

‘Do you know this cunt?’ Layton wanted to know.

Poole shook his head.

‘I need some stuff,’ the youth repeated.

‘And I told you to fuck off,’ Poole said.

‘What kind of stuff?’ Layton enquired.

‘Well, you know . . .’ The youth smiled.

‘No, I don’t. You tell me,’ Layton demanded.

‘Whizz,’ the youth told him, the smile fading. He was picking nervously at a whitehead on his cheek.

‘Listen, spotty,’ Layton said quietly. ‘Who told you to come over here and interrupt our conversation?’

‘Spotty’ looked bemused.

‘What’s the stuff for?’ Poole asked.

‘A party,’ the youth explained.

‘And you think that my friend can get it for you?’ Layton insisted.

‘Spotty’ nodded.

‘Come back tomorrow night, same time,’ Poole told him. ‘It’ll cost you fifty.’

‘Fuck,’ said the youth dejectedly.

‘You don’t like the price, then fuck off,’ Poole said.

‘We’ve got overheads.’ Layton grinned. He picked up the twenty and stuffed it into his jeans.

‘That’s mine,’ the youth protested.

‘Call it a finder’s fee,’ Layton chuckled. ‘Now fuck off, spotty.’

The youth hesitated, picked at the whitehead a few more times, then disappeared into the crowd.

‘Fucking kids,’ said Poole.

Layton drained what was left in his glass and got to his feet.

‘I’m off,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I might hang around outside and wait for that little blonde,’ Layton chuckled.

‘She’s only about fifteen.’

‘Who cares? Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed.’

He ruffled Poole’s hair, and pushed his way through the crowd towards the exit.

The blonde smiled at him again as he left.

As he stepped outside, he pulled up the collar of his jacket. The wind had grown cold and he headed down the street towards the bottom of the hill, past closed or empty shops, most of which sported security grilles over their windows. Several of the street-lights were broken. The road was dark, and few vehicles used this thoroughfare at night.

Except the one that now sped towards Layton, accelerating as it saw him step into the road.

The driver had sat patiently outside the pub for the last hour – and now the wait was over.

The approaching car was driving without headlights.

All Layton heard was the roar of the engine, as it bore down on him.

Even if he’d seen it, his chances of avoiding the speeding vehicle would have been slim.

It hit him, doing sixty.

The impact sent him hurtling into the air, where he seemed to be suspended for precious seconds before crashing back down and bouncing off the car’s roof.

As he hit the ground, he heard the screech of tyres.

The car was turning round.

Coming back towards him.

Agonizing pain ran the full length of his left leg, and up most of his back.

Movement was difficult.

His head was spinning, but even in his battered state he realized that, if he didn’t get out of the road, the car was going to run over him.

He looked up and saw the vehicle speeding towards him.

It skidded to a halt a couple of feet away, engine still running.

Layton could feel the heat from the radiator grille, the car was so close. He smelled petrol and rubber.

Heard the sound of a door opening.

Tasted blood in his mouth, felt it running down his face.

The pain in his leg seemed to intensify.

He saw that the driver was carrying something.

Something heavy.

There was a thunderous impact across the top of his head.

Darkness.

H
E WAS BLIND
.

For terrifying seconds, David Layton was convinced he had gone blind.

His heart hammered against his ribs and he tried to cry out, but then he realized that the darkness was caused not by blindness, but by the strip of material fastened so tightly around his eyes.

The same material that had been used to bind his wrists and ankles?

Indeed, even if he had wanted to scream, he couldn’t.

His mouth was sealed shut by several strips of masking tape wound right around the back of his head. It stuck to his hair and pulled at his scalp when he tried to move.

The pain from his injured leg was almost unbearable, and he realized that it must be broken. Somewhere around the thigh, he guessed.

Had the blindfold been removed, he would have noticed the gleaming point of bone protruding through his ripped jeans, its end bloody and leaking dark red marrow.

He had no idea where he was, or how long he’d been unconscious.

More to the point, he had no idea who had run him down, then bundled him into the car, and spent so long carefully blindfolding, binding and gagging him.

Pain and fear filled his mind in equal measures.

He tried to shout through the masking-tape gag. Tried to tell whoever had run him down that there had been some kind of mistake.

That he had money he could give them.

That he needed medical treatment for the shattering pain in his broken leg.

He was sitting on grass: that much he did know. He could feel its damp blades beneath his hands. Could smell wet earth in his nostrils.

Wherever he was, it was deadly quiet.

No passing cars. No dogs barking. No voices.

He guessed he was in the countryside somewhere. He didn’t know how long he’d been travelling in the car. Didn’t know how long his captor had been driving.

He didn’t even know what time it was.

From the silence, though, he guessed it was still night.

He heard movement close to him.

Tried to gauge where it was coming from. His left? His right?

Jesus, if only he could see. If only he could get free. Get his hands on the bastard who had done this.

Anger now began to enter his mind, but it disappeared rapidly.

The fear returned.

He heard more movement. Realized that his captor was standing only feet away.

The pain in his leg had not diminished and each movement brought fresh waves of agony.

For frenzied moments he struggled to free his hands, then gave up and slumped back exhausted.

His captor had moved closer now. Layton felt a hand against his thigh. Against the protruding bone that stuck out through his torn skin and ripped jeans.

It was that same hand that gripped the marrow-weeping bone and pulled.

Pain unlike anything he had ever experienced before enveloped his entire body.

Inside the gag he shrieked in unimaginable agony, felt consciousness slipping away from him, but a series of sharp slaps to his face kept him hanging on. Denied him the oblivion of a blackout.

Blows began to rain down all over his legs.

Blows that combined effortless expertise with tremendous power. Blows with the same heavy object that had first struck his head. Blows that shattered more bone.

The tibia splintered with a harsh crack.

The patella of the right knee took three whacks before it finally broke.

The left one went after just one thunderous strike.

This time he could not retain consciousness and he welcomed the darkness, but it would not come. More sharp blows to his face. Water splashed onto his cheeks and something freezing cold against his neck that he realized instantly was a blade.

Tears were coursing down his cheeks. Pain? Fear?

His entire lower body felt as if it was ablaze.

Then he felt another blow, this time to his shoulder.

The left clavicle broke easily.

So did the right.

The knife was pressed against his cheek again.

Drawn quickly across it to open the flesh to the bone.