Warhol's Prophecy (52 page)

There was an unearthly calmness in Rob’s eyes. A resignation.

It said, ‘
I understand.
’

She studied his ravaged features. The cuts on his face. The blood on his jacket. The wound in his shoulder.

Some of his red fluid had splashed onto Becky’s little party dress.

Becky?

The Scorpion machine-pistol pressed against her skull.

So much love.

‘You know what?’ Walker observed. ‘You’re right: no one should have to make a decision like that, should they? How
would
you choose?’ He shook his head. ‘Let
me
decide for you.’

He pulled both triggers simultaneously.

G
UNFIRE
.

Screams.

Sounds welded together to form one monstrous cacophony.

Hailey’s eyes bulged madly in their sockets as she saw her child and her husband shot down.

She could hear screams, but she was barely aware they were hers. And yet they rose like the gunsmoke – screams torn raw from the base of her spine.

Screams of complete abject devastation.

She was still screaming as she pumped the trigger of the Steyr.

Once. Twice. Three times. More.

The recoil was massive.

The pistol slammed back against the heel of her hand. The muzzle-flash blinded her. Pieces of lead and fragments of carbon flew out. Some struck her cheeks. The spent cartridge cases spun into the air and bounced off the floor.

The first bullet missed.

The second caught Walker in the chest.

It tore through his lung, erupted from his back, and sent him toppling.

The third hit him in the left forearm, shattered bone, caused him to drop the Scorpion.

The fourth hit him in the thigh.

Severed the femoral artery.

Massive gouts of blood began to spurt high into the air as he hit the floor. Some of the crimson fluid struck Hailey in the face, but she continued to advance. Continued to pump the trigger.

From such close range it was difficult to miss.

Another hit him in the stomach.

Green bile mingled with the dark blood as his spleen and gall bladder were lacerated by a high-calibre slug travelling at over 1,500 feet a second.

He was lying on his back, the Sig still gripped in his right hand.

Hailey stopped firing.

She stood over him. Between the bodies of her husband and her child.

She knew there was no point checking to see if they were still alive.

Was there?

Do you believe in miracles?

Her hearing was practically gone. It felt as if she’d been struck repeatedly with a hammer.

Numbness.

Her throat was dry. Clogged, like her nostrils, with the stench of cordite and gunpowder.

And blood.

Her husband’s blood.

Her daughter’s blood.

Walker was smiling slightly, blood dribbling over his lips.

He was trying to speak, but the effort seemed too great.

Somewhere in the distance Hailey heard sirens. Drawing closer.

‘Tell them,’ Walker managed to gasp, and the effort caused him to vomit. Bloodied matter gushed from his mouth as he coughed. ‘Tell them who did this.’

Hailey moved like an automaton, eyes blank, movements mechanical.

She picked up the Scorpion and wiped the butt and frame.

Then she did the same with the MP5.

Walker watched in bemusement.

She wrenched the Sig from his hand and did the same.

Then, as he watched, she gripped each of the weapons in her own hands.

She held each to her breast for fleeting seconds, as if it were some kind of suckling child. Then she dropped each on the table behind her.

The sirens were really loud now.

Hailey knelt close to him. Between the bodies of her husband and her daughter.

‘My witness,’ he gasped, the smile fading slightly. ‘Tell . . . who . . . did this.’

Hailey spun the Steyr in her fist, pushed the barrel up under her chin.

Why live?

If Walker had possessed the strength, he would have tried to stop her.

She fired.

Blew the top of her own head off.

‘No,’ Walker gasped.

Hailey’s body fell sideways, across that of Becky.

The sirens were even closer.

Walker heard urgent footsteps rumbling through the hotel, towards the dining room. Voices were raised. Shouts heard.

He saw uniformed men.

He raised a hand – but barely an inch.

Blood was still jetting madly from the wound in his thigh, but now even that was beginning to abate.

His heart was stopping.

He felt so cold.

And afraid.

He closed his eyes . . .

EXTRACT FROM THE
MIRROR
, 17 APRIL:

. . . All four members of the band Waterhole were killed in the massacre, which also claimed the lives of sixty-three other guests.

Police say that the attack seemed motiveless, and as yet they have no idea why it was carried out, or why Waterhole were singled out.

Fingerprints found on four weapons discovered at the scene of the massacre have been identified as belonging to Hailey Gibson, who, police believe, murdered her own husband and daughter as well as so many other party guests, before finally taking her own life.

All the casualties have been identified except one man in his early thirties, thought to have been the last of Gibson’s victims. He was dead upon arrival in hospital, and his identity still remains a mystery . . .

Shaun Hutson
is a bestselling author and is recognized internationally as a master of the dark urban thriller. He lives with his family in Buckinghamshire.

‘The man who writes what others are afraid even to imagine’

Sunday Times

‘The energy of his storytelling is overwhelming’

Time Out

‘Soon descends into a dark world that most people hope they will never have to enter . . . Hutson is regarded as being one of the best authors of urban thrillers and, on this form, you can see why’

Aberdeen Press and Journal

‘A spiralling vortex of mayhem and mystery . . . A tense thriller that never loses its grip and will keep Hutson fans reading well into the night’

Bolton Evening News

Also by Shaun Hutson

SLUGS

SPAWN

EREBUS

SHADOWS

BREEDING GROUND

DEATHDAY

RELICS

VICTIMS

ASSASSIN

NEMESIS

RENEGADES

CAPTIVES

HEATHEN

DEADHEAD

WHITE GHOST

LUCY’S CHILD

STOLEN ANGELS

KNIFE EDGE

PURITY

EXIT WOUNDS

COMPULSION

In view of the fact that I nearly got lynched by several readers because there were no acknowledgements in the last novel (are you lot only buying them for
that
bit? I suspect you are . . .) you will hereby find that omission rectified. It won’t happen again, I promise.

I would, as usual, like to thank a very large and disparate (in some cases, desperate) group of people and places for help, inspiration and sanity-saving connected with the writing of this novel.

Many thanks to my new publishers for their support and belief. Extra special thanks to Peter Lavery for his expertise and his scribblings (OK, so I rubbed most of them out, it’s the thought that counts . . .). Thanks also to Matt Smith (for the ideas and for making me extra work . . . Cheers, Matt, I’ll do the same for you some day). Just joking fellas, thanks. Many thanks to the sales team of Macmillan. In fact, to all of you.

Special thanks to Dee, Zena, Jo Bolsom, Sanctuary Music, Iron Maiden, Wally (if it’s Thursday it must be Madrid) Grove. Thanks to Martin ‘Gooner’ Phillips, who suffered, as I did, last September. To Terri, Rachel and Rebecca. To Ian Austin (congratulations again . . .). Thanks to Nicki Stinson (dinner’s ready!).

Very special thanks to James Whale, Linda Bartley and Ash.

To Jack Taylor, Tom Sharp, Amin Saleh, Lewis Bloch, Damian and Christina Pulle. To Stephen Luckman, too.

Thanks also to Maurice for the hot dogs and the insults . . .

Special thanks also to Hailey Owen. To Caroline at Platinum Services. To Factotum.

A special thank you to Rob Jones at Central TV. Always a pleasure to work with you, Rob, even if that bloody bulldog
did
smell . . .

To a mate of mine who didn’t want to be named, so I’ll just say, thanks R.H.

Indirect thanks to Martin Scorsese, Sam Peckinpah and Walt Disney (just making sure you’re still paying attention – the last one was a joke . . .). Also to Metallica, Queensrÿche and Ozzy Osbourne. Thanks also to whoever makes those elasticated bandages for when your calf muscles disintegrate . . .

Thanks to the Rhiga Royal Hotel in New York and still to Margaret in Lindy’s in Times Square.

As ever, thank you to Liverpool Football Club. The mighty Reds. The
only
Reds. To all those in the Paisley Lounge and beyond. Many thanks to Steve ‘The Residents for ever’ Lucas and Paul ‘mastermind’ Garner. Thanks to Aaron ‘cultured’ Reynolds for sharing the driving and the anger and the jokes and the tea at Keele. By the way, up yours Sky Sports. I hope you’re happy to see your efforts to ruin our game are continuing as planned. Football belongs on a Saturday afternoon. Leave it there. Swivel, you bastards.

I try to say thanks to my mum and dad in every book but, as usual, it never seems enough. Probably because it isn’t.

Extra special thanks to my wife, Belinda, for absolutely everything. The only woman I know who is prepared to accept me for the man I can only apologize for being. And, of course, to the other girl in my life, who doesn’t really care that Dad shouts at the TV when the football’s on, laughs when he drives too fast on the way back from nursery, or sings along to the CD. And who forgives him when he can’t quite manage to do
all
the
South Park
voices at seven in the morning. I speak, of course, of my precious, beautiful daughter. OK, I own up, it
was
my idea to buy that black outfit for Barbie . . .

And to you, my readers. You’re always there and I thank you. I hope you always will be. It’s a long road sometimes, but we’ve still got a hell of a journey left. There’s a lot of fighting to be done yet.

Let’s go.

First published 1999 by Macmillan

This edition published 2000 by Pan Books

This electronic edition published 2011 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com