Warhol's Prophecy (18 page)

He sipped at his drink.

‘He’s a good-looking bloke, isn’t he?’

‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ Hailey wanted to know.

‘A nice bloke.’

‘What are you going on about, Rob?’

‘I’m just saying he’s a nice bloke. What’s so wrong with that?’

‘Yes, he’s a nice bloke. Yes, he’s good-looking. What do you want to hear? How about, “Yes, I’d suck his cock if he asked me”?’

‘There’s no need to get stupid about it, Hailey.’

‘Don’t patronize me, you bastard. I
know
you.’

They locked stares.

‘I’m going to bed,’ said Rob. ‘Perhaps
you
should, too. You’ll need to feel fresh for the morning, won’t you? I’m sure Jim Marsh wouldn’t want you fucking up on your first day back.’

Rob got to his feet.

He drained what was left in his glass and left it empty on the coffee table.

‘It’s great to be home,’ he said, with a humourless grin.

‘You’re pathetic at times, Rob.’

He closed the sitting-room door behind him. Hailey heard his footsteps on the stairs.

She felt the first tears welling up in her eyes.

Tears of anger? Of pain? Of loss?

It felt as if there was a huge empty hole inside her.

In her very soul.

She continued to stare blankly at the television.

When she first heard the phone, Hailey had no idea how long it had been ringing.

She forced open her eyes, emerging from a troubled sleep to register its electronic shrillness.

Rob flapped out a hand and grabbed the receiver, pulling it to his ear, his eyes still closed.

‘Hello,’ he croaked.

Hailey saw that the glowing red digits on the radio alarm showed 12.49 a.m.

‘Hello?’ Rob said again, clearing his throat.

She rolled over and looked at him – at the phone.

‘Either say something, or get off the fucking line,’ he snapped into the mouthpiece.

After a moment or two he slammed the receiver down.

‘Who was it?’ she wanted to know.

‘Some dickhead with the wrong number,’ he told her.

‘Are you sure?’

He exhaled deeply. ‘Go to sleep, Hailey,’ Rob murmured.

‘Didn’t she speak? Perhaps she was frightened I’d overhear. Never mind, you’ll see her again tomorrow, won’t you?’

‘There was no one there,’ he said angrily. ‘If it happens again,
you
pick it up. It might be your friend Adam.’

They lay with their backs to each other.

It was a long time before either slept.

OAK LANE, MANNINGHAM PARK, BRADFORD

She stood banging on the roof of the car and shouting.

He spotted her as he drove closer, and it took him a moment or two to realize that the car was empty.

What was the stupid bitch playing at?

She was screaming obscenities at the empty vehicle, reeling from it every now and then, and he could see that she was obviously drunk.

Probably done the rounds tonight. The Perseverance, the Carlisle, and now, he guessed, she was heading towards the International.

Drunk, pathetic, plying her filthy trade for anyone desperate enough to pay her.

He slowed down as he drew closer, and she noticed his car.

In fact she started to walk across towards it.

She was dressed in jeans, a short leather jacket and a blue shirt. Most of the buttons were undone.

He shook his head. They were all the same.

She bent down and smiled drunkenly at him through the passenger side-window, then reached for the door handle.

He made no attempt to stop her. In fact he smiled as she slipped into the seat beside him.

He looked at her for a moment, listening to her drunken babble. To the same sort of thing that they all said: to him and to every other man who paid them for the use of their bodies.

This one was different, somehow.

She was in her mid-twenties but the ravages of working the streets didn’t seem to have affected her the same way it did so many of the others.

This one was even quite pretty – in a cheap kind of way. Her skin was still fresh and taut, her long dark hair lustrous.

He could smell the booze on her breath as she directed him to her flat.

He parked the car and allowed her to climb out, watching as she headed towards the ground-floor bedsit.

As she pushed the key into the lock, still with her back to him, he slid his hand beneath the driver’s seat and pulled out the clawhammer.

He hid it inside his coat, and then followed her inside the flat.

She was prattling on about a drink, but he paid little attention. He hung up his coat, ensuring that the hammer was still concealed inside. Within easy reach.

Arms folded before him, he looked around the tiny bedsit.

The walls were a little discoloured by cigarette smoke and by the central heating. The bedspread could have done with a good wash, but apart from that it was a passable dwelling.

For someone like
her.

She sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him and began pulling off her shoes.

He pulled the hammer from his coat and struck.

The shuddering impact seemed to shock her into silence.

Sometimes they screamed, but not this one. She merely tried to rise – even when he struck her again.

The third blow sent her sprawling back across the bed.

The fourth caused her to roll off onto the floor.

He bent down and slid his hands beneath her armpits, lifting her back onto the bed.

Moving quickly, he pulled open her shirt, exposing her breasts. He tugged her jeans down past her hips too, and stood for precious seconds gazing at her.

He shook his head slightly, thinking how cheap she looked.

How many other men had seen her like this?

Blood was already pouring form her head wounds, soaking into the bedspread underneath.

He then hit her again. And again. Occasionally he would flip the hammer, using the claw to gouge into her flesh, watching the welts rise where he raked her body with its twin prongs.

He wasn’t sure if she was dead when he finally stuck the knife into her stomach. He was more transfixed by the fact that her blood looked so red. So vivid. With the others, before her, it had appeared black in the darkness. But now he almost marvelled at its brightness.

He pulled the bedsheets over her, watching the blood soak through the cotton. He could hear gurgling sounds coming from underneath them as she gargled with her own blood.

She was obviously still alive but would be in no state to tell anyone what had happened.

Death would follow fairly quickly. It was what she deserved.

Filthy whore.

He walked out, closing the door carefully behind him.

He would throw the hammer from his car on the way home, having cleaned it carefully of fingerprints.

You could never be too careful.

23 April 1977

H
AILEY COULDN’T DECIDE
exactly how she felt as she parked the Astra.

Was the fluttering in her stomach caused by exhilaration or nerves?

She sat for long moments looking up at the main entrance of SuperSounds, wondering how much the place had changed since she had last entered those carefully polished doors. The two brass handles were each cast in the shape of a letter S. Beyond them she could see the reception area.

The factory itself wasn’t that large, considering the amount of merchandise it produced, but its site still covered over half an acre.

The offices immediately before her were where the clerical work was done. Ordering, despatching, designing – that kind of thing. The manufacturing warehouses extended to her left. Large grey brick and glass edifices that housed over eighty workers.

She could see one of the delivery lorries pulling out onto the main road as she glanced in her rear-view mirror. It carried the same distinctive black livery and gold S’s that appeared everywhere in and around the building itself. Or, in fact, on anything to do with James Marsh’s business. Even the guitars made here at the factory bore that same symbol, etched in gold on each machine head.

It was a huge operation – worldwide – and it had all begun from this same site. Once only a warehouse, and with three other men apart from Marsh himself. He would design the guitars, even help in their manufacture. But, as time went on, the business expanded, growing larger and more successful until it became the global concern it was now.

As she stepped out of the Astra, Hailey could see Marsh’s black Jag parked in its usual spot.

She headed for the main doors, the wind ruffling her hair.

As she passed through into the reception area, her heels rattled noisily on the marbled floor.

The young receptionist looked up and smiled welcomingly.

‘My name’s Hailey Gibson,’ she said. ‘I’m here to see James Marsh.’

As the receptionist checked her appointment book, Hailey ran a hand through her hair again, glancing around.

Behind the reception desk there were a number of gold and platinum discs. All were dedicated to James Marsh, from a list of bands that read like a
Who’s Who
of the rock-and-pop world.

AC/DC.

Ozzy Osbourne.

Eric Clapton.

Iron Maiden.

Queensrÿche.

The Rolling Stones.

U2.

And many more.

There were more discs on the left-hand wall. Above them were a number of guitars: from the earliest designs produced here by the Marsh factory, right up to the most advanced and up-to-date models.

To her right were two lifts.

She heard a whirring noise, and a bell sounded as the lift descended to a halt.

‘Mr Marsh said you could go straight up,’ the receptionist said. ‘You’ll find him on the fifth floor.’

‘She knows where I am.’

The voice had come from out of the lift, and Hailey recognized it immediately.

James Marsh stepped from the lift and strode across the reception area to embrace Hailey. The receptionist looked on in silent bemusement.

‘I saw you pull up,’ Marsh told Hailey.

‘Checking to see that I wasn’t late?’ She smiled.

‘As if,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘Come on, I’ll show you your office.’ He beckoned her towards the lift.

The receptionist still looked on, smiling.

‘It’s OK, Julie,’ Marsh said. ‘She’ll be safe with me.’

All three of them laughed.

‘T
HEY’RE BEAUTIFUL
, J
IM
. Thank you.’

Hailey gestured towards the huge bouquet of red carnations that lay on her desk. She smiled broadly.

‘Just a little welcome-back present,’ Marsh told her.

He was in his fiftieth year but looked much younger, the only clue to his advancing years being the profusion of crow’s feet at his eye corners. His hair was flecked with grey but still lustrous, swept back from his forehead.