Warhol's Prophecy (7 page)

She saw Marie glance at the wall clock behind them.

Time up.

They’d been there for their allotted hour.

Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun?

Hailey was first to get to her feet, running a hand through her brown hair and exhaling deeply.

They made an appointment for the same time the following week, said their goodbyes, then headed out to the small car park where the Audi was waiting.

As Hailey clambered into the passenger seat, she thought how cold it had grown. How chilly the night air was.

She looked briefly at Rob as he started the engine.

As he did, the cassette burst into life too, the lyrics echoing inside the car.

‘
. . . Will you be there, am I the one who waits for you, or are you unforgiven too? . . .
’

They didn’t speak during the drive home.

T
HE SILENCE WAS
oppressive.

Broken only by the steady click-click of Hailey’s high heels on the polished floor of the corridor, it seemed to surround her like a blanket.

She walked slowly, eyes fixed ahead, not glancing left or right, concerned only with the door at the far end of the corridor. It was dark wood polished so vigorously it practically shone.

Hailey paused at the door and wondered whether or not she should knock.

As she waited, she turned and looked behind her.

The corridor was empty.

It was filled only with that deafening silence.

She shifted slowly from one foot to the other, embarrassed by the noise her heels made on the floor. She raised herself up onto her toes to minimize the tattoo they clattered out. She tapped gently on the door, then walked in without invitation.

The room was barely twenty feet square and, if anything, the silence here was even more palpable than out in the corridor.

Red velvet curtains were draped across the far wall, and between them was suspended a large wooden cross. On either side of it two candles burned, their flames unmoved by the slightest breeze.

There were two tables inside the room, the occupant of each covered by a heavy black cloth.

Hailey tried to suck in a breath, but the air seemed as static as it was noiseless. At least her heels made no sound on the thick carpet as she moved towards the first of the tables.

She thrust out a hand and gripped the edge of the dark cloth, preparing to ease it back, but also afraid to.

She closed her eyes so tightly that white stars danced behind her lids, and she tried again to breathe deeply.

Hailey lifted the cloth . . .

Becky’s body seemed a mass of dark blue, violet and yellow bruises. Hardly an inch of flesh seemed to have escaped the massive onslaught – not even her face. The skin around her eyes was so swollen that the orbs seemed to have sunk down into the skull itself. Those few areas of her body that weren’t discoloured looked as white as milk.

Two jagged cuts bisected her throat: hacked so deeply into the flesh that her head was practically severed. The two savage gashes joined to form one bloodied chasm that, to Hailey’s tortured gaze, looked like another mouth smiling obscenely up at her.

She wanted to scream, wanted to cry out, but it was as if her emotions were as paralysed as her larynx. All she could do was stare helplessly at Becky’s body. She wanted so much to touch it. To hold it one last time. Embrace it. Kiss those ragged, torn lips, to say sorry.

Sorry for letting her get lost in the crowded shopping centre.

Sorry that she couldn’t help her now.

Hailey felt a solitary tear run down her cheek.

She turned towards the second table, pulling the cloth away with more certainty.

There were two bodies on this one.

Unblemished. Uninjured.

Both naked.

They were locked together in an embrace, pressed urgently against each other.

As one, their heads turned towards her and they smiled.

Her husband and Sandy Bennett.

Both naked. Both smiling.

From behind her she heard movement and she turned to see that Becky had sat up.

She was pointing at the entwined figures opposite – and laughing.

But she was laughing through that gaping rent in her throat.

It was then that Hailey finally began to scream.

P
ROPELLED FROM HER
nightmare with ferocious speed, Hailey sat bolt upright, breathing in gasps.

She looked around her, at details of the room.

It took a second or two for her to realize that there was no velvet draped across one wall, no thick carpet. No tables bearing the bodies of her daughter or of her husband and his lover.

Instead she saw the luminous red digits of the radio alarm, the bedside lamps, the outline of built-in wardrobes across the room.

Normality.

She swallowed hard and let out a deep breath, the last residue of the nightmare fading slowly.

Rob rolled over and saw her sitting up, eyes staring wide, unkempt hair plastered across one cheek.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, reaching out to touch her arm.

She nodded.

‘Bad dream?’ His voice was thick with sleep.

She lay down and felt him snake one arm around her shoulder, drawing her towards him.

Hailey slid a hand across his chest, running her fingers across his flesh.

‘Did
she
have bad dreams?’ she asked.

Rob sighed.

‘Not now, Hailey. Please.’

‘
Did
she?’

‘Sometimes. Does it matter?’

‘And did you comfort
her
like this?’

‘Why is it so important for you to know?’

‘I want everything clear in my own mind. I
need
to know.’

‘We’ve been over these things so many times before. Why torture yourself by coming back to it again and again? It’s over: I told you that. Christ, I can’t even remember half of what happened between us.’

‘Was she good in bed? You must remember that.’

He rolled onto his side to face her, kissing her gently on the forehead.

‘How many times, Hailey?’ he said evenly. ‘How many times do I have to tell you before you’ve heard enough?’

‘
Was
she good?’ Hailey persisted.

‘I’m not an expert.’

‘Did she do things I wouldn’t? Did she dress up for you? Did she act out your little fantasies?’

‘She didn’t do
anything
that
you
haven’t done.’

‘Did she come when you fucked her?’

He drew in a weary breath.

‘
Tell
me, Rob,’ Hailey insisted.

‘Yes,’ he said flatly. ‘You’ve asked me that before and I’ve
told
you before.’

‘Did you go down on her?’

‘Jesus Christ, let it go, Hailey. Please.’ There was a hint of irritation creeping into his tone, but she ignored it.

‘
Tell
me,’ she implored.

‘Yes.’

‘I bet she enjoyed that, didn’t she? Mind you, she’s probably had plenty of other blokes do it to her before. I bet she’s slept with loads of men. I wonder if the others were married too.’

He gritted his teeth and pulled her closer to him.

Hailey looked into his eyes. Her own were clouded with tears.

‘Why did you do it, Rob?’ she whispered. ‘You knew how much I loved you. I would have gone to the ends of the earth for you. Why did you want to hurt me?’

‘I
didn’t
want to hurt you.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Go back to sleep,’ he soothed.

Hailey gripped him firmly by one wrist, sliding his hand down her flat belly towards her tightly curled mound of pubic hair. She parted her thighs and pushed his index finger between her moist lips, allowing him to feel the slippery warmth there. Then she raised his compliant hand to his face and pushed his index finger between his lips, allowing him to taste her.

With her other hand she enveloped his stiffening penis and squeezed gently, kneading the flesh and muscle.

‘Not now, babe,’ he said softly. ‘It’s late.’

‘You wouldn’t have refused
her
, would you?’ she said, rolling away from him.

Rob opened his mouth to speak, but then merely shifted onto his side, his back to her.

Within moments she heard his low breathing again. Low, even breathing.

Contented?

Hailey lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. A single tear rolled from one eye.

It was a long time before she slept again.

T
HE AIR INSIDE
the recreation room was thick with cigarette smoke.

It was a large room that could comfortably house more than a hundred men at a time. And on this particular evening it seemed to David Layton that even more bodies were crammed into it.

That was fine with him. More men, more noise, more cover.

‘Dave.’

He heard his name, but didn’t react.

‘Oi, Layton.’

Still he didn’t respond. Merely sat there, his eyes scanning the room and its occupants.

There were more than a dozen tables set up throughout the room, groups of men huddled around them: talking, playing cards, or other games the prison provided.

Two men were attempting to play chess with six of the pieces missing. Scraps of rubbish had been used to replace them. A balled-up piece of chewing-gum foil had just taken a bishop, and was moving in to put a matchbox in check.

A heated game of dominoes was in progress at another table; the men gathered around it were shouting enthusiastically as it progressed.

On the far side of the room stood a small television.

Several rows of plastic chairs had been set up in front of it, and a number of men sat watching the flickering screen.

Layton could see that one of those men was Peter Morton. Early twenties, tall, almost gangling. He had, Layton noted, large ears that stuck out almost at right angles to his head.

He was sitting undisturbed, watching the television, puffing contentedly on a roll-up, occasionally leaning to one side to mutter something to the man sitting next to him.

Layton reached down and touched the hilt of the blade that he had earlier stuck in his boot. It was hidden by the blue prison overalls he wore.

‘Are you going to show those fucking cards, or what?’ a voice close to Layton said.

Finally he looked up, as if stirred from his musings by the tone of the voice.

There was a powerfully built black youth sitting opposite him, gesturing towards the cards he held.

‘Sorry, Midnight,’ said Layton, ‘I was miles away.’

Paul Doolan glanced at his cellmate, then over at Morton, perhaps able to understand his companion’s distraction.

‘Seventeen,’ said Layton, laying his cards on the table.

‘Gutted,’ chuckled Midnight, snatching at the cards. ‘I pay nineteens.’

The other men around the table added a chorus of groans.

‘That’s two hundred thousand you owe me,’ said Midnight, scribbling something down on the pad next to him. He prepared to deal again.

‘Fuck it,’ said Layton. ‘I’ve had enough.’ He got to his feet, watched by his companions. ‘I think I’ll watch some telly.’

Paul Doolan nodded slowly and inspected his cards as they were dealt.

Layton wandered through the recreation room, past the other tables. Past the three uniformed warders gathered close to the door to watch the inmates. Two other guards paced unhurriedly back and forth from one end of the room to the other. One, an older man with grey hair and a pitted complexion, was standing close to the pool table in the far corner of the room, watching the game under way.

Layton fixed his eyes on the back of Peter Morton’s head and sat down in the row of plastic seats behind him, crossing his legs.

He could feel the knife pressing against his ankle.

Paul Doolan glanced across at his cellmate, and saw that he had taken up his chosen position.

It was then that he overturned the table.

Cards, chairs and men all overbalanced. The cards flying into the air, men and chairs tumbling like building bricks.