Warhol's Prophecy Page 3

  Perhaps the woman watching would do that, he thought. The woman with the platinum-blonde hair, who stood gazing raptly at the scene of carnage before her. She was patting her two dogs, who had been in the room the whole time – but he had only just noticed them.

  The woman paused for a moment, as if waiting for orders, then she wandered into the kitchen and he heard the sound of running water.

  Ian told him to go and help. Help to clean the place up. Myra couldn’t be expected to do it all on her own, could she?

  And, when they’d finished, she’d make them all a cup of tea.

  Good old Myra.

  As he stepped across the blood-slicked carpet, he almost trod in something.

  Something reddish-grey in colour.

  Something with the consistency of jelly.

  It took him only a second to realize it was a sliver of brain.

  He thought he was going to be sick.

  6 October 1965

  Do you see the terror in her eyes, Ian?

  Myra Hindley

  God save Myra Hindley, God save Ian Brady,

  Even though he’s horrible and she ain’t what you call a lady . . .

  The Sex Pistols

  Preparation

  THE BLADE WAS no more than three inches long.

  Fashioned from a single piece of iron, it was triangular in shape, rough-sharpened on both sides and needle-sharp at the tip.

  The makeshift handle had been formed by driving the sharpened metal into a piece of thick wood. That wood had then been repeatedly wrapped in masking tape.

  The whole lethal weapon was less than six inches in length.

  ‘And how the fuck did you get that out of the machine shop?’ asked Paul Doolan, looking at the blade.

  David Layton didn’t answer.

  He sat silently on the edge of his bunk, gazing down almost lovingly at the knife that rested on his pillow.

  ‘If the screws flip this fucking cell, we’re both in the shit,’ said Doolan. ‘If they find that, we’ll . . .’

  ‘They’re not going to find it,’ snapped Layton irritably. ‘The fucking thing won’t be here long enough for that. Besides, if we don’t give the fucking twirls reason to flip us, then they won’t, will they? This’ll be gone by tomorrow.’

  ‘When you doing it?’ Doolan wanted to know.

  Layton shrugged.

  ‘When the time’s right,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Who is this geezer anyway? Why does Brycey want him cut?’

  ‘It’s family business, so I hear. This Morton bloke, the one who Brycey wants cut, they stick him in here for receiving, or something like that. Only it turns out, while he’s been in the real world, he’s been shafting Brycey’s cousin, hasn’t he?’

  ‘And Brycey didn’t know that?’

  Layton shook his head.

  ‘One of the most powerful gang bosses in East London, and this Morton geezer is cutting a slice off his fucking cousin,’ he chuckled.

  ‘So Morton didn’t know who this bird was?’

  ‘No, not a clue. ’Course, the fact that she’s only seventeen didn’t exactly please Brycey, did it? I mean, from what I’ve heard, she’s a right little slag anyway. Could suck a golf ball through a fucking garden hose, that type.’

  Both men laughed.

  ‘More pricks than a second-hand dartboard,’ Doolan added.

  ‘Yeah – and the rest,’ Layton continued.

  ‘So Brycey wants you to do him up?’

  ‘What was I going to say? If Geoff Bryce asks you to do something, you fucking do it, don’t you?’

  ‘With less than a month to parole?’

  ‘What would you have done? Told him to go fuck himself?’

  ‘No, of course not. But I haven’t got less than a month to jam roll, have I?’

  ‘Look, if I do this job for Brycey, I walk out of here with a few bob in my pocket. If I don’t do it, I don’t walk. Besides, I couldn’t give a fuck. I don’t know this Morton bloke, so what do I care?’

  David Layton slid the blade beneath his pillow and lay back on his bunk.

  He lay on his side, gazing across at the opposite wall of the cell: at the array of photos showing naked women in every manner of pose. He’d stuck most of the pictures up there himself, Blu-tacked to the discoloured stonework.

  On the bunk above him, Paul Doolan was flipping slowly through the daily paper, occasionally reading sections aloud.

  He was thirty-two, four years older than Layton. Both men had spent the majority of their lives in and out of various institutions. Layton himself had begun with a remand home at thirteen and then, as theft had become receiving stolen goods, then possession of cocaine, and finally several charges of assault and grievous bodily harm, he had graduated to a series of prisons.

  This cell in Wandsworth was his latest.

  A three stretch for glassing some fucking ponce inside a nightclub in Hackney. It had left the victim with one hundred and twenty-six stitches in his face, and Layton with another listing on his record. He had once joked that he had more form than Red Rum.

  Prison life didn’t bother him. Why should it? He knew the system here inside out. He knew how to work it to his advantage. Lots of men folded inside. Not David Layton: he had blossomed.

  ‘So,’ said Doolan, leaning over to look down at his cellmate. ‘How did you get that blade out of the machine shop? You didn’t tell me. You couldn’t have crutched something like that.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ said Layton.

  ‘Just curious.’

  ‘Well, you know what curiosity does, don’t you? And not just to cats.’

  Doolan grinned.

  ‘Why’s the blade so dirty?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘I covered it in shit. When I cut Morton, that will infect the wounds. They’ll turn bad. The cunt might even end up with blood poisoning, with any luck. If he does, Brycey might bung me a bonus.’ He grinned crookedly.

  Beneath the pillow, he closed his hand around the weapon.

  5

  ‘WELL, I HAPPEN to think it matters quite a lot,’ snapped Robert Gibson into the mouthpiece of the receiver. ‘I’ll explain why, and I’ll try to keep it simple for you. Our company is called BG TRUCKS, right? Every day, lorries and removal vans go all over the country with that logo painted on the side of them – like a mobile advert, right? You’ve just sent us headed notepaper that says BEE GEE TRUCKS, which makes us sound as if we only do removals for that pop group who did the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever. It’s a spelling error, understand?’

  The person at the other end was having difficulty.

  ‘BG TRUCKS is different to BEE GEE TRUCKS,’ Rob said, spelling out the disparity. ‘Are we clear now?’

  The voice at the other end still couldn’t see the problem.

  ‘I’ll make it very simple,’ Rob continued. ‘If this headed notepaper isn’t replaced, then you get no money. N-O. No. Know what I mean? Or should I say k-n-o-w what I mean?’ He hung up.

  ‘Dickhead,’ Rob snarled at the phone, then he leant back in his seat and stretched his arms, feeling the beginnings of a headache gnawing at the base of his skull.

  The responsibilities of management, he mused.

  Eight years earlier he wouldn’t have needed to deal with such petty concerns. Eight years ago, his only concern with the haulage business was in driving trucks, not working out where they should be at what times of each day, for fifty-two weeks of the year. His and his partner’s decision to start up their own business had been vindicated by its success, and so far they had encountered few problems. Business had been plentiful to the point that they’d had to employ two more drivers the previous year, and there was certainly no sign of that business drying up. And why should it? They provided a good service for their customers, and at cheaper rates than most of their competitors.

  At thirty-four, Robert Gibson could, if he wished, consider his life to be a success. A thriving business, an expensive house and a loving family.
Life didn’t get much better, did it?

  He exhaled deeply.

  Did it?

  He looked across his desk.

  A photo of his daughter smiled back at him. It had been taken at her birthday party just nine months earlier.

  Hailey had taken it. The two of them there together, laughing happily.

  The perfect dad.

  He smiled, then his thoughts were interrupted as his office door opened.

  ‘Every time I walk into this bloody office you’re staring at that photo,’ said Frank Burnside.

  ‘Do you blame me?’ Rob asked.

  Burnside shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. She’s a beautiful kid. It’s a good job she got her looks from her mother and not you.’

  ‘Ha-bloody-ha. What do you want?’

  ‘You know those two other vans we were after? I spoke to the boss at the garage, and he now wants five grand each for them.’

  ‘Tell him to fuck off. No, better still, give me his number and I’ll tell him to fuck off. Three and a half each, we said. He agreed it.’

  ‘Well, he’s changed his mind.’

  ‘Then we’ll change our supplier, sod him. Come to think of it, Frank, don’t ring him. Put it in writing. That makes it more official. Just don’t put it on any of this new notepaper.’ He grimaced.

  ‘I’ll get . . . um . . . her to type up a letter,’ Burnside said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘Sandy, you mean. You can use her name in front of me, you know. She is our secretary after all. Don’t try being tactful now, Frank. It’s a bit late for that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if you want my advice—’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘If you were going to have an affair, then why have it with someone who works for us, Rob? For Christ’s sake, talk about shitting on your own doorstep. I mean to say, that’s why her bloody marriage broke up, isn’t it? She was always knocking around with other blokes, and her old man finally gave her the push. You weren’t the first, you know.’

  ‘Give it a rest, Frank. OK, so she’s divorced. So she’s been around a bit. If it’s a problem, it’s my problem.’

  ‘Not entirely, Rob. If it affects the running of this firm, then it’s my problem too.’

  ‘And did it? No. I tell you what, Frank. You stick to worrying about your fucking cholesterol, let me worry about Sandy. That’s all over now anyway, you know that.’

  ‘Does Hailey know it?’

  ‘Jesus, what is this? Woman’s Hour? Stick to running this business, Frank. Forget the Agony Aunt routine. Any problems I’ve got with Hailey, I’ll sort them out.’

  ‘It might seem like I’m sticking my oar in but, if it does, I’m doing it because I care about both of you. I mean we’re mates, not just business partners, aren’t we? If I had any problems with Maggie, I’d talk to you about them.’

  ‘Hailey and I are OK, right? We’re working things out. I didn’t exactly sit down and consider the pros and cons before I had that affair with Sandy. I didn’t think about any of the consequences, because I didn’t expect to get caught. But I did, and that’s the end of it. Now, if there’s nothing else, why don’t you give Sandy a shout and we can tell her what to put in this letter?’

  Burnside paused a moment, then opened the office door again.

  ‘Sandy,’ he called, ‘have you got a minute, please?’

  The two men locked stares, Burnside finally looking away, stepping to one side to allow their secretary access to the room.

  Sandra Bennett smiled at both men as she entered, the smile a little more muted as she looked at Rob.

  He ran swiftly appraising eyes over her: the slim legs and narrow hips, the shoulder-length ash-blonde hair. Narrow, finely chiselled features, and those eyes – inviting.

  An invitation you couldn’t turn down, Rob pondered, shifting in his seat.

  She was wearing a black jacket and skirt. Simple. Efficient.

  She sat down opposite Rob and crossed her legs, smoothing a crease from her skirt, aware that he was studying her. There was still a part of her that welcomed that gaze, and all that might lie behind it.

  ‘Take a letter, Miss Bennett,’ said Burnside, grinning.

  ‘Frank, you’re not usually this formal.’ She smiled.

  ‘We need to be this time,’ Rob said. He explained to her what was going on with the vans they wanted to buy, watching as she made notes on her pad, stopping occasionally to look at him, unsettling him by the length of one or two of those glances.

  Burnside was chipping in with his own ideas but, when Sandy looked up at them after each flurry of scribbling, it was Rob’s gaze that she caught and held.

  Finally she got to her feet, and tapped the notepad with her pen.

  ‘I’ll sort it out,’ she said, smiling.

  And she was gone.

  ‘Give them hell, Sandy,’ Burnside chuckled after her.

  ‘What else can I do for you, Frank?’ Rob wanted to know, looking up at his partner still standing in the doorway.

  Burnside appeared vague.

  ‘You’re still here,’ Rob continued. ‘So is there something else?’

  ‘Just be careful, Rob,’ said the older man. ‘Like I said, I know it’s none of my business, but . . .’

  Rob cut him short. ‘That’s right,’ he said flatly.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I can understand why you did it. I mean, she’s a good-looking girl, I don’t deny that, and—’

  ‘Spare me the shoulder to cry on, Frank. I said it’s over, and it is.’ He got to his feet, crossing to the door, holding it open for his partner, who hesitated a minute then left. Rob closed the door, but lingered next to it.

  Through the glass wall that formed the front of his office, he could clearly see Sandy sitting at her desk, fingers flashing quickly across the keyboard of her VDU.

  Waiting for her to turn round and look at you?

  ‘It’s over,’ he said under his breath.

  He wondered if these words of reassurance were for his own benefit.

  It was a moment or two before he went back and sat down again.

  6

  ‘I GOT LOST today, Dad.’

  Becky said the words almost gleefully, smiling happily first at Rob then at Hailey.

  They had eaten dinner in the kitchen, as they always did; the room that had once been the dining room having been transformed, about a year ago, into a study, and what had once been the study having been redecorated to turn it into a playroom for Becky. What the hell: they only ever used the dining room once or twice a year, when their parents visited and Hailey cooked for more than just the three of them. They weren’t exactly dinnerparty types. The room was wasted, Rob had said. So for the last eleven months they had eaten every meal in the kitchen. Some had been consumed in an atmosphere close to despair, especially in the last six months, but the meal this particular evening had been an enjoyable one. Not just because of Hailey’s culinary skill, but also because they had all laughed and joked. The conversation had flowed easily, Rob had looked a little more relaxed than usual, and Hailey had been grateful for the change in his character.

  Both of them had tried hard to keep their true feelings hidden from Becky, ever since the discovery of Rob’s affair, and, most of the time, they had been successful.

  Of course, Becky wasn’t stupid and, especially when Rob’s indiscretion had first come to light, she had been only too quick to spot a difference in her parents. Puzzled when her father, in particular, snapped at her so vehemently for apparently trivial things, there had been tears. But on the whole the emotional upheaval that both Hailey and Rob had been – and were still – going through was well disguised.

  At first, Rob didn’t react to his daughter’s last words. He merely sipped his glass of mineral water, lost in his own thoughts.

  ‘Dad, I said I got lost,’ Becky repeated, unsure whether her father had heard her.

  ‘Where?’ he said finally, a slight edge to his voice.

 
Becky began to tell him.

  ‘Or should I say how?’

  He was looking straight at Hailey now.

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ she said. ‘Everything was all right in the end.’

  ‘Well, that’s OK then, isn’t it?’ he said. She wasn’t slow to catch the note of sarcasm in his voice.

  No, it was something even stronger.

  Disdain?

  Anger?

  ‘A man found me,’ Becky continued. ‘He was really nice, wasn’t he, Mum?’

  Hailey smiled and nodded, aware of Rob’s eyes boring into her.

  ‘Well, that’s fine then, sweetheart,’ he said, getting to his feet and kissing the top of Becky’s head.

  He carried his plate across to the sink, then returned and collected those of Hailey and his daughter. As he looked across at Hailey, she saw his eyes narrow slightly.

  ‘Can I watch a video before I go to bed, Dad?’ Becky wanted to know.

  ‘Just half an hour,’ Hailey offered.

  Becky scrambled down from the table and disappeared through into the sitting room, leaving Hailey and Rob to clear the table and wash up.

  ‘Don’t start, Rob,’ Hailey said, filling the sink with hot water.

  ‘Start about what?’ he snapped. ‘Our daughter getting lost when you were supposed to be looking after her? Why should I? I mean, she’s fine, isn’t she? Why should I start?’

  ‘If you knew how I felt, waiting for her to be found, you might be a bit more sympathetic.’ She handed him a clean, dripping plate.

  He didn’t answer, merely continued drying crockery as she passed them to him.

  ‘Don’t give me the silent treatment, Rob,’ Hailey muttered. ‘If you’ve got something to say, then say it.’

  ‘Perhaps I should wait and do my talking tonight. That’s what those bloody sessions are for, isn’t it?’

  She shot him an angry glance.

  ‘I didn’t force you to come, Rob. And if you want to stop going, then that’s up to you too. I thought we needed help. I hoped you understood that. I thought you wanted to do something to help our relationship. After all, it was you who fucked it all up in the first place.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. And if I hadn’t had an affair, we wouldn’t be going to Marriage Guidance, would we?’