Warhol's Prophecy (21 page)

Hailey had been a little late arriving. Trudi from Waterhole’s press office had finally called her back, and their conversation had taken longer than expected.

She’d managed to persuade Trudi to set up a meeting between her and the band in a few days’ time, so that Hailey could speak to them in person about the forthcoming gig.

Trudi had seemed almost reluctant: fiercely protective of the band, adamant that only the lead singer and the drummer were available on the day Hailey requested.

Hailey had finally relented, weary of Trudi’s hip ravings and Americanisms. If she’d used the word ‘cool’ once, she’d used it a dozen times.

‘You must be excited at the thought of meeting them,’ Walker said.

‘I don’t know if “excited” is the word,’ Hailey told him.

‘They’re famous – big stars.’

‘Jim says they’re arseholes. And, from what I’ve seen of them on TV, I think he might be right.’

‘You shouldn’t say that about them, Hailey. No matter what they’re like, they’ve made it, haven’t they? People
know
them, look up to them.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘I’d love to meet them, just to shake their hands. To tell them I admire what they’ve done.’ He smiled. ‘You never know, if they saw some of my artwork, they might like it enough to use it on an album cover.’

‘I could show something to them, if you like. See what they think.’

‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’

‘You’re not asking. I’m offering.’

‘I wouldn’t take advantage of you like that, Hailey.’

‘I wouldn’t have suggested it if I thought you were. Please, Adam, let me take some of your work along to them. You don’t know
what
might happen then.’

‘They’d probably just laugh at it.’

‘Well, you won’t know until you let me show it to them, will you? Please. I’d
like
to do that for you.’

‘Don’t do anything out of pity, Hailey.’

She glared at him, irritation in her eyes.

‘Do you actually like their music?’

‘Not really, but I still respect what they’ve achieved. I admire anyone who succeeds, anyone who makes a mark. It doesn’t matter
how
they make that mark.’

‘Is fame that important to you, Adam? I mean, would you want it at any cost?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, these pop stars, film stars and people like that, they don’t have any privacy. Everything they do is put in the papers. They can’t even walk down the street without someone sticking a camera in their faces. Would you want
that
?’

‘It goes with the territory, doesn’t it? That’s exactly what annoys me with some of these stars. They want the money and the fame, but they aren’t prepared to put up with what goes with it.
I
would be, in their position.’

‘Perhaps you chose the wrong profession to become famous,’ she mused. ‘I mean, artists aren’t exactly up there with actors and musicians, are they?’

‘Picasso? Dali? What are they?’ he wanted to know. ‘
They
were famous, weren’t they?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘David Bailey? Herb Ritts? Photography’s a visual art, but they’re famous too, aren’t they? Christ, even dress designers are famous these days. Calvin Klein. Armani. Versace.’

‘And look what happened to
him.
’

‘It’s a risk you take when you become famous, Hailey. And
I’d
be prepared to take it.’

‘You’d risk your life for fame?’

He nodded slowly, sipping at his drink.

‘Even murderers are famous,’ he said slowly.

She looked at him and shook her head gently.

Walker smiled. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘I bet your friend Caroline knows all about it.’

Hailey laughed.

‘I went to the library today and tried to find her books.’

‘I’m sure she’d be flattered if she knew,’ Hailey chuckled.

‘You shouldn’t take the piss. She’s made her mark too, hasn’t she? Those books she wrote mean that her name will live for ever. People will know she was here long after she’s dead. And that’s what it’s all about. What’s that saying, “Life’s a bitch and then you die”? It’s true.’

Hailey regarded him over the rim of her glass.

Walker held up his hands. ‘All right, I’ll shut up. I’m starting to sound like a nutter, aren’t I?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘You sound passionate, Adam,’ she told him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘You know about passion, don’t you? You’re passionate about your job. You must be or you wouldn’t have gone back to it.’

She nodded.

‘Are you still enjoying it?’ he enquired.

‘It’s good to be back.’

‘Is Rob pleased you’re back?’

‘Not really. I told you before, he was never too keen. But, then again, I didn’t exactly expect him to throw a party when I went back to work.’

She sipped at her drink again, finally putting the glass down and running the tip of one index finger around the rim.

‘What’s wrong, Hailey?’ Walker wanted to know.

‘How long have you got?’ she said bitterly.

‘If you want to talk about it . . .’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘OK,’ she said quietly.

When he looked into her eyes, he saw they were glazed with tears.

Walker leant forward and touched her hand softly.

‘Shall I start with Rob’s affair?’ she murmured.

S
HE HAD NO
idea how long she’d been talking. It felt like hours.

Every now and then Hailey would stop and take a sip of her drink but, other than that, she felt as if she’d been spewing out words for ever.

Walker merely sat gazing at her, nodding occasionally, sometimes shaking his head.

But always listening intently. Sometimes touching her hand as it rested on the table.

The only thing that seemed to be missing was ‘Bless Me, Father, for I have sinned’.

It felt like a confession.

‘And that’s it,’ she said finally. ‘Now you know.’

Walker didn’t speak.

‘Are you going to tell me I should have left him?’ Hailey wanted to know. ‘Caroline thinks I should.’

‘Who else knows about it?’

‘Just you. It’s not the sort of thing you shout from the rooftops, is it? I don’t know who
Rob’s
told.’

He shook his head almost imperceptibly.

Happy now? You’ve told a complete stranger one of your most intimate secrets.

Hailey reached for her glass and realized it was empty. She sipped at the melted ice in the bottom.

‘And he still works with the girl he had this affair with?’ Walker said finally.

‘Yes, he sees her every day.’

‘Why didn’t he sack her?’

‘He claims it isn’t as easy as that.’

‘I’m sorry, Hailey,’ Walker said quietly.

‘So am I, Adam.’

‘Do you still love him?’

‘Of course I do. When it first happened, I hated him for what he’d done. Not
him
– but what he’d
done.
’

‘Has it affected Becky?’

‘It’s difficult to say. We’ve kept it from her. At least we think we have. No real slanging matches in front of her – that kind of thing. But she’s not stupid. She doesn’t know
exactly
what’s going on, but she knows everything’s not like it used to be between me and Rob.’

‘I wish I could say something that would help.’

She reached across and touched his hand.

‘You
have
been a help,’ she told him, tracing a pattern on the back of his hand with her index finger.

You want him, don’t you? And you want him to know it.

‘I only met you a few days ago and I feel like I’ve known you all my life, if you’ll excuse the cliché.’ She forced a smile.

Beneath the table her foot brushed against his calf, but she didn’t move it away.

‘Those paintings you mentioned: the ones you want me to show to Waterhole. When can I see them?’

‘Whenever you like. They’re in my studio at home.’

She squeezed his hand.

‘Take me there now,’ she said flatly.

D
AVID
L
AYTON FELT
the sweat running down the side of his face. A combination of the heat inside the large kitchen and also of his current exertions.

The boxes each held twenty-four tins of baked beans, and by anybody’s reckoning that was fucking heavy. He’d been humping them for most of the morning, from the back of the lorry in the prison yard into the kitchen, then beyond to the storeroom.

Beans, tinned spaghetti, Smash, tinned fruit . . .

Boxes and boxes of tins, all of them heavy.

He’d been allowed a fag break only once since he had started, and that felt like hours ago.

The man helping him, a small thin-faced individual whose name he didn’t know, seemed to be having even more trouble than Layton. He was pale and looked undernourished, and hadn’t said much during the time they’d been working together. Hadn’t said much during the entire time he’d been working in the kitchen. He looked frightened, nervous.

Layton had come to the conclusion this must be his first time inside.

Shit-scared, forever looking over his shoulder. Silent. Whatever he’d been dubbed up for couldn’t have amounted to much, or he wouldn’t have got kitchen detail. Layton thought maybe burglary, or receiving – some bullshit charge that had got him probably six months. He looked the sort who cried himself to sleep every night.

But what did
he
care. He was out in a couple of days. This pasty-faced little cunt could rot as far as he was concerned.

He set down the latest box of beans and headed back to the lorry outside.

The driver was sitting in his cab, talking with a warder. Another uniformed man stood at the rear of the lorry, watching the two prisoners as they unloaded the goods.

Layton recognized him: a screw called Collinwood.

Big-built, scrub-headed cunt who used to be a security guard for a firm of stockbrokers in the City, before he started locking other men up for a living.

He snapped orders at them, telling them to move quicker.

Layton cursed under his breath as he lifted another box and headed back inside with it.

He felt the bottom of the box beginning to give. Realized he was going to drop it.

‘Shit,’ he snarled, trying to slide his hands beneath the torn cardboard.

It was no use.

The tins burst through the bottom of the box and landed with a loud clang on the kitchen floor.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

The voice that boomed through the kitchen was Scots: a Glaswegian bellow that caused the other men working in the room to look round.

‘Pick them up, you dozy cunt,’ roared the voice.

Layton looked up to see James Gorton advancing towards him.

‘Get them picked up, you fucking prick,’ Gorton snarled, standing over Layton as he struggled to gather up the scattered tins.

The uniformed officer in the kitchen stood back, allowing Gorton to handle this situation. The Scot had been in charge of the kitchen for the past seven months. His temper was legendary amongst the other inmates. He was doing a nine stretch for assault, Layton had heard. He’d blinded some bloke with a piece of broken glass, during an argument about money. But he knew the system inside out and he’d conned his way into the kitchen job by convincing the Governor he’d once worked in a restaurant.

That much was almost true. He’d worked the door at a club in Birmingham and, according to the prison grapevine, smashed a man’s hand to pulp with a meat-tenderizing hammer. So he knew how to handle at least
one
kitchen utensil. It was one more than most of the other men who worked in there.

Layton continued to gather up the fallen tins, carrying them through to the stockroom as best he could.

Gorton followed him through, slamming the door behind him.

‘You get out of here soon, don’t you, son?’ the Scot growled menacingly.

Layton nodded.

‘Good,’ Gorton said. ‘Because I don’t want you fucking up my kitchen again, you understand?’