Warhol's Prophecy

92

SANDY BENNETT TURNED the key in the lock, then twisted the handle once or twice to check it was secure. Satisfied, she made her way towards the lift and jabbed the CALL button.

She rode it to the ground floor, then strode out into the cool night air.

She paused for fleeting seconds, looking up at the darkening sky, searching the heavens for signs that it was going to rain or turn colder. She wondered about returning for a heavier jacket, but finally decided she’d be fine in what she wore already.

The black trouser suit was made of wool; it should be absolutely fine.

She selected her car keys from her pocket and wandered over towards the Nova. It was, she realized, the first time she’d been out socially since she was sacked from her job at BG Trucks. A friend of hers she’d known since college had called and asked her out for a drink. Sandy had hesitated, then finally decided that she couldn’t spend the rest of her life living like a hermit, so had accepted the invitation.

She was looking forward to it now. It would give her a chance to forget about Rob.

The bastard!

She was angry with herself for even thinking about him. Where would he be now? At home playing happy families with his wife and kid?

Forget about him.

She opened the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel.

Her brother was out for the night, and she didn’t even dare to imagine what he might be up to.

Sandy was wondering how much longer she could let him stay with her. How long before he became a burden? She knew all the clichés about family and blood being thicker than water, but all the same he couldn’t stay with her indefinitely, could he?

She twisted the key in the ignition.

Nothing.

No spark. No sound.

She tried again, glancing at the dashboard.

Flat battery?

‘Shit,’ she murmured. Typical! Her first night out for Christ knows how long, and the car’s playing up.

She turned the ignition key again.

Still the car didn’t react. Not even the splutter of an engine trying to start.

Sandy banged the wheel irritably, and swung herself out.

She had two choices now: either ring the RAC and stand around waiting, or call a taxi and deal with the car tomorrow.

Sandy looked at her watch. She wasn’t due to meet her friend until 8.30.

Taxi or RAC?

She slammed the door and headed back towards her flat, where she dialled a cab.

He’d be there in five minutes, he told her. Still slightly irritated, she made her way back outside again.

The Nova stood there defiantly.

Try it once more. If it works, you can always cancel the cab.

She crossed to the car and slid behind the steering wheel again.

Sandy pushed the key into the ignition and turned it.

This time the Nova started immediately.

‘Yes!’ said Sandy, fists clenched in triumph.

It was then that she noticed the condensation on the windscreen.

It was on the inside.

As if someone had been breathing on the glass.

Someone inside?

Someone . . .

She heard a grunt behind her, then came a terrifyingly powerful impact just below her left ear.

Sandy felt agonizing pain, but she couldn’t scream.

Not even when she realized that the knife had been rammed into the angle between her jawbone and skull, so powerfully it practically shattered the lower mandible. Blood erupted from the wound and spattered noisily against the side window.

She felt her head flopping backwards. Felt a strong hand grabbing her hair, slamming her back against the headrest.

Then she felt the freezing blade against her throat. Felt the grazing as its serrations rasped against her flesh.

Then the knife was drawn across her throat with incredible force.

The gash it opened spread from one ear to the other, her riven throat yawning like the gills of a fish. Blood exploded from the massive wound, arteries and veins spewing their crimson load onto the windscreen.

She felt consciousness slipping from her.

By the time the knife was driven into her face for the third time, she was already close to death. Slumped in her seat, the life draining from her.

Even when the tip of the blade sliced one of her eyeballs in two, and sent vitreous fluid spilling down her chest to mingle with the thick viscosity of her blood, she didn’t move.

And she knew nothing of the ten wounds that followed.