Warhol's Prophecy

Redemption

ALL HE HAD in the world, he carried with him in a Puma sportsbag. Some socks. A clean pair of jeans. A couple of shirts. A broken Walkman. T-shirts. A Zippo lighter.

There were a few other things in the bag that David Layton carried towards the main gate of HM Prison Wandsworth, but nothing of any worth.

He walked between two warders: the tall screw, Collinwood, and another man he hadn’t seen before.

None of the trio spoke. Not even when Collinwood selected a large key from the many on his chain and slotted it into the lock of a smaller door set in the larger gates.

He pushed open the door and motioned with his head for Layton to step out – when he gladly did.

He looked up at the sky, feeling the rain on his face. Glad to feel it.

It felt like freedom.

It was freedom.

‘Anyone meeting you?’ Collinwood asked, surveying the empty street beyond.

Layton shook his head.

‘There isn’t anyone,’ he said, looking around.

‘What will you do?’

‘What do you care? I’m not your responsibility any more, Mr Collinwood.’

He stared directly at the uniformed man.

‘That’s the first time in eighteen fucking months I haven’t had to call you “sir”,’ he snarled. ‘And it feels good.’

‘You’ll be back. Your kind always are.’

‘We’ll see. Don’t wait up for me.’

‘The nearest train station is—’

Layton cut him short.

‘I know where it is,’ he interrupted.

‘See you soon, Layton,’ the uniformed man intoned.

‘Mr Layton,’ he said, grinning.

The door closed behind him and, for long moments, he stood motionless in the rain. Staring back at the locked gate. The gate that kept him out now.

‘Fuck you, Collinwood,’ he rasped under his breath.

He swept his wet hair back, and began walking. He had about twenty-five quid on him.

It would be enough to get him where he wanted to go.