Warhol's Prophecy

58

ADAM WALKER OFTEN asked himself why he still bothered to visit his father.

It wasn’t guilt that brought him regularly to the nursing home. Not his own guilt.

And it wasn’t love.

Was it?

Why did he come here to see this shell of a man? This wrinkled effigy who looked as if all the life had been sucked from him. What did he hope to gain by it?

Adam sat opposite his father, gazing at the old man, watching as he pulled at the flesh on the back of his hand. Sometimes his lips would move, as if he was about to say something, but no words would spill forth. There would be no sound.

Just the silence.

Sometimes the old man would look at Adam. Very occasionally there would be a flicker in those glazed eyes. Adam then wondered if a miracle was about to happen: if the dementia that was slowly consuming his father’s brain was about to be wiped away. Was Philip Walker about to regain his powers of thought? Would he look at his son and suddenly remember who he was?

And what he’d done to him?

Adam wondered what he might say to his father if such a miracle were ever to happen.

But it wouldn’t, would it? There were no miracles left. Not for Philip Walker anyway. His God had not so much abandoned him as simply lost interest – or so it seemed to Adam.

He had changed the water in the vase. Thrown away the dead flowers from last time, and replaced them with the new blooms he’d brought along. He’d tidied up the room – even sat for a few moments combing the thinning strands of his father’s hair.

All in total silence.

Outside the room, a bird sat singing happily on one of the lower branches of a tree, its song filling the room. When it finally took off, the silence returned, thick and oppressive.

‘I’ve got to go,’ said Adam, getting to his feet.

He took a step towards his father.

The old man was still sitting up in bed, gazing blankly across the room. His expression didn’t change.

Adam moved towards the door, took one last look at his father, then stepped out into the corridor.

He exhaled deeply and leant against the door, as if trying to recover his strength. Strength that felt as if it had been sucked from him during his time inside that room.

As he turned to make his way towards the reception area, he saw one of the nurses approaching him.

Adam smiled at her, but she returned the smile weakly.

‘Have you got a minute?’ she asked.

‘What’s wrong?’ he wanted to know.

‘Dr Simmons wants to speak to you. It’s about your father.’

‘So, why isn’t he in hospital?’

Adam Walker sat forward in his chair and looked across the desk at Dr Raymond Simmons.

He was a tall, sinewy man in his late forties, with sad eyes and waxy skin.

The suit he wore was immaculately pressed and had, Walker thought, been dry-cleaned recently. Simmons took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Mr Walker, the state your father is in, we can do as much for him here as any hospital could,’ the doctor said quietly. ‘There’s no need to move him unless his condition worsens.’

‘And is it likely to?’

‘I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time.’

‘Renal failure,’ Walker mused. ‘What will happen to him?’

‘His kidneys will simply stop working. Dialysis can prolong their function but . . .’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘He’s going to die,’ Walker offered.

Simmons nodded. ‘I’m very sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ Walker said flatly.

Simmons looked surprised, and met the younger man’s gaze.

‘It’s probably a blessing in disguise,’ Walker explained. ‘I mean, he isn’t going to get any better, is he?’

He got to his feet.

‘His mind’s gone,’ he continued, heading towards the door. ‘Now his body is decaying too. There’s nothing left for him.’

‘We’ll do all we can, Mr Walker,’ Simmons reassured him.

‘I’m sure you will. How long’s he got?’

‘It’s difficult to say. A month? Perhaps longer with the right treatment, and provided there are no more complications.’

‘You know he used to be a vicar, don’t you?’ Walker said quietly.

Simmons nodded, looking a little perplexed.

‘A man of God,’ Walker continued, smiling. ‘I wonder where his God is now? Sitting up there laughing at him?’ He reached for the door handle. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ And he was gone.

Walker headed back to his car and slid behind the wheel of the Scorpio, sitting there for a moment.

So his father was dying.

At last it was happening.

‘A month? Perhaps longer.’

Walker gazed through the windscreen at Bayfield House Nursing Home.

He wondered how many more times he would have reason to return here.

‘A month? Perhaps longer.’

And then what?

He’d expected to feel something akin to exultation upon hearing the news that this man who had made his life such a misery was going to die. But, no, all he felt was a kind of emptiness. And he wondered why.

Just as he wondered why a single tear rolled down his cheek.

He wiped it away almost angrily.

Don’t cry for him. He doesn’t deserve your tears.

Walker started the engine, swung the car round and guided it back down the long, tree-lined drive.

Bayfield House disappeared behind him.