Warhol's Prophecy

81

ROB FELT A crashing impact on the back of his head.

The blow was so hard it slammed his head forward, smashing it against the side window of the Audi.

He fell to his knees, the gravel digging into his skin, adding to the pain he already felt. But at least this added pain kept him conscious.

A foot connected hard with his ribs – once, twice.

The breath was torn from him, and he felt a crack as one of his ribs snapped from the force of the kick.

He tried to roll over, tried to clamber to his feet in an effort to protect himself from this sudden assault.

If he could just get up . . .

Something struck him in the face.

He wasn’t sure whether it was a fist or the same object that had clouted him around the back of the head.

Whatever it was, it split his bottom lip and he tasted blood.

Rob shot out a hand to block the next kick aimed at him, and he succeeded in deflecting the worst of the impact, but he shouted out in pain as his little finger was crushed.

With his other hand he clawed at the door handle, trying to pull himself upright, desperate to at least defend himself against this frenzied onslaught.

Another blow caught him in the mouth and shattered a tooth, but he grabbed at the hand that struck him and managed to ensnare the wrist in a vice-like grip. He pulled his assailant towards him, driving his own forehead towards the onrushing face of his attacker.

Rob felt the impact, but heard a satisfying groan from his assailant as he was headbutted.

He had little time to savour his triumph.

Another powerful blow caught him across the bridge of the nose, pulverizing the bone. Blood burst from it, and Rob fell to his knees once again.

He took another kick to the stomach. Then several to the small of the back.

He curled into a foetal position, hands covering his head in an attempt to prevent further damage.

But his attacker seemed to become more incensed by this, and started stamping on his head, on his protecting hands.

Rob was convinced he was going to die.

He was battling to remain conscious while kicks rained in from all directions, mainly aimed at his head now.

Where the fuck was everyone? Why hadn’t someone from inside the pub come to help him?

Blood was pouring down his face, and he felt agonizing pain from his broken finger and rib.

Still the blows rained down, and Rob was beginning to wonder if this madman was ever going to run out of energy.

This madman . . .?

One thought flickered briefly into his head.

Was this the same person who had tried to kill him the previous night?

Was . . .?

The assailant was now stamping on his arm, trying to knock it away from his face.

A kick cracked part of Rob’s bottom jaw. Two teeth spilled onto the gravel as he opened his mouth in pain. The blood that poured from his burst lips and lacerated face looked pitch-black in the gloom.

Rob was losing consciousness.

A particularly powerful kick sent him onto his back.

Like an upturned turtle.

He couldn’t protect himself any longer.

More kicks to his sides and stomach.

He couldn’t focus properly any more. Blood in his eyes. Pain. Fear.

A thunderous kick to his head.

Someone was using his skull like a football.

Something else broke. Another bone shattered.

Rob’s eyes rolled upwards in the sockets.

Darkness . . .