Warhol's Prophecy

94

DAVID LAYTON SWALLOWED what was left in his glass and banged it down on the bar top.

‘Your round,’ he said, belching loudly, and prodding Russell Poole.

Poole was fiddling around with a small calculator, and muttered something under his breath as the figures suddenly disappeared. He ordered two more pints and readjusted his position on his bar stool.

The Black Squirrel was busy. The jukebox was thundering out the latest sounds and the never-ending electronic buzz of numerous fruit machines mingled with several loud conversations to form one discordant cacophony.

Layton surveyed the other drinkers dispassionately, glancing at their faces – taking a little more interest in the young women who occasionally entered. One in particular, a blonde in a black mini-dress who had come in with two friends, had already smiled coyly at him. If she was more than eighteen, he’d be surprised. Perhaps not even that: the make-up was too heavy, and she tottered on her high heels like a tightrope walker. Still, she looked good, and eighteen months inside had made him less discerning. He smiled back at her.

The youth who approached Russell Poole did so nervously.

Layton saw him coming: easing his way through the crush near the bar, his gaze never leaving Poole.

Late teens, thought Layton.

The lad’s face was pitted, and his hair was so slick with gel it looked as if someone had dipped his head in a vat of grease.

He stood looking at Poole, then reached out and touched his shoulder.

Poole spun round to face the youth.

‘Someone told me to talk to you,’ said the younger man, swallowing hard. ‘They said you could get stuff.’

Poole hawked and swallowed. ‘Fuck off,’ he snapped, turning his back.

‘I’ve got money,’ protested the youth, and shoved a balled-up twenty onto the bar in front of Poole.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Poole rasped, looking first at the money, then at the youth.

‘Do you know this cunt?’ Layton wanted to know.

Poole shook his head.

‘I need some stuff,’ the youth repeated.

‘And I told you to fuck off,’ Poole said.

‘What kind of stuff?’ Layton enquired.

‘Well, you know . . .’ The youth smiled.

‘No, I don’t. You tell me,’ Layton demanded.

‘Whizz,’ the youth told him, the smile fading. He was picking nervously at a whitehead on his cheek.

‘Listen, spotty,’ Layton said quietly. ‘Who told you to come over here and interrupt our conversation?’

‘Spotty’ looked bemused.

‘What’s the stuff for?’ Poole asked.

‘A party,’ the youth explained.

‘And you think that my friend can get it for you?’ Layton insisted.

‘Spotty’ nodded.

‘Come back tomorrow night, same time,’ Poole told him. ‘It’ll cost you fifty.’

‘Fuck,’ said the youth dejectedly.

‘You don’t like the price, then fuck off,’ Poole said.

‘We’ve got overheads.’ Layton grinned. He picked up the twenty and stuffed it into his jeans.

‘That’s mine,’ the youth protested.

‘Call it a finder’s fee,’ Layton chuckled. ‘Now fuck off, spotty.’

The youth hesitated, picked at the whitehead a few more times, then disappeared into the crowd.

‘Fucking kids,’ said Poole.

Layton drained what was left in his glass and got to his feet.

‘I’m off,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I might hang around outside and wait for that little blonde,’ Layton chuckled.

‘She’s only about fifteen.’

‘Who cares? Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed.’

He ruffled Poole’s hair, and pushed his way through the crowd towards the exit.

The blonde smiled at him again as he left.

As he stepped outside, he pulled up the collar of his jacket. The wind had grown cold and he headed down the street towards the bottom of the hill, past closed or empty shops, most of which sported security grilles over their windows. Several of the street-lights were broken. The road was dark, and few vehicles used this thoroughfare at night.

Except the one that now sped towards Layton, accelerating as it saw him step into the road.

The driver had sat patiently outside the pub for the last hour – and now the wait was over.

The approaching car was driving without headlights.

All Layton heard was the roar of the engine, as it bore down on him.

Even if he’d seen it, his chances of avoiding the speeding vehicle would have been slim.

It hit him, doing sixty.

The impact sent him hurtling into the air, where he seemed to be suspended for precious seconds before crashing back down and bouncing off the car’s roof.

As he hit the ground, he heard the screech of tyres.

The car was turning round.

Coming back towards him.

Agonizing pain ran the full length of his left leg, and up most of his back.

Movement was difficult.

His head was spinning, but even in his battered state he realized that, if he didn’t get out of the road, the car was going to run over him.

He looked up and saw the vehicle speeding towards him.

It skidded to a halt a couple of feet away, engine still running.

Layton could feel the heat from the radiator grille, the car was so close. He smelled petrol and rubber.

Heard the sound of a door opening.

Tasted blood in his mouth, felt it running down his face.

The pain in his leg seemed to intensify.

He saw that the driver was carrying something.

Something heavy.

There was a thunderous impact across the top of his head.

Darkness.