Warhol's Prophecy

116

‘GET IT OVER with.’

Rob Gibson looked up defiantly at Walker, one arm around his daughter, the other hand clamped firmly to his shoulder. Blood was seeping through his fingers.

Walker pulled the tables aside and offered his hand to Rob to help him up.

Becky was crying softly.

‘If you’re going to kill us, then do it, you insane fucker,’ Rob snarled.

Walker lashed out with the butt of the automatic, and caught Rob across the face.

Becky grabbed at her father, clinging to his leg as he rose uncertainly, blood now running down his cheek from the new cut just below his eye.

‘Watch your language in front of your daughter, Rob,’ Walker said evenly, staring straight into his eyes.

‘At least let Becky go,’ Rob offered.

‘You want to stay with your dad, don’t you?’ Walker said, smiling.

Becky looked up at him with swollen red eyes. She sniffed back tears.

‘You bastard,’ rasped Rob.

Walker struck him again. A blow that cracked two of Rob’s front teeth and sent him reeling backwards.

‘I warned you about your language,’ Walker hissed, pointing the automatic.

Rob hauled himself tentatively upright, his head spinning.

He already felt sick from the wound in his arm. It felt as if his shoulder was on fire. A dreadful numbness had begun to envelop that arm as far down as his elbow. He could barely move his fingers. He ran his tongue over the edges of his teeth, then spat blood.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Rob asked.

Walker grinned. ‘Hailey asked me the same thing,’ he said.

‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If you’ve hurt her, I’ll . . .’ Rob snapped.

Walker pushed the 225 towards his face.

‘You’ll what, Rob?’ he said flatly. ‘You’re hardly in a position to threaten me, are you?’

‘So tell me why?’

‘You saw all the photographers out there when you arrived, didn’t you? Local newspapers, nationals, television? Can you imagine what they’ll make of this? It’ll be all over the media tomorrow. You won’t be able to pick up a paper or turn on a television without this being mentioned. And, the funny thing is, the media made it happen. They love things like this: Dunblane, Hunger-ford, now this. They won’t let things rest, you see. They’re always talking about how we mustn’t forget these tragedies. But what never occurs to them is that by constantly dragging them up, by always reminding people who it was who carried out these atrocities, they’re giving other people ideas. They offer us immortality, Rob: immortality to anyone who wants it. But they take no responsibility for what they encourage. It’ll be like a feeding frenzy once they get here. And they’ll all want to know the name of the person who did this.’ He made an expansive gesture with his hand designed to encompass the dozens of bullet-riddled corpses scattered around the room. ‘And we’re talking about dead celebrities too? It’s a media dream!’

Walker smiled.

Rob tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.

‘You did this just to get your name in the papers?’ he croaked.

‘You could say that,’ Walker told him.

He pushed a chair towards Rob. ‘Sit down,’ he instructed. ‘You too, Becky.’

They did as they were told.

‘Drop the guns.’

The voice came from the bullet-riddled main doors.

All three of them turned.

Hailey stood at the top of the small flight of steps.

She was holding the Steyr in both hands, clumsily aiming it at Walker as best she could.

‘The police will be here in a minute,’ she said. ‘It’s over, Adam. Put down the guns.’

‘Come in, Hailey,’ Walker said, smiling. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’