Warhol's Prophecy

Retribution

THE AIR INSIDE the recreation room was thick with cigarette smoke.

It was a large room that could comfortably house more than a hundred men at a time. And on this particular evening it seemed to David Layton that even more bodies were crammed into it.

That was fine with him. More men, more noise, more cover.

‘Dave.’

He heard his name, but didn’t react.

‘Oi, Layton.’

Still he didn’t respond. Merely sat there, his eyes scanning the room and its occupants.

There were more than a dozen tables set up throughout the room, groups of men huddled around them: talking, playing cards, or other games the prison provided.

Two men were attempting to play chess with six of the pieces missing. Scraps of rubbish had been used to replace them. A balled-up piece of chewing-gum foil had just taken a bishop, and was moving in to put a matchbox in check.

A heated game of dominoes was in progress at another table; the men gathered around it were shouting enthusiastically as it progressed.

On the far side of the room stood a small television.

Several rows of plastic chairs had been set up in front of it, and a number of men sat watching the flickering screen.

Layton could see that one of those men was Peter Morton. Early twenties, tall, almost gangling. He had, Layton noted, large ears that stuck out almost at right angles to his head.

He was sitting undisturbed, watching the television, puffing contentedly on a roll-up, occasionally leaning to one side to mutter something to the man sitting next to him.

Layton reached down and touched the hilt of the blade that he had earlier stuck in his boot. It was hidden by the blue prison overalls he wore.

‘Are you going to show those fucking cards, or what?’ a voice close to Layton said.

Finally he looked up, as if stirred from his musings by the tone of the voice.

There was a powerfully built black youth sitting opposite him, gesturing towards the cards he held.

‘Sorry, Midnight,’ said Layton, ‘I was miles away.’

Paul Doolan glanced at his cellmate, then over at Morton, perhaps able to understand his companion’s distraction.

‘Seventeen,’ said Layton, laying his cards on the table.

‘Gutted,’ chuckled Midnight, snatching at the cards. ‘I pay nineteens.’

The other men around the table added a chorus of groans.

‘That’s two hundred thousand you owe me,’ said Midnight, scribbling something down on the pad next to him. He prepared to deal again.

‘Fuck it,’ said Layton. ‘I’ve had enough.’ He got to his feet, watched by his companions. ‘I think I’ll watch some telly.’

Paul Doolan nodded slowly and inspected his cards as they were dealt.

Layton wandered through the recreation room, past the other tables. Past the three uniformed warders gathered close to the door to watch the inmates. Two other guards paced unhurriedly back and forth from one end of the room to the other. One, an older man with grey hair and a pitted complexion, was standing close to the pool table in the far corner of the room, watching the game under way.

Layton fixed his eyes on the back of Peter Morton’s head and sat down in the row of plastic seats behind him, crossing his legs.

He could feel the knife pressing against his ankle.

Paul Doolan glanced across at his cellmate, and saw that he had taken up his chosen position.

It was then that he overturned the table.

Cards, chairs and men all overbalanced. The cards flying into the air, men and chairs tumbling like building bricks.

‘Fucking cheat,’ shouted Doolan at the top of his voice, lunging at Midnight, who raised his hands into a boxer’s stance.

All hell broke loose.

All eyes had turned towards the noisy eruption.

Peter Morton spun round in his chair to see what had caused the disruption.

For fleeting seconds he and Layton locked stares, and Morton briefly wondered why this man was staring at him so intently.

He didn’t even see the knife.

Layton struck quickly and expertly.

The first blow caught Morton across the left cheek and laid it open to the bone. A gout of blood spurted from the wound, almost spattering Layton.

He lashed out again with the knife, this time catching his prey on the nose.

The tip was sliced off effortlessly by the razor-sharp blade, and an even more violent eruption of crimson spouted from this fresh wound.

By this time Morton was screaming, but his shrieks of pain were drowned by the din still coming from the other side of the recreation room.

The third cut severed most of Morton’s right ear, slicing through flesh and cartilage easily. The lump of flesh fell to the floor and lay there in the puddles of blood that had already formed.

Morton kept trying to escape, but he only managed to fall backwards over the plastic chairs.

Layton was on him again in a second.

As Morton lifted a hand to protect his face from the slashing metal, the razor-sharp weapon sheared through the tip of his right middle finger. It cut effortlessly through the pad of his finger and the nail, driving as deep as the first knuckle.

Layton drew the blade swiftly across the stricken man’s right cheek, then grabbed his bottom lip and hacked it off with one savage swipe.

The bulging, scarlet tissue fell to the floor and lay there like a bloodied, fleshy slug.

‘Next time it’ll be your fucking balls,’ snarled Layton and walked away, dropping the knife on the floor, kicking it across the room.

Morton was still screaming, gurgling as blood ran down his throat.

He lay alone, writhing in agony, clutching his face, surrounded by overturned chairs. The floor splattered with his blood and pieces of his ravaged face.

Layton looked back impassively at the disfigured, howling man.

Job done.