Warhol's Prophecy

26

THE WIND WHIPPED around the Scorpio, occasionally shifting it slightly to one side.

Adam Walker sat behind the steering wheel, looking out at the building before him, his eyes fixed hypnotically on the red-brick edifice that faced him.

Bayfield House Nursing Home was a modern building in about four acres of its own grounds. It housed around twenty-five residents, between the ages of sixty and ninety, some disabled in mind or body, others merely losing the battle with advancing years.

There was a good ratio of staff to residents, and they did their best to make day-to-day life enjoyable for their charges. There was a doctor on the premises twenty-four hours a day.

Walker swung himself out of his car, and headed up the short path towards the double doors that led into the main reception.

He pulled up the collar of his jacket, then muttered something to himself, spun round and headed back to the Scorpio.

He reached onto the back seat and grabbed the cellophane-wrapped bunch of flowers. He’d bought them at a garage on the way.

Every time he visited here, he brought flowers.

That was what you were supposed to do, wasn’t it?

Adam trudged back up the path and pressed the security buzzer next to the front door. The closed-circuit TV camera peered down at him as he looked up into its single eye.

A moment later there came a whirring sound, and the doors opened to allow him access.

The main reception area was empty.

There was a large, low table surrounded by leather-upholstered chairs in the centre. Corridors led off from the reception area like spokes from a wheel hub.

Walker made his way slowly along the central corridor, glancing into open rooms along the way. They, too, all seemed to be empty.

For one bizarre moment it appeared that the entire nursing home had been evacuated. As if its residents had merely disappeared. He wondered if he might come across a steaming cup of tea left unattended. This place was like an earth-bound Marie Celeste.

Then he heard voices coming from the day-room up ahead.

Through a pair of glass double-doors he could see several of the elderly residents seated in high-backed chairs in front of a television. As he walked in, he also noticed two nurses in attendance.

First one, then the other smiled at him, and he reciprocated, crossing over to the younger of the two.

She was wearing a light blue uniform, her long hair tied in a ponytail pulled back so severely from her hairline that it looked as if someone was trying to tug her scalp off.

The small badge pinned to her left lapel announced that her name was ANNA COLEMAN.

‘How are you, Anna?’ He grinned.

‘Are those for me?’ She nodded towards the flowers.

‘If they were for you, this bunch would be twice as big,’ Walker told her.

‘You smoothie,’ interrupted the other nurse. ‘She loves all that stuff.’

‘Haven’t you got some work to do, Nurse Stinson?’ replied Anna with mock irritation. Her cheeks had coloured slightly.

‘Yes I have, Nurse Coleman.’ The other woman smiled.

Two or three of the residents gazed blankly at Walker. The others seemed more intent on the TV screen, although Walker wasn’t sure they even understood what they were watching.

‘I’m looking for my father,’ he said.

‘He’s in his room.’ Anna’s smile faded.

Walker nodded, turned, and headed back down the corridor, back into the reception area and off to the right.

There were more bedrooms in that direction. He knew that at the far end of the corridor there was even a small chapel.

Beyond it, outside, was a beautifully kept garden, even an orchard where apple trees blossomed in spring. The setting was idyllic.

Strange therefore, he thought, that he hated this place so much.

He passed two rooms with their doors wide open.

In the first a man in his seventies lay on the bed, reading a newspaper.

In the second another man sat staring out of his window, tapping out a Morse-like tattoo on the sill with one arthritis-twisted forefinger.

The door of the third room along was firmly closed.

Walker paused outside, holding the bunch of flowers before him like some aromatic, cellophaned cosh.

He swallowed hard, then – without knocking – walked in.

The man sitting up in the bed, propped there like a puppet with its strings cut, turned to look at him. But the eyes were blank, no recognition registered there.

The patient was in his early seventies, white hair combed back from a heavily lined forehead, wisps of hair also curling from each nostril and ear.

Closing the door behind him, Walker stood at the end of the bed.

‘Hello, Dad,’ he began flatly.