Warhol's Prophecy

23 CRANLEY GARDENS, MUSWELL HILL, NORTH LONDON

He brought the Dyno-Rod van to a halt and checked his clipboard to ensure he had the right address.

Yes, this was it. Number 23.

It looked a little run-down compared to some of the properties in the same street, and the address he’d been called to was actually converted into flats. It had been one of the residents who’d called, complaining that she’d been unable to flush her toilet. This problem had been going on since the previous Saturday – almost a week now.

No wonder she wasn’t happy.

Michael Cattran wrote down the current time on his worksheet, then hauled himself out of the van, moving round to the rear of the vehicle to collect his tools.

The sky was darkening with the onset of evening. Great banks of dark cloud gathering in the sky promised rain.

Best get this job finished with and get home. It was his last call of the day and he wasn’t sorry.

He made his way up the path to the front door, rang the bell and waited for someone to answer.

When a woman appeared at the door, he saw the look of relief on her face.

It had been she who had called him, and Cattran listened while she rambled on about blocked drains and inconvenience, adding his own sympathetic comments every now and then.

She showed him round to the side of the house and stood there.

Cattran hated it when customers stood and watched him work, peering down at him while he toiled away. He warned her that he would have to inspect the blockage first, and that could take some time.

She offered to make him a cup of tea and he accepted readily, happy when she retreated back inside number 23 and closed the front door.

He looked down at the manhole cover then reached into his toolbox for the metal implement he would use to prise it open.

The cover was rusted slightly around the rim, and he was forced to use more strength than he’d anticipated, but finally, with a loud clang, it came free and he lifted it away from the manhole.

The stench that erupted was vile beyond belief. A putrid, virulent odour that clogged his nostrils and sent him reeling backwards, clutching his stomach. It was all he could do to prevent himself vomiting.

For a moment or two he stood away from the yawning hole, sucking in several lungfuls of clean air, as if to flush away the noxious smell that filled his nostrils. Finally he returned to the manhole, bracing himself for a fresh dose of the nauseating stench it contained.

A rusted ladder led down into the cistern itself, and Cattran realized that this was indeed a major blockage. He would have to take a closer look to determine how bad.

He took a torch from his toolbox, jammed it into his belt, and began his descent, the stench growing even more intense as he drew closer to the bottom.

Cattran was beginning to wonder if he would make it. Was he going to faint before he reached the foot of the ladder? But he persevered, and finally made it into the conduit itself.

It was about three feet round, and he pulled the torch from his belt and shone it in both directions.

When he saw what was blocking the drain it took an almost superhuman effort to stop him vomiting.

Lumps, chunks, scraps of rotting meat clogged the drain.

The entire conduit was packed with the decaying white matter, much of which had already begun to putrefy. At first it looked like chicken flesh, but when he touched it he realized it had a different consistency: softer. There was something familiar about this seething mass of carrion. Something appallingly familiar.

The stench. The feel of it.

The realization hit him like a thunderbolt.

This rancid flesh wasn’t chicken.

It was human.

8 February 1983

I wished I could stop but I could not.

I had no other thrill or happiness.

Denis Nilsen

I’ve crashed to the bottom of the barrel,

I’ve got feelings that could kill . . .

Harlow