Warhol's Prophecy

77

HAILEY LOOKED ACROSS at the glowing red digits on the radio alarm: 2.03 a.m.

Outside the storm had abated. The thunder and lightning replaced by rain spattering insistently on the windows.

In the bed beside her, Becky slept fitfully, tossing and turning in her sleep, occasionally moaning aloud. Some bad dream, Hailey assumed.

Like seeing her parents shouting at each other?

There had been lots of tears that night: from Becky and from herself. She had lied

(what the hell else was she supposed to do?)

about why Rob had left the house. Saying that he had been called away on business, and wasn’t sure when he’d be back.

The lie had worked for the time being.

It’s a pity not all lies work as effectively, isn’t it?

Becky had asked about the raised voices. Hailey had found it more difficult to explain that. Even now, she wondered if her daughter believed her. Only natural. She didn’t know what the hell to believe herself.

How many times had she looked across at the phone?

Who should she ring first? The police?

Tell them about Walker.

Frank Burnside?

Find out if Rob was staying there.

She swung herself out of bed and crossed to the window, peering out through the curtain of rain into the deserted street beyond.

Walker?

That was who she should be ringing.

The irony was not lost on her, but it didn’t force a smile. She didn’t know what would ever make her smile again after the events of the last few days. How long had she tried to avoid him? And now she needed to speak to him – wanted to.

Perhaps she should call Caroline Hacket. He might even be with her.

Then she looked back at the clock and remembered the ungodly hour. Any calls would have to wait until morning.

Wouldn’t they?

Hailey crossed to the bed and pulled the duvet up around Becky’s shoulders, then she bent down and kissed her little daughter on the cheek. Satisfied that she was well settled, Hailey edged out of the room and made her way downstairs.

She stood beside the phone in the hall for a moment, then picked up the receiver. Her index finger was shaking as she pressed the digits.

It was ringing.

She swallowed hard. Waiting.

Still it rang.

Put it down.

Two more rings and she’d try again tomorrow, when . . .

The phone was picked up.

‘Hello,’ said a voice thick with sleep.

‘Adam,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s me, Hailey Gibson.’

She transferred the phone to the other ear.

‘We need to talk,’ she said.

Silence.

‘Adam, are you still there?’ she persisted.

‘Talk about what?’ he said sleepily. ‘I thought it was all over between us.’ He coughed. ‘Besides, have you seen the time?’

‘Meet me on Friday,’ she said. ‘Please.’

‘Why not tomorrow?’ he wanted to know.

‘I’m too busy. Can you meet me, or not?’

Another silence.

‘Where?’ he asked.

‘The Happy Brig.’

‘Just like old times,’ he said, but the laugh that followed was grating and hollow. ‘I’ll be there.’

‘Adam . . .’

He hung up.