Shaun Hutson - Warhol's Prophecy

Dedicated to

Bill Hicks.

From the heart.

Genius never dies .

Everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes

Andy Warhol

10030 CIELO DRIVE, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

There was blood everywhere.

Deep red pools of it. Bright splashes. Droplets here and there.

The room, the house, was filled with that vile, coppery odour.

The whole place smelled of death.

And she knew she was next.

These people, whoever or whatever they were, had come into her house with the express purpose of murdering them: herself and her guests.

They had entered the house with ease.

Four women, one man.

And within they had found two men and two women.

The three others were dead now.

She alone remained alive. But only until they decided otherwise.

The intruders had brought pain and death with them.

Knives . . . guns . . . ropes.

Death.

She was eight-and-a-half-months pregnant. She didn’t want to die. All she wanted to do was have her baby: her perfect, unborn child. She pleaded with them to let her live. Pleaded with the women in particular. Trying to appeal to some semblance of maternal feeling that might be hidden beneath their blood-drenched clothes and drug-blanked expressions.

But there would be no reprieve.

They had come with a purpose decreed by their leader, and that purpose was about to reach its conclusion.

‘ You’re going to die . . . ’

One of the woman had told her that already.

‘ Look, bitch! I don’t care if you’re going to have a baby. You’d better be ready. ’

Sweet Jesus, why did death have to come at all? But not this way.

NOT THIS WAY!

If there was a God, she prayed for him to intervene.

Prayed for him to save her and her unborn baby.

Her perfect child. Her legacy. Her love . . .

One of them held her arms tightly behind her back.

Another of the women held her legs.

She tried to struggle free as she saw the man approaching with the knife.

She screamed.

For herself.

For her child.

He struck, and the blade sheared through her left breast.

Please God, help me. Please . . .

He stabbed again.

And again.

And again.

She was beginning to lose consciousness.

Stabbing . . . sixteen times.

Death.

8 August 1969

Look down on me, you will see a fool. Look up at me, you will see your Lord. Look straight at me, you will see yourself.

Charles Manson

You’re coming home, there’s blood on the walls. When Charlie and the Family make house calls . . .

Ozzy Osbourne

Looks like Warhol wasn’t wrong,

fame fifteen minutes long.

Everyone’s using, everybody’s making the sale.

Queensrÿche

I wanna be somebody, be somebody too.

I wanna be somebody, be somebody soon.

W.A.S.P

1

HER CHILD WAS dead.

That one thought had forced itself into Hailey Gibson’s mind, and stuck there like a needle pushed under a fingernail.

No matter how hard she tried to tell herself that it could not be, that agonizing, tortuous idea remained. And, as the seconds passed, so did the conviction. A malignant, cancerous thought that gnawed at her reason.

Hailey spun round, looking to her right and left . . . behind her . . . in front of her. Her eyes constantly searching the mass of shoppers for any sign of her little daughter.

My child is dead . . .

She shook her head, as if to silence the voice inside her own mind.

She and Becky had entered the HMV store only moments earlier.

Moments, or hours ?

Becky had been close by her side. Like any other five-year-old, smiling, laughing, dancing a little jig to the music that blasted from the shop’s sound system.

Like any other five-year-old.

It was busy inside the store, as usual. A group of youths was gathered around one part of the ‘Rock and Pop’ section, laughing loudly, comparing possible purchases. Elsewhere, others had been scanning the rack of calendars displayed, two boys no older than fourteen taking their time over a Baywatch collection.

Becky herself had wandered a short way towards them, her eye probably caught by one calendar devoted to the latest pop sensations. Twelve monthly pictures of more one-hit wonders, Hailey had thought.

Business as usual.

Then, Becky was gone.

My child is dead.

Hailey had felt a grip of panic almost immediately, but that grip was tightening now. Like a noose around her neck, it was forcing her to breathe more deeply, to fill her lungs, because now it felt as if her head was swelling. As if she couldn’t get enough breath. She could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, so hard it threatened to shatter them – and all the time she looked around. And around.

Dead!

She couldn’t see the little red coat that Becky was wearing

( you nearly said had been wearing. You already half believe she’s dead, don’t you? )

despite the fact that it normally stood out like a beacon, even in crowds.

Jesus, how far could Becky have gone?

Where could she have gone?

Hailey looked around the shop again, towards the games area, towards the T-shirt racks, and the cassettes. She hurried in that direction, pushing past a woman who was picking slowly through the bargain bins. The woman muttered something under her breath as Hailey shoved her aside, but Hailey didn’t hear her words. They didn’t matter; nothing did, other than finding her daughter.

Two men in their thirties were playing on one of the Playstation consoles, shouting and cheering their progress on a football game displayed. Hailey passed them. She passed two youths checking through the other games on the shelves, complaining about the prices of them.

No sign of Becky.

Hailey walked to the far end of the aisle, her pace hurried, eyes constantly darting from side to side.

Please God, let me see that red coat.

Past yet more computer games. Past the huge video screen that dominated one end of the store’s lower floor. Back through T-shirts and ‘Easy Listening’.

Becky might have gone upstairs.

Hailey made her way towards the escalator, which carried her up to the first floor containing the Video Department. She stood still on the moving stairway until it had reached halfway, then could stand it no longer, so began hurrying up its metal steps, the heels of her ankle boots clacking loudly as she climbed.

The Video Department wasn’t as crowded as the lower floor. So if Becky was up here, she should be relatively easy to spot, Hailey told herself, searching for any shred of comfort in her despair.

On three walls there were monitors showing the same selected video, but Hailey had no time to guess what it was. The images of Al Pacino flickered around her unnoticed.

On the screens he was shouting, but his rantings were silent, the film’s dialogue drowned by music drifting from other speakers.

Hailey hurried around the video racks.

Al Pacino continued to scream silently.

No sign of Becky.

Hailey hurried back towards the Down escalator, taking the steps practically two at a time.

She stood, panting, at the bottom.

Now what?

If Becky wasn’t inside the store, then she could truly be anywhere – hopelessly and irretrievably lost.

Dead?

Hailey tried to think. Tried to think where her daughter might have gone.