Warhol's Prophecy

31

HAILEY COULDN’T DECIDE exactly how she felt as she parked the Astra.

Was the fluttering in her stomach caused by exhilaration or nerves?

She sat for long moments looking up at the main entrance of SuperSounds, wondering how much the place had changed since she had last entered those carefully polished doors. The two brass handles were each cast in the shape of a letter S. Beyond them she could see the reception area.

The factory itself wasn’t that large, considering the amount of merchandise it produced, but its site still covered over half an acre.

The offices immediately before her were where the clerical work was done. Ordering, despatching, designing – that kind of thing. The manufacturing warehouses extended to her left. Large grey brick and glass edifices that housed over eighty workers.

She could see one of the delivery lorries pulling out onto the main road as she glanced in her rear-view mirror. It carried the same distinctive black livery and gold S’s that appeared everywhere in and around the building itself. Or, in fact, on anything to do with James Marsh’s business. Even the guitars made here at the factory bore that same symbol, etched in gold on each machine head.

It was a huge operation – worldwide – and it had all begun from this same site. Once only a warehouse, and with three other men apart from Marsh himself. He would design the guitars, even help in their manufacture. But, as time went on, the business expanded, growing larger and more successful until it became the global concern it was now.

As she stepped out of the Astra, Hailey could see Marsh’s black Jag parked in its usual spot.

She headed for the main doors, the wind ruffling her hair.

As she passed through into the reception area, her heels rattled noisily on the marbled floor.

The young receptionist looked up and smiled welcomingly.

‘My name’s Hailey Gibson,’ she said. ‘I’m here to see James Marsh.’

As the receptionist checked her appointment book, Hailey ran a hand through her hair again, glancing around.

Behind the reception desk there were a number of gold and platinum discs. All were dedicated to James Marsh, from a list of bands that read like a Who’s Who of the rock-and-pop world.

AC/DC.

Ozzy Osbourne.

Eric Clapton.

Iron Maiden.

Queensrÿche.

The Rolling Stones.

U2.

And many more.

There were more discs on the left-hand wall. Above them were a number of guitars: from the earliest designs produced here by the Marsh factory, right up to the most advanced and up-to-date models.

To her right were two lifts.

She heard a whirring noise, and a bell sounded as the lift descended to a halt.

‘Mr Marsh said you could go straight up,’ the receptionist said. ‘You’ll find him on the fifth floor.’

‘She knows where I am.’

The voice had come from out of the lift, and Hailey recognized it immediately.

James Marsh stepped from the lift and strode across the reception area to embrace Hailey. The receptionist looked on in silent bemusement.

‘I saw you pull up,’ Marsh told Hailey.

‘Checking to see that I wasn’t late?’ She smiled.

‘As if,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘Come on, I’ll show you your office.’ He beckoned her towards the lift.

The receptionist still looked on, smiling.

‘It’s OK, Julie,’ Marsh said. ‘She’ll be safe with me.’

All three of them laughed.