‘I can’t!’
‘Yes you can! You’re a witness, you saw what he did. Come on.’
‘No.’
The Shithouse started laughing. ‘Tell him.’
Charlotte looked apologetically at Larkin. ‘A wife – can’t give evidence against her husband.’
Charles knelt over Larkin and pulled him up by the front of his jacket. Up close Larkin could see that Charles was fizzing with a manic energy; an artificially stimulated ubermensch, with pinwheeling pupils.
‘Welcome home, sonny boy,’ Charles said, and let Larkin’s head fall back on to the pavement with a dull thud.
Charles stood up, pulled Charlotte away. The heavy-goods train that was thundering through Larkin’s head blotted out any farewell speech that Charlotte may have made.
Larkin lay there for a while, summoning up the energy to move. He laughed painfully to himself. He’d had the fight – now all he needed was the fuck and the bag of chips and he’d have had a perfect Friday night in Newcastle.
After downing an Underberg and Bisodol hangover cocktail, Larkin slithered out of bed, leaving a slug-like trail of linen and underwear on the way to the bathroom. In the mirror he inspected his naked body for injury and found bruises blossoming up his left side, where Charles the Shithouse had kicked him. His jaw was discoloured and tender; the slight swelling lent him an heroic, Captain America look. He attempted to shower the drunkenness and discomfort from his body, then towelled off, combed his longish, dark hair out of his eyes and put on his leather and Levis armour. All the while MTV blared in the background as a kind of penance, reminding him (as if he needed reminding) that, since punk, everything had lost its meaning.
He arrived in the lobby – the beige seemed less opulent in daylight – to find a horde of shame-faced middle managers, regretting the previous evening spent behaving like a bunch of fifteen-year-olds on their first trip away from home. A damage limitation exercise was now being discussed among them, as they desperately tried to create bravado out of embarrassment. As he checked his key in at the desk, he met the singing telephone girl in person. She looked exactly as he’d imagined: blonde, rictus grin, enough perfume to knock down a truck. Or truck driver. What someone with no personality calls a personality girl.
He was serenaded with the fact that there was a message for him and handed a piece of folded hotel stationery.
When you’re feeling in a better mood perhaps we might have lunch together. I have something to talk to you about. Heartbreak Soup. 1 PM.
Charlotte.
Larkin was impressed; the personality girl had joined-up writing. He smiled at her and she beamed back as if he’d just handed her a Pools cheque. He looked at his watch: eleven thirty. He was just walking out the door when he heard a familiar voice behind him.
‘Larkin! Hey, man, wait up!’
He turned: Andy.
He caught up with Larkin. ‘Hey, where you going? Jeez, what happened to your face?’
‘What happened to yours?’
Andy felt his face reflexively. ‘I don’t know. What’s wrong with it?’
Larkin pointed to Andy’s neck. ‘Good night, was it? Or did you meet a vampire?’
Andy realised. ‘Oh, yeah! Those two chicks off the train. Great scene, man. Where did you go? There was one for you. When you disappeared I just had to have both of them meself. Couldn’t disappoint them.’ His mind slipped back. ‘Wow … You should’ve been there. Missed a treat.’
Maybe I should have, thought Larkin. Couldn’t have been any worse than what happened. ‘What you doing today, then?’
‘Dunno, man. Have a recce round your home town – where is it? Grimley? See if there’s anything worth getting the old camera out for. That sort of thing.’
‘Very conscientious of you.’
‘Well, that’s what I’ve planned. Whether it’ll turn out that way is another matter. What you up to?’
‘I’m off to meet someone for lunch.’
‘Yeah? That was quick. What’s her name?’
‘None of your bloody business. I’ll meet you back here later, OK? About five, six?’
‘Make it that pub I was in last night with them two birds.’ Andy stopped for a moment and pondered. ‘What we meeting for then?’
‘To do some background, what else?’
‘Oh. I thought perhaps you wanted to get drunk.’
‘I do, but we have to work.’
‘OK, you miserable bastard.’
‘I may be a miserable bastard, but at least I don’t have to visit the clap clinic every fortnight.’
‘You want to watch yourself, Larkin! We nearly had some witty repartee going there. Bit of effort, we could turn into a double act.’
‘I fuckin’ hope not.’
‘There you go again. The wit and wisdom of—’
‘Half-five. See you later.’
Larkin turned away. Behind him he heard: ‘Think of some good one-liners for tonight, won’t you?’
Even though he couldn’t stand the guy, Larkin couldn’t help smiling as he walked out.
5: Heartbreak Soup
Heartbreak Soup, 1 PM. Larkin sat surrounded by a smattering of Saturday strollers and folky bohos artfully slumped in corners. No Charlotte. He ordered chicken satay with gado gado and a South American beer, wondering why the places with the worst governments had the best food. Then he remembered Britain and changed his mind. He waited: no Charlotte. Quarter past. No Charlotte. His satay arrived and he ate it. He downed his beer. Still no Charlotte. The bill was paid. The strollers had moved on; the bohos were still making the world a safer place for freedom of expression. No Charlotte. He stood up to go and sighed. Why had he expected anything else?
He was making his way out of the door when he saw a figure hurrying towards him from the courthouse. Overcoat flapping, power-dressed business suit underneath, briefcase under one arm, blonde hair bobbing at just the right length. Here we go, thought Larkin. Explanations, excuses – and strictly no apologies.
But the first thing she did was apologise. Profusely and sincerely for having to work on a Saturday, then for having to work later than she wanted to, then for forcing Larkin to eat alone. She promised to make it up to him by taking him to the pub – would The Baltic be OK? – and buying him a pint. She really was sorry, she said, and smiled. And Larkin was speechless.
* * *
Charlotte got the drinks and ordered a prawn salad sandwich for her lunch and they sat down by the window without speaking. They looked at the courthouse; as Larkin had done, the night before. They looked out at the muddy Tyne. They looked around at the other people in the bar, and when there was nothing else to look at, they looked at each other. Their eyes briefly locked, then bounced away, as if repelled by a magnetic charge. Larkin chose that moment to take a long mouthful of beer; Charlotte became fascinated by the progress of a used condom down the river. They sat like that for several seconds, during which the Pyramids could have been constructed. Then, eventually, Charlotte spoke.
‘When did you arrive up here?’
‘Yesterday. I was looking round the old town last night.’
‘And you met me.’
‘Yeah.’ Larkin touched his swollen jaw.
Charlotte looked sheepish. ‘I’ve told Charles off about that. He won’t be doing it again in a hurry.’
‘Sure.’ Larkin took another swig. ‘Didn’t think you would still be in Newcastle. I thought you’d have moved on.’
‘I did for a while – but I came back.’ She pulled a little face that contained the skeleton of a smile. ‘Sometimes it’s better to be a big fish in a small pond.’
‘And a solicitor, eh?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That must be tough up here. They don’t take too kindly to intelligent women.’
She gave a little smile that started off as coy and ended up conspiratorial. ‘It’s not a problem – not if you know the right people.’
‘Which you do.’
‘And Charles?’ said Larkin; he knew he’d have to mention him some time, so best get it over with. ‘How did you meet him?’
She seemed guarded. ‘Oh, very boring, I’m afraid. He’s a solicitor as well, we work together.’
‘Love among the briefs?’ said Larkin, trying to be nonchalant.
‘Something like that.’ Charlotte had the decency to look embarrassed, but she collected herself sufficiently to give Larkin her broad killer smile, the one he’d never been able to resist. He decided, half-heartedly, to try.
‘So you’re still a journalist,’ said Charlotte, finding small talk anything but easy. ‘Work for anyone I’d know?’
‘Oh … I doubt it.’
‘We do get newspapers up here, you know. The stagecoach brings them every Wednesday.’
‘Very funny. No, I mean it’s not one that you’ve probably read. And if you had, you wouldn’t want to admit it.’
‘Come on – what is it?’
‘I work for the Daily World News.’
She trawled her memory. ‘I … don’t think …’
‘It’s like the Sunday Sport but more downmarket. I create headlines: GOD DISCOVERED IN KIWI FRUIT! and ELVIS REINCARNATED AS SCOTTIE DOG! That was a particularly good one – we even had a photo of a Highland terrier with sunglasses and big sideburns. And my all-time favourite: I WAS GLORIA HUNNIFORD’S KINKY WATER-SPORTS SEX SLAVE! Thankfully we didn’t have a picture to go with that one.’ He stopped, sensing her lack of response. ‘What? What’s the matter?’
‘Oh … nothing.’ She paused. ‘Do – do you enjoy it?’
He considered. ‘No. But it pays the rent, gives me something to get up for in the morning.’ She’d put him on the defensive. ‘I still do other bits, just to keep my hand in. Proper stories, features, stuff like that. The odd investigative job.’
‘I used to read all that. It was excellent.’
‘Thanks.’
‘D’you wish you still had your investigative job?’
Larkin’s face became impassive. ‘There’s a lot of things I still wish I had.’
Charlotte caught the tone of his voice, the look on his face, and didn’t press him further. Instead she looked at his near-empty glass. ‘Another drink?’
‘Yeah. Same again, thanks.’ Sitting opposite Charlotte the successful solicitor he suddenly felt the need to justify himself. As she went to get up he put his hand on hers. ‘It’s crap. I know it’s crap. But that’s the way it has to be, because if I start to enjoy it I might start to forget what happened. And I don’t want to.’ He looked down, aware that he had opened up more in a few minutes with Charlotte than he had in years. With an effort he pulled himself back. ‘Go and get those drinks.’
She went to the bar. When she returned they resumed their silence; it was the kind of moment when the conversation could have gone deeper, but Larkin felt he had exposed himself enough. So they sipped their drinks and behaved like civilised people.
Charlotte broke the silence.
‘You seeing anyone at the moment?’
‘Speaking as a married woman?’
‘I’m just asking.’
‘Well … I’m sort of with someone, but I’m not really involved. Haven’t been since … well, you know.’
‘Would I know this woman?’
‘You’re in an inquisitive mood!’
Charlotte grinned engagingly; Larkin continued. ‘It’s my editor. But she’s only after me for my body.’
‘Lucky her.’ Charlotte had a teasing glint in her eye; Larkin knew he was in trouble.
‘Sorry. Married women aren’t my style.’
‘Oh, you presumptuous thing, you! Can’t a woman give a man a simple compliment? Why do you always have to bring sex into it?’
Their conversation was getting onto thin ice and Larkin didn’t want to skate on it. He felt himself blush. ‘Was there something special you wanted to say to me, Charlotte? I’ve got a feeling you didn’t just summon me here for the pleasure of my company.’
She smiled weakly. Larkin noticed that she seemed agitated; as if she had a secret and didn’t know who to trust with it.
‘Look … I did ask you here today for a reason. I want to ask you a favour.’
Same old Charlotte, thought Larkin. Always getting her money’s worth.
But, almost as an afterthought, Charlotte added, ‘And I’ve got some information for you. I wouldn’t expect something for nothing.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’
‘After you’ve asked the favour.’
‘Yes.’
‘What is it then?’
‘Well, you’ve kind of answered it in a way, but I still have to ask. I wondered if you were interested in a spot of investigative work. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, but I’m at my wits’ end. I don’t know where to turn.’
‘About what?’ He knew he shouldn’t have asked; he didn’t really want to hear her answer.
She looked straight at him, with a lawyer’s honest face. He knew he was getting into deep water. ‘If I tell you, you’ll want to do something about it. Are you prepared for that? If not, then I won’t say another word.’
She was good; she was playing him well. ‘Just tell me – then I’ll decide.’
She looked sad, distressed; he felt honoured. He was getting the whole range for free. Well, on second thoughts, not for free – whatever she wanted was going to cost. He knew that from past experience.
‘It all came to a head a couple of weeks ago. But it had been building up for ages.’
‘What?’
‘One of the legal secretaries in the firm, a friend of mine—’
‘What about her? Been caught with her fingers in the petty cash?’
Charlotte stared at him. ‘No. She died.’
He immediately regretted his flippancy; he tried to make up for it with a blast of sympathetic sincerity. ‘That’s terrible. How?’
‘Well … the official verdict was suicide. But—’
‘What?’
She tried to be as undramatic as she could. ‘I think it was murder.’
Larkin fell silent.
‘I’ll tell you about it,’ she said.
She explained that her friend, Mary, had been married to a cruel, abusive man, – ex-Army, ex-Security Consultant, ex-anything in a uniform – who had regularly beaten her up. When he had destroyed as much of her soul as he could, he left her for another woman. This resulted in Mary feeling completely worthless. Full of hate for herself. Charlotte paused, then continued.
‘After a while she recovered. Started going out with the gang from the office, that sort of thing. That’s when the two of us became friends. She would confide in me, tell me her secrets. It was like seeing a new person emerge. She still didn’t have much self-confidence, though. A friend of a friend put her in touch with a counselling group – she was reluctant at first, but eventually she went. Did her the world of good. She discovered she wasn’t the only one in her situation. It made her realise she deserved something more than she’d been getting.’
‘Good for her,’ said Larkin.
‘Yes. The next thing that happened was she started going to a singles club. Didn’t meet anyone special there, I don’t think. Maybe she wasn’t ready, maybe she didn’t like any of them – I don’t really know.’
‘How old was she when she started doing this?’
‘When she died she was forty-seven … She suddenly found this new boyfriend, – where from, I don’t know. His name was Terry, she said he was twenty years younger than her and she fell in love with him. We couldn’t believe it. Mary, of all people, had a toy boy.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Don’t know. I never met him, none of us did. That was the peculiar thing about it. Mary wasn’t the most gregarious of people at the best of times, but I thought I was close to her. I thought she trusted me. I asked her to introduce me
to him, but she put me off, every time. We started to drift apart. She became more remote, started to behave – strangely. Secretive, almost furtive, as if she was doing something forbidden. Something that she enjoyed. Then she started to deteriorate; she began to look like she had when she’d been living with her husband, towards the end of her relationship. Finally,’ she gave a courtroom pause, ‘she killed herself.’
‘How?’
‘Shotgun.’
Larkin’s mind went into flashback; a shiver slipped down his spine. He tried to concentrate on the present. ‘Sounds like she just couldn’t bear being a victim all over again.’
‘I think there’s more to it than that. She got through it once before, she could have done it again. She was a strong person, Stephen.’
‘But if she’d staked all her future happiness on this Terry—’
‘Look,’ said Charlotte, ‘I don’t know what went on, but I know he killed her. She wouldn’t do that to herself. Even if he didn’t actually pull the trigger, morally he brought about her death.’
‘But you could never prove that in a court of law.’
‘You know I couldn’t.’
‘What did the police say about all this?’
‘The usual. Tragic waste. That’s all.’
‘Didn’t they find the fact that she supposedly shot herself a bit suspicious? Where would a legal secretary have got a shotgun from?’
‘Mary told me once that her husband used to enjoy shooting – rabbits, birds, anything that moved. He was that kind of guy. The police did mention that he didn’t hold a current firearms certificate, so they couldn’t prove it was his. But he was in the army years ago, I’m sure he’d have known where to get hold of a gun on the cheap. When he left Mary it happened in such a hurry that he left most of his possessions behind. I suppose Mary just kept the gun. Perhaps it made her feel safer – a woman on her own – to have one in the house.’
‘So why do you want me to find out if Terry did it? And if I do find out – what then?’
‘I don’t know. I just want justice to be done.’
Larkin drained his glass and sighed. ‘This is crazy, you know that? You want me to look for a metaphysical murderer.’
Mary's Prayer Page 3