Mary's Prayer

by Martyn Waites

  ‘Lloyd Cole.’

  ‘An “Our Tune” for us, if ever there was one!’

  ‘Yeah. I love this bit—’ Larkin sang along, professing with Lloyd Cole his belief in love, or indeed anything that would get him what he wanted, get him off his knees. Charlotte joined in the chorus; by the end of the song they were smiling widely at each other.

  ‘It’s great to see you again, Stephen.’

  ‘It’s great to see you, too.’ He knew he was committing himself by saying it.

  ‘I thought I’d never see you again.’

  ‘And that bothered you?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Larkin laughed. ‘Why? Last time we were together you tried to push me off the Swing Bridge.’

  ‘Oh, that was then. This is now.’

  ‘And now you’re a married woman.’

  She gave him a smile that he couldn’t quite read – and then the waitress arrived and they both ordered cassata and cappucino. Larkin, felt uncomfortable, tried to defuse the situation.

  ‘Good album, that Lloyd Cole one. “Rattlesnakes”? Not a bad track on it.’

  ‘I know. I’ve still got it.’

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘I even went out and bought it on CD.’ She paused; their ice cream arrived. ‘There’s a song on it that always reminds me of you.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘“Are You Ready To Be Heartbroken”. Remember it? That’s how I’ve always thought of you.’

  ‘As someone who’s doomed to be eternally disappointed?’

  She gave her unreadable smile again and they focused on their ice cream.

  ‘You’ve changed, you know,’ said Larkin.

  ‘Of course I have,’ Charlotte replied. ‘Nobody stays the same. You either go forwards or backwards.’

  ‘And which way have you gone?’

  ‘Forwards, I hope.’ She looked straight into his eyes. ‘You’ve changed too.’

  ‘For the better?’

  Charlotte smiled. ‘You’ve just changed. It’s going to be fun getting to know you again.’

  Larkin felt he should say something meaningful, but he couldn’t think what. Instead he adopted an expression that he hoped was darkly inscrutable. He hoped it didn’t make him look like he had indigestion.

  They drank their coffee, paid the bill, grabbed their coats; the waitress’s knowing smile followed them out to the street.

  Outside the air was sharp and the night was clear. Larkin was feeling light-headed, a combination of booze and Charlotte. He offered to walk her home and she accepted. She slid her arm through his and snuggled close.

  They covered the short distance without speaking. Then Charlotte said, ‘Here we are.’ They had stopped in front of a big, imposing Edwardian house. Charlotte had clearly landed on her feet in one way at least.

  They turned to each other at the gate: time for the ice to break. Larkin didn’t know who made the first move. All he knew was that their mouths were suddenly together, hungry. Tongues, in and out, Charlotte’s body up close to his. He could feel her breasts pressing against him, her pelvis grinding into him. No doubt she could feel his erection growing. His hands were all over her, all over the body he’d thought he’d never feel again, never respond to, never make love to. He felt her breasts, her nipples hard through her sweater. His hands moved down to her waist, over the curve of her hips, and slid between her thighs, making her gasp. His fingers were as avid as their mouths, devouring her. Her perfume might have changed; her dress sense had become more conservative; but her body still felt exactly the same. Eventually she pulled away from him, her lips swollen, parted, sexy.

  ‘Let’s go inside.’ She pulled at him; he didn’t move. ‘It’s all right! Charles isn’t here. Come on. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

  He couldn’t think straight. This was what he wanted most in the world, right here and now, and he recognised that. But he wanted it too much, and that scared him. It wasn’t the sex, it was the involvement; he had wrapped so many layers around himself that his emotions had become mummified. In the last day or so Charlotte had found a loose piece of bandage and started to pull, spinning him round, unravelling him. If he allowed it, she would leave him naked and dizzy. Desire and despair were mixed, fighting for possession of his soul, but she wanted an answer.

  ‘No.’ A cracked whisper.

  She stopped. ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I … it’s what I want. You’re what I want, I just haven’t … I can’t do it. Not with someone I … care about.’

  ‘It’ll be all right. We’ll make it all right.’

  He started to move away, back to something he could handle, something he could control.

  ‘I’ll call you. Sorry. Thanks for a … a lovely evening. I’ll see you soon. I really am sorry.’ And he hurried away, leaving Charlotte standing alone.

  He walked through the streets of Newcastle like a sleepwalker. Back at the hotel he went straight up to his room, telling himself over and over that he’d done the right thing. He tried to relax. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Charlotte. He got out his bottle of whisky and a glass, turned on the TV and flicked idly through the hotel’s cable channels. Finding the porn station, he stared at it dumbly, watching writhing flesh lovelessly simulate passion. Charlotte. Charlotte… He turned the sound down and put a tape in the machine: Roy Orbison. He lay back on the bed, letting Roy tell him that only in dreams could he find true love. The flickering images washed over him and the sour alcohol ran round his body. When the tears finally came, he was too drunk to notice.

  9: A Little Light Reading

  It was the dream again. It began as always, with a clear, blue sky. He’d done his two early morning lines, left for work, realised he’d forgotten something, driven back to his Georgian town-house in the Porsche. He could see Sophie holding little Joe, standing on the front step. A car pulled up ahead of him. Ralph Sickert got out and crossed towards them, carrying a double-barrelled shotgun. Heavy black clouds rolled over the blue sky. He saw the smile on Sophie’s face turn to a look of confusion as Sickert raised the gun and aimed it at her. Larkin told himself it was going to be different this time; he’d shout out, he’d get the gun, he’d take the shot. But the dream never changed. His legs turned to lead and he watched as, in sickening, cinematic slow-motion, Sickert pulled the trigger. A huge, reverberating, industrial roar; Sophie’s front exploded in a blossoming fractal flower of red. Little Joe, drenched in so much of his mother’s blood he looked as if he’d just emerged from the womb, began a slow, air-raid siren wail. Another roar – and Joe’s head was gone.

  The heavens opened with a torrential downpour as Larkin heard a deep bull howl and realised it was his own. He was too late. Sickert turned round. And with swift dream logic, he metamorphosised into Charlotte. Something had happened! This wasn’t the normal route for the nightmare to take. Naked, she held the shotgun in her hands, reloaded both barrels and looked at him. She smiled gently and spoke.

  ‘I’ve released you, my darling. Now there’s only us.’

  He stood transfixed, staring, the rain sheeting between them. She continued.

  ‘I love you, Stephen. I’m going to save you. I’m going to make you live again.’

  And with that she gave him a lascivious grin, sighted him with the rifle and pulled the trigger.

  Larkin shot awake. He looked around, disorientated. The TV was showing static, the tape had finished hours ago, and the whisky bottle was empty. He realised where he was and looked at his watch: six-thirty. He was lying on the bed, fully clothed, feeling terrible. Kicking off his shoes, he scraped off his trousers and shirt and climbed into bed. Although he felt barely alive, he was disgusted to realise that the dream had given him an erection. He put the light off and tried to will himself back to sleep.

  He lay completely still, slipping between awareness and unconsciousness. He felt the sun rise weakly, the day begin. He was vague
ly aware of the phone ringing once, twice. Whoever it was, he didn’t want to speak to them.

  Eventually he managed to drag himself to the bathroom where he shitted, pissed and puked. He felt better after that, relishing the feeling of complete emptiness. He was a blank slate, with the illusion of a chance to start again. Needing to occupy his mind, he rummaged around until he found Mary’s diary, got back into bed, wrapped the bedclothes around him and began to read.

  The diary was a cheap, page-a-day one: blue-ruled, spiral-bound. He flicked through it. The script – three or four months’ worth, he reckoned – almost filled it. After a while Mary had ignored the printed dates, as if she hadn’t been able to include what she needed to say within the space allotted to a single day. This diary looked more like a confessional than a record of events. The handwriting was neat and concise, almost like printing. He started with the first entry, back in July. Mary, very precisely, told the reader who she was, how old she was and the fact that she was single after the departure of her husband Robert. She talked a little of her job as a legal secretary, saying she was happy with it. She mentioned the Rainbow Club, saying she didn’t think it was really her sort of thing. Then the admissions started:

  The main reason I stopped keeping a diary after I got married was because my life came to a standstill and there was nothing to write about. But that’s all changed now. I’ve got a new man! I met him two nights ago at a party given for the firm by Sir James Lascelles. The moment his eyes met mine he came over and we talked. He was very charming and witty and we got on very well. I am ashamed to admit that I was a little tipsy and started to flirt with him. Not like me! He seemed to be responding to me. Well, I was overwhelmed when that happened.

  I spent the whole evening chatting to Terry and it was lovely. When it was time to go he asked for my phone number. I gave it to him and thought that was that, he was pulling my leg and I’d never see him again.

  I thought I’d made a fool of myself but when I got home from work the next day the phone rang and it was Terry. He wanted to know if he could take me out to dinner! Well, what could I say? Of course I said ‘Yes’, and he took me to the Blue Sky Chinese Restaurant on Pilgrim Street. We had a lovely time. He was very kind and gentlemanly. He paid the bill, then took me home. As he dropped me off in the car I took my courage in my hands and leaned across and kissed him. I know it was forward of me, but I just meant to give him a peck. Really to show my gratitude. He responded by giving me the most passionate kiss I had ever had! I asked him in for coffee and although I was very nervous and I think he was too I asked him if he wanted to stay the night and he said he wanted to, but didn’t want to give me the wrong impression.

  Larkin turned the page to the second entry.

  This morning I felt awful. I felt I was a slut for asking Terry to stay and I thought I’d never see him again. I talked myself into accepting it, I thought, what would a man like that want with me?

  Then came a space. Then, a couple of lines later, the writing grew a little less precise:

  He’s just phoned to say he’s coming round and wants to take me out again!

  Larkin read on. Descriptions of restaurants where they had eaten, little anecdotes, jokes they had shared. The secrets of a woman who was, cautiously, falling in love. And then there was the sex. Terry may not have been the type of boy who went all the way on a first date, but he certainly made up for it later. Her descriptions were quite explicit: all the different positions they’d tried; her introduction to oral sex – which she’d thoroughly enjoyed; an intimate analysis of each and every occasion. Her orgasms were tallied in each day’s margin with little ticks. It read like a teenager’s awakening to the pleasure she could have with her own body.

  There was another theme running through the diary: God. When she met Terry she had apparently been a regular church-goer, finding solace and fellowship among the congregation after Robert had left her. She mentioned discussing religion with Charlotte, which surprised Larkin; from his experience, it would be like discussing the virtues of chastity with the Marquis de Sade. It had given a stability, an order to her life. From what Larkin could tell, she now expected Terry to fulfil these needs. But the sex had been a problem; she still thought it sinful to get so much enjoyment from it. After every carefully detailed bout of lovemaking in the diary came an equally carefully detailed bout of self-condemnation. Larkin thought it strange that a Methodist like Mary should be nurturing such a healthy crop of Catholic guilt. Perhaps it was endemic to all religion. She had eventually convinced herself that it wasn’t immoral, but Larkin had his doubts as to the depth of her conviction. As she had written:

  God wants us all to be happy. That’s what I believe. And Terry is making me happy. Perhaps God sent Terry? I like to think so. I know there’s the sex thing – out of wedlock and all that – but if He wants us to be really happy, like it says in the Bible, then He’ll look on that kindly and forgive me. Won’t He?

  When Larkin read that, he sensed danger. The impression he had gained of Terry was that of a perfect gentleman; perhaps too perfect. A bland, handsome cipher, straight out of GQ magazine.

  Terry didn’t appear to have discussed his job with her. Yet he always seemed to have money and insisted on paying for everything. Not only that, but he took her shopping, bought her expensive clothes, their descriptions matching the items Larkin had found in the wardrobe. And then there was the fancy lingerie, that they had both taken pleasure in. No mention of the tackier stuff, though. Not yet.

  The next month or so was blissfully happy for Mary. The diary became an itinerary of pleasant shopping trips including a full list of purchases; meals out together – complete with menus and restaurant reviews – and passionate sex with all its variations.

  I know I’m not seeing my friends as much as I used to. Even Charlotte. I’m aware that I’m not writing as much in my diary, but that’s because I’m doing more living.

  I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I’m even pleased about not relying so much on God. For the first time ever, I’m actually starting to believe that my life will have a happy ending.

  Then the mood began to change. Terry suddenly developed violent mood swings: one minute the perfect gentleman, the next snapping and cantankerous. He became verbally abusive. The black moods would be short but intense, and afterwards there would be a brief apology, blaming his behaviour on ‘pressures of work’. Mary accepted the apologies at first and attempted to make light of the situation. Clearly she thought it was a temporary phase and that things would soon be back to normal.

  Larkin read on. Sex became rougher for Mary, with Terry caring less about her responses, her feelings. It wasn’t lovemaking anymore, she said – he seemed to be using her as no more than a masturbation aid. This, Larkin discovered, was where the tacky underwear came in:

  He came round again tonight. Unannounced. I was making the tea. He flung this package at me and told me to put it on. More fool me, I did. It was some ridiculous split-crotch creation. I was embarrassed, to say the least.

  Terry was sitting in an armchair, drinking beer. He ordered me to – do things. I feel so humiliated, writing this down, but I actually did what he asked me. I wriggled around, touched myself pushed the sex aid things that he’d bought for me inside myself, and all the while I had to look like I was enjoying it.

  He played with himself, came, then looked at me with contempt. He couldn’t meet my gaze. He got up, and left. I just sat there with all this awful stuff on, crying my eyes out. I’m pathetic, shameful. I hate him. But he’ll turn up again, I know he will, and I’ll let him in, because next time it might be different. Please let it be different.

  The old Terry didn’t return. He became rougher; sometimes he tied her down and masturbated over her breasts, or in her mouth, forcing his penis down her throat until she thought she would choke. On one occasion, she wrote, she was so scared she actually wet herself:

  I couldn’t help it. I thought it would stop, repel him. Ins
tead it had the opposite effect, turning him on, allowing him to feed on my fear, my tears.

  Not content with that, he screamed out a list of indignities he intended to put me through. I couldn’t even begin to list them.

  Larkin could imagine, but he tried not to dwell on it.

  The wounded litany of the perpetual victim was repeated page after page. Her questions were cliches, but under the circumstances they were the only ones she could have asked.

  Why me? What’s wrong with me? What have I done wrong? Is God punishing me for abandoning Him? He’s a jealous God as well as a God of Love, isn’t that right? ‘Thou shalt have no other God than me.’ If I’ve offended You, God, then I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. You’re a forgiving God. Can’t You make things right for me? Can’t You forgive me?

  The handwriting became sprawling, incoherent; she was losing control.

  All my hopes were pinned on Terry, to build me a new life. But the Terry I love has gone. I’ve got nothing left. Nothing to live for. I’m a vain, stupid woman. Why did I think I could ever be anything else?

  I walk round Newcastle and the Metro Centre, I see couples arm in arm, laughing and smiling. I want to run up to them and shout, ‘You’ve no right to this happiness! It’s not fair!’ I want to kick and gouge and pummel them. But somehow I don’t.

  Eventually she had had too much. She hadn’t simply snapped – she had shattered into a thousand tiny shards.

  After one particularly unpleasant visit from Terry, ending with him leaving ‘to teach someone on the wrong side a lesson’, as he put it, she found she couldn’t take any more. Her final diary entry described playing the Elton John single, preparing to die. Whoever found her body would hear the song, find the diary and know that Terry had killed her.

  Larkin closed the diary and sat back. Experiencing the disintegration of a woman’s life, even vicariously, had left him feeling numb. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t just leave it. He knew he’d have to do something, make some kind of reparation. He flicked through the diary, wondering where to start. Robert? No, long gone. The Rainbow Club? Worth a look. Sir James Lascelles. Was it more than coincidence that he’d heard his name twice in two days? Then there was Terry: his sexual proclivities, his mood swings. Drugs, perhaps? Psychosis? And what did he mean by ‘teaching someone on the wrong side a lesson’?