Mary's Prayer

by Martyn Waites

  Larkin shifted slightly, remembering. ‘They’re sadists, that’s for sure. They might have attached themselves to the gay scene to get at men more easily.’

  ‘Oh.’ She went quiet again. And Lloyd Cole assured them that girls need guns these days, because of all the rattlesnakes.

  ‘Charlotte?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What about – Sir James?’

  She stiffened at the mention of his name, involuntarily clutching the duvet to her chest. Larkin had only been going to ask her how well she knew him, but her manner made him ask something else entirely.

  ‘He was your lover, wasn’t he?’

  She tried to look at him, brazening it out, but her eyes couldn’t hold his gaze. ‘Sir James has been a good friend when I needed one.’

  ‘But he was also your lover?’

  ‘What business is it of yours who my ex-lovers have been?’ she exploded.

  ‘OK.’ He was angry too now. ‘There’s no need to blow your fucking top. If you don’t want to answer, fine.’

  There was a pause; the static in the air between them was almost palpable. Charlotte’s body was rigid next to Larkin. Eventually, however, he felt her yield.

  ‘I’m sorry, Stephen. Some aspects of the past I don’t like to talk about.’ She propped herself up again, adopting a deliberately seductive pose. ‘Anyway, now I’ve got you.’ Her smile was teasing, her naked body warm against his bruised skin. He felt an erection stir.

  He smiled. ‘You’ve got me.’

  ‘I don’t know for how long – if you’ve got to go back to London and be your boss’s executive toy—’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. She’s probabiy been auditioning replacements while I’ve been away.’

  ‘She sounds charming … you know, I do think we came back together again for a reason.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yet. Do you … do you think you’ll stay up here?’

  ‘I don’t know. Depends.’

  ‘On whether you’ve got something to stay up here for?’

  She was hedging, he knew it, but he wasn’t going to say it for her. After all, he was hedging too. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Or – someone?’

  He paused; he had a feeling that any answer he gave would be the wrong one. ‘Something like that.’

  She slid her hand beneath the covers and reached for him. ‘Something like – this, perhaps?’

  ‘You don’t need to be told what that is?’ he said, grateful for her understanding.

  ‘No. And I don’t need to be told what to do with it, either.’

  She demonstrated, and Larkin responded. And the darkness gathered outside the drawn curtains, and Lloyd Cole sang about how precious times together had been wasted.

  19: One Bad Dream And A Few Good Mornings

  The house was warm and bright, sunlight illuminating the airy, cheerful rooms. Laughing children were playing in the garden. His beautiful wife was sitting in the living room, and he was on his way upstairs.

  His footsteps were light and brisk as he moved, taking the stairs two at a time. He didn’t know why he was going upstairs, or what he’d find there – only that he had to go.

  He reached the landing. In front of him was a choice of doors. He stopped. They were all shut, offering no clues, but he knew that something good would be behind at least one. Yet he was also aware of the possibility of something bad lurking there too. He shuddered. Through a window, he saw the sky darken as storm clouds moved overhead; then came the familiar sound of rain hitting the roof in a torrential downpour, followed by the wailing of children – his children – as they had to come indoors, their play ended. Which room? All he wanted to do was get it over with and go back downstairs to his family – but he couldn’t. Not until he’d made his choice. He grabbed the handle of the nearest door, on his right, and turned it.

  Immediately the rain hit harder, more violently, and was joined by deep, rumbling thunder. He looked down at his hand, illuminated in strobe relief by vicious fork lightning. He opened the door.

  A tidal wave of dread engulfed him. He heard the children screaming downstairs as the house was rocked by thunder, but he was forced to walk into the chosen room.

  What confronted him was so unbearable, yet so intriguing, he couldn’t pull away. He couldn’t begin to describe it; he wasn’t even sure he was seeing it. Black and iridescent, it rippled like velvet in a breeze. It turned on him when it saw him, swooped down to swallow him, overwhelm him. And just as he started to scream, it spoke. ‘I’m you,’ it said.

  Larkin’s eyes snapped open, sweat running off his body in rivers, panting for breath, as if he’d just run a marathon. He tried to move, but pain restrained him; he lay still, getting his breath back.

  Turning his head to the side, he saw Charlotte lying facing him, in a deep sleep. Her soft, rhythmical breathing was comforting, and he allowed his own breathing to subside. Her arm had fallen across his chest; he enjoyed the comforting weight of it.

  He smiled. For the first time in years, the thought of going back to sleep after a bad dream didn’t seem so awful. He lifted her hand to his mouth, kissed it, saw a slight smile play at the edges of her lips.

  He shut his eyes.

  Next thing he knew it was morning. Charlotte was still in the same position: out for the count. Relaxing, he settled back and ran through the past twenty-four hours. They’d stayed in bed all day, making love twice; on both occasions Charlotte had dictated events. After that, she had knocked up a huge bowl of spaghetti which they’d wolfed down in bed, followed by a bottle of Chianti. Then they’d talked; nothing profound, just getting to know each other again. The awkwardness of the last week had disappeared, its tension dissipated by their lovemaking. Another bottle of Chianti followed, with some garlic bread, and eventually they had fallen asleep in front of the late film; Peter Cushing fighting a befanged Christopher Lee in order to make the world a safe-place for virgins with huge cleavages …

  Charlotte stirred. ‘What time is it?’ she slurred.

  Larkin had been on the point of nodding off again. He checked his watch. ‘Half-nine.’

  She groaned loudly and theatrically. ‘Middle of the bloody night! What d’you wake me at this ungodly hour for?’

  ‘I didn’t wake you. You woke yourself.’

  She sat up, hair mussed, eyes half-closed, lips in a sleepy pout. ‘Don’t look at me! I must look a complete wreck.’

  Larkin thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever set eyes on. ‘You look fine,’ he said.

  ‘Hmm. I suppose you want a cup of coffee?’

  ‘If you’re making one.’

  ‘Urr.’ And with that she got up, walking naked out of the room, tantalising Larkin all over again.

  She came back with coffee and a mock-grumpiness that made her all the more attractive. They larked around for a while, teasing each other, seeing how far they could push their newly rekindled affection. Then Charlotte reminded Larkin that Moir wanted a word with him; she had tried putting him off, but he was proving very persistent.

  ‘Just tell him I’m convalescing,’ said Larkin, ‘and I don’t feel like talking.’

  Charlotte smiled slyly, put her coffee cup down, pulled back the covers. She kneeled upright on the bed, breasts swaying, took Larkin’s cup from his hand and put it on the bedside table. Her eyes trailed down to his rapidly engorging groin, her lips slightly apart.

  ‘I know what you feel like …’

  Sunday went well after that. They spent the day in bed; they chatted, ate more pasta, drank more Chianti. Listened to music; Larkin was devastated to discover that Charlotte owned the whole of the Simply Red back catalogue. He made her promise to try and mend her ways. They finished the evening watching television. Just like an old, married couple – but neither of them dared to say it.

  Monday morning, and Larkin woke up feeling better than he had for a long time. He made an inventory of his body: his
breathing was easier, the movement in his limbs was improving, his bruises were yellowing nicely. He still didn’t want to confront the damage to his hand, but apart from that everything seemed to be healing well.

  He turned to Charlotte. She had kicked off the duvet and was lying naked, the sheet twisted round her legs. She looked beautiful. He felt a twinge of guilt; he should be doing something instead of just lying there being waited on, especially after the promise he had made to himself at The Prof’s bedside, but he knew he had to be in better shape than he was before he was capable of action. His conscience clear, he settled down to more sleep again.

  When he next awoke, the curtains were open, the day was a nondescript misty-grey, and he was alone. He was about to call out when in came Charlotte, hair washed and blow-dried, dressed for work.

  She told him there was cold pasta salad for lunch, CDs next to the player and books on the bookshelf. If he got really lonely he could phone Moir; failing that, he could watch ‘Richard and Judy’. And she left.

  Larkin lay, wallowing in the prospect of his new life. Things could be worse, he thought. Things could be a lot worse.

  She’d been gone for a couple of hours, and Larkin had been drifting in and out of sleep, when the phone rang. He squirmed over to the side of the bed, grabbed the cordless from the bedside table, thumbed it on. A chill ran through him: what if it was Charles?

  A man cleared his throat, then spoke. ‘’Ello?’

  ‘Andy!’ Larkin’s sigh of relief was audible.

  ‘Where the bloody ’ell have you been, eh? What the fuck have you been up to, you dirty sod?’

  Larkin found himself smiling. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Andy.’

  ‘Come off it! I saw those curtains being closed pretty sharpish when you got in. They haven’t been opened again till today, and then it was only cos she went to work.’

  ‘You’ve been doing a good job.’

  ‘Course I ’ave. I’m a professional, ain’t I?’

  ‘Aren’t you just. How’s it been over there?’

  His voice dropped. ‘Torture. Sheer, fuckin’ torture. This place – I tell you, you wouldn’t believe it. Makes Dachau look like Butlins. Woman in charge—’

  His voice stopped abruptly; Larkin could hear a muffled conversation going on in the background. Eventually Andy came back.

  ‘That her, then?’ asked Larkin.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Andy, downcast. ‘She heard me swearing, come to tell me off. Fuckin’ radar.’ Another muffle, then, ‘Yeah! Sorry.’

  Larkin was laughing.

  ‘It’s all right for you, innit? It’s me who’s suffering.’

  ‘Well, I do appreciate it.’

  ‘I hope so. Anyway, anything I should be doin’?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Just keep an eye out if you-know-who comes waltzing back.’

  ‘Wilco. Well, I’d better be off.’

  ‘Why, what are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve got a nice little sideline going. I’ve got a commission for an art book on Newcastle – you know, black and white, moody shots of the bridges, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Larkin was impressed. ‘What’s it going to be called?’

  ‘Arseholes With Daft Accents. See you later.’

  After a couple of hours lying in bed watching daytime TV, Larkin felt the need to empty his bladder. He painfully levered the top of his body up with his arms and slowly swung his legs to the floor. The expensively polished bare boards weren’t as cold as he had expected. Gradually, he forced himself upright.

  After the sudden, dizzying rush of blood to his head had cleared, he felt reasonably OK. He set off, gingerly placing one foot in front of the other, until he had reached the toilet.

  Once there, Larkin was relieved to find he was no longer passing blood. His bruised kidneys seemed to be on the mend. He also realised he was hungry. He’d had his fill of pasta; he decided to throw caution to the winds and make himself a sandwich.

  He slowly hauled his body downstairs, moving like an old man, clinging to the banister at every step. After a lifetime he shuffled into the kitchen. Although it was an interior designer’s dream, it was lacking one essential ingredient: food. He rummaged around until he found an unopened can of tuna, a jar of mayonnaise and a couple of slices of bread that were arguably the right side of being stale.

  He ate in the front room, which was also, like the kitchen, pristine but empty, as if no emotional investment had enabled it to become a home rather than a place to live. Larkin thought of his own flat. Although he made no claims to keep it tidy, he recognised the feeling.

  Tuesday followed more or less the same pattern as Monday. Larkin could almost literally feel his body repairing itself: bones and muscles knitting together. Mentally too, he felt renewed. He figured that the time he’d spent with Charlotte had done that to him; he had forgotten how good it felt to share his life with someone. He found himself letting go, ready to allow someone else to fight his battles at his side. Or one step ahead of him, if Charlotte had her way. He made his way round the house with little difficulty now. He was beginning to feel at home.

  Charles still hadn’t returned. The police had finally been called, and discreet enquiries were being carried out. No leads yet. He could stay missing indefinitely, for all Larkin cared. He hoped Charlotte would receive a postcard from Charles in Acapulco, saying he’d found a new toy boy and had so much Columbian up his nose he’d created two extra nostrils.

  The only thing that gnawed away at his conscience was The Prof. He called the General Hospital, got through to the ward sister. And was told that The Prof – or ‘Graham’, as she insisted on calling him – was out of his coma and resting comfortably. Larkin’s whole body breathed a sigh of relief. He thanked her and said he would visit as soon as he could. He sent The Prof his love.

  He put the phone down: one less ghost to carry round with him. Things did seem to be looking up.

  Tuesday passed to Wednesday and Larkin was stronger still. And he was beginning to feel more and more at ease in Charlotte’s company.

  That night, having shared a couple of intense orgasms, they lay, postcoitally, Charlotte curled round Larkin. She spoke first.

  ‘Are you happy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She looked up. ‘I mean, really happy.’

  ‘The happiest I’ve been for a long time.’

  He could feel her smile into his chest, hug him a little tighter. She spoke again.

  ‘I know you don’t want to have this conversation – and you won’t want to answer me when I ask this in case you get hurt – but I think that after the last few days, if you feel the same way that I do, then you’ve got no choice but to answer.’

  Larkin steeled himself. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you think there’s – a chance? If there was no Charles, if you didn’t have to go back to London, if all this was out of the way – if all the “ifs” disappeared and there was just you and me. Do you think that we would have a chance?’

  She was looking directly at him. He dropped his gaze.

  ‘Charlotte …’ he started, unsure how to go on. ‘These last few days have been some of the best that I can remember. I feel like you’ve been healing me in … in all sorts of ways. It’s difficult for me to say these things …’

  ‘I know.’

  The words felt like stones in his mouth, but he continued. ‘What happened to Sophie and Joe – it was my fault.’

  ‘What did happen? I’ve heard the facts, but I haven’t heard them from you.’

  Larkin lay back, staring at the ceiling. He had never told the story from his side. Perhaps now, if he truly wanted to go forward, bury the past, it was time he did. And it seemed like he was with the right person. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I was working, being my usual cocky self, fuelled up on coke and ego. This was the late eighties, remember, when there was still an easy living to be made, providing you weren’t too ethical.’

  The room seemed
to darken around him. ‘I was working on a big exposé of some high-profile City guy, Ralph Sickert. The usual stuff: ridicule him, ruin his reputation. Always popular. People loved to read about the downfall of a yuppie, especially one who was mega-successful, like Sickert. So I obliged. Sickert’s life collapsed, a lot of papers were sold, and I was handsomely rewarded.’

  He sighed. Outside, a streetlight came on, but it didn’t penetrate the gloom inside. ‘Trouble was, Sickert took it personally. Now, you could say he shouldn’t have put himself in a position where he could be exposed in the first place – or you could say I had no business doing what I did. But he blamed me for his collapse. And made me pay for it.’

  He fell silent. ‘So?’ Charlotte prompted.

  Larkin’s breath caught. ‘So he pulled up at my house with a loaded double-barrelled shotgun. I wasn’t there. But Sophie and Joe were. And he let them have it.’

  The tears started to well behind his eyes.

  ‘Where were you? At work?’

  ‘No. I was … I don’t even know. I’d been out the night before, stoned and drunk … I can’t even remember the name of the tart I ended up with.’ The tears, long-dammed, came silently. ‘I killed them. It should have been me … I killed them.’

  Charlotte pulled him to her, starting to speak. But he hadn’t finished.

  ‘And don’t tell me it’s not my fault and I shouldn’t blame myself, because it is my fault. No one else’s.’ His body was racked with sobs now. ‘I’ve never allowed myself to get involved since. Never wanted anyone close to me. In case it happens again …’

  His voice trailed off; the sobs subsided. Charlotte held him.

  ‘Until now,’ he said, so quietly she could hardly hear him.

  ‘Stephen – don’t you think you’ve had enough suffering? It’s time to let go. To share it.’

  ‘Charlotte? I think we have a chance. I want a future with you in it, Charlotte.’

  That was it. He’d said it now. She turned away; he took her face in his hand and held it. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

  She half-laughed, half-snuffled, ‘Oh, you beautiful, beautiful man. I love you!’