Mary's Prayer (11 page)

The house was exactly as he had thought it would be; a rambling, Victorian monolith which the owners had tried to keep ‘in
period’, a euphemism for opening an account at Laura Ashley. Huge sofas squatted in the large rooms; the curtains were the
floor-length kind climbed by Emily Brontë heroines when they were having a bad day. A profusion of rugs littered the floor;
heavily framed Klimt and Mucha prints adorned the walls. The music was even worse than the decor – Dire Straits – and, in
short, the whole thing was just as horrendous as Larkin had expected it to be. And the guests didn’t provide any compensation
– the result of what happens when cousins marry, they were fake as a game show host’s smile, and with about as much appeal.

And Charlotte had yet to turn up. He had hoped she would be there when he arrived, since she had invited him in the first
place – but, knowing her as he did of old, he had half-expected her to be late as well. The hostess, a grinning, skeletal
bimbo, had felt obliged to talk to him, but after a few minutes of stilted conversation she had wandered off, forcing him
to mingle. Glass of chardonnay in hand, Larkin was cornered by one bore after another; after twenty minutes or so, he decided
he could stand no more. He grabbed a bottle of red and sought sanctuary in the garden.

Larkin sat alone on the stone steps, the bottle nearly
empty. He would give Charlotte another ten minutes and then he’d leave. Maybe he could catch Andy, and they could get the
train together. He wanted to get out of Newcastle for good.

He drained the bottle, looked at his watch. A couple more minutes … So this was how their relationship would finish: open-ended,
unresolved. It was fitting; his life had never featured big Hollywood endings, all the loose ends neatly tied up. He was just
getting ready to go, when the French windows opened. A brief blast of ‘Walk Of Life’ wafted through, against a background
of banal conversation and hysterical laughter – and a figure emerged.

At first he thought it was Charlotte. As he looked more closely, he realised his mistake. The woman was in her mid to late
twenties, with long dark hair; she was pretty but had a determined set to her jaw. She looked strong, capable, and very pissed
off. She started slightly when she saw Larkin.

‘Sorry. I didn’t know there was someone out here.’ Her broad Geordie accent was clear and unaffected; she sounded like she
was used to making herself understood.

‘That’s OK. Don’t worry. I was just leaving anyway.’

‘Me too.’ She heaved an enormous sigh.

‘Not enjoying yourself?’ Larkin asked.

She looked back into the house. ‘Bunch of fucking wankers, the lot of them.’

‘You’re right there. Why did you come? You don’t look like the type to be at a party like this.’

‘Had to see someone. Hasn’t turned up, though.’

‘I know how you feel. Same here. But I can’t say I’m sorry. If she’d turned up I would have had to stay even longer.’

‘True.’

‘What’s your name?’ Larkin asked. She looked at him suspiciously. ‘I’m not being crass, honest. I just like to know who I’m
talking to, and you’re probably the only person here I’d want to have a conversation with.’

She smiled, loosening the set of her face. Nice smile, thought Larkin.

‘My name’s Jane. Jane Howell. What’s yours?’

‘Stephen Larkin.’ There was a pause. ‘So, Jane, what brings you here?’

‘The bastard who never turned up, that’s what. I’m part of a collective, a community project in Scotswood. The bloke from
the council who’s supposed to be giving us an urban renewal grant has been avoiding us. I found out he would be here tonight
so I got myself an invite. Must have heard I was comin’.’ She suddenly looked at Larkin, shocked. ‘You’re not part of …’

‘No. I’m nothing to do with any of them in there. Where did you say the project was?’

‘We’ve formed a Credit Union, we’re tryin’ to get some City Challenge money – and look at that lot.’ She gestured back to
the house. ‘They haven’t a fuckin’ clue! None of them. They’re all right, aren’t they? They sit there in their fancy suits,
with their five-figure salaries, in their posh houses – not that I’d turn a house like this one down if I was offered it.’

Larkin had taken an instant liking to her: no bullshit.

‘So who are you waiting for?’ she asked.

‘Oh … an old friend. I’ve been doing a bit of work for her and I just wanted to tell her that I was packing it in.’

‘Oh. Why? I mean, it’s no business of mine, you don’t have to tell me—’

‘No, I’d like to. I was – looking into something for her. I’m a journalist. But it got … complicated. I don’t want to be part
of it any more.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘I feel like I’m getting too involved and I can’t handle it.’

‘So chuck it.’

‘Yeah … I don’t like walking away from something I haven’t finished.’

‘So stay with it.’

‘Are you, by any chance, the kind of person who sees everything in black and white?’

She laughed. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘Just my bloody luck, eh?’ He laughed as well. She let the laugh subside and looked at him seriously.

‘Well, the choice is yours. You have to do what makes you happiest.’

‘I know.’

They sat there in companionable silence for a while. Then Larkin said, ‘So what are
you
going to do now? About the guy you’ve come to see?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll catch him eventually.’ She frowned. ‘You know, if you could make people like this live in the kind of
place we have to put up with, just for a month, bring a bairn up single-handedly – if they had to do all that, there would
be no inner-city mess, no poverty, no crime. I bet you.’

‘You’re probably right.’

‘Aye. I am.’

Larkin sat back. He was enjoying himself for the first time that evening. Perhaps he wouldn’t leave yet.

‘What are you goin’ to do, then?’

‘Dunno. I’ve missed my train back to London.’

‘You live in
London
?’ she said incredulously.

‘Yeah. Something wrong with that?’

‘Don’t know how you can stick it. I mean, here’s bad enough – but London? No chance.’

‘At least the parties are better.’

She grinned.

‘Look,’ Larkin said, ‘if we’re staying for a while, shall I go and get us some more wine? It’s free, and why not abuse their
hospitality?’

‘Aye! We’ll make a night of it.’

Larkin returned bearing two full bottles and they sat together, ignoring the increasing cold, for the next couple of hours.

Jane told Larkin about her daughter, Alison, who was being babysat by a neighbour – another member of the
collective. About Alison’s father, who had had run off and left Jane as soon as he found out she was pregnant, leaving her
to bring the baby up alone.

She explained the work of the collective, the council’s indifference to the fears of the residents, its lack of admiration
for the way in which they were trying to create a sense of community, a feeling of hope in the face of all the odds.

And Larkin told her the reason for his visit up North. About the funeral, and Charlotte. He didn’t go into details about Mary;
and he didn’t mention Sophie and Joe. His confidence didn’t extend that far.

He liked her. He liked her a lot. He thought of staying in Newcastle just so he could see her again. He felt close to her,
but that could have been because as the night got colder, they’d huddled together. Now they were touching, but neither made
a move.

Eventually she said she had to make tracks, and stood up to phone for a taxi. The wariness in her face was well and truly
gone by now. ‘Look … I’m not very good at this. I know I’ve only just met you, and that, but …’ She took in a big breath.
‘Will you be staying around? Or will you be going back to London?’

He had opened his mouth to answer when he realised he hadn’t a clue what he was going to say. He knew that, at this moment,
he didn’t want to return; but if he was realistic, to stay because of someone he’d just met at a party was pretty ridiculous.
And, hadn’t he decided that wherever his future lay, it wasn’t in this city?

And then there was Charlotte. What had happened to her?

‘Look, I’d better be going,’ said Jane. ‘You do what you think’s best.’

Jane’s voice drew his thoughts back; he saw from her expression that she had taken his silence as a rejection. She gave him
a smile that was somewhere between sad and defiant and turned to leave.

‘Erm …’

She turned again, eyes lit up. ‘Yes?’

‘Have you … Can I have your phone number?’

The light faded slightly. ‘Sure,’ she said, rummaged through her bag for a pen, scribbled something on a scrap of paper and
handed it over.

‘That’s home. The top one’s the office. If I’m not at one, I’m usually at the other.’

He took it, put it in his jacket pocket. ‘If I’m around, maybe we could go for a drink or something.’

‘Sure.’ She spoke like she was going through the motions.

‘No, really—’

‘I said, sure.’ She smiled brightly, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Well … goodbye. Nice to have met you.’

There was a moment’s hesitation; neither of them knew whether it would be right to kiss the other. Jane broke it. ‘I hope
you find what you’re looking for.’ And she disappeared through the French windows.

Larkin stood still. She hadn’t believed him when he said he’d call her. Which was a shame, because he’d meant every word of
it.

When he got back to the hotel, a young guy with wide hips, seventies-style framed glasses and a nylon tie, currently making
the difficult transition between pimply youth and assistant manager material, was there to greet him. He handed Larkin a note
he’d taken of an earlier phone message; Larkin studied it. It was from The Prof, telling Larkin he’d discovered something
important, giving an address in Benwell, telling him to come alone.

Larkin left the hotel immediately. It seemed his stay-or-go dilemma had been temporarily sorted. It also seemed like he might
be walking straight into a trap.

It wasn’t the most grim and foreboding house he’d ever had to enter – but it was close. It sat in a street of similarly ramshackle,
heavily vandalised terraced houses, all earmarked for demolition. Benwell was second only to Scotswood when it came to urban
decay. The pall of despair hanging over the place was almost tangible.

Larkin had paid the cab driver off at the West Road and walked down onto Woodcross Lane; a sign at the top of the street announced:
ANOTHER NEW LUXURY HOUSING DEVELOPMENT FROM GOLDEN CREST. MAKING HOUSES HOMES. An artist’s impression of an impossibly happy
young couple illustrated this concept; a characterless new housing estate formed the backdrop.

The house looked deserted. He decided to check out the back; round the corner, up the alley. He walked past the overturned
bins, repelled by the feasting rats, his feet dodging weeks of discarded rubbish. He moved slowly, looking for light in the
house, any sign of human activity. Nothing. Perhaps The Prof was in there … Perhaps not. The feeling that he’d been set up
intensified.

He circled back to the front of the house and stopped, scared to enter, but knowing he had to. In an attempt to weight the
odds in his favour, he snapped a length of rusting metal from the house’s ancient fence; it wouldn’t offer much in the way
of protection, but it was at least reassuring.

Taking a deep breath, he walked purposefully towards the door. The lock seemed to have been missing for some time; the door
opened with barely a push.

The first thing Larkin noticed was the smell – like someone, or something, had died. The whole building stank of rotting remains
– animal or human, he didn’t know, and didn’t want to. In the hall the wallpaper was tattered and mildewed; scraps of old
carpet dotted the floor. He pushed open the door on his right: the front room. He tried the light. To his surprise the bare
bulb lit up.

The room’s most recent occupants seemed to have been squatters and junkies on their last port of call. The debris of spent
lives was scattered all around. An old mattress, stained and sodden with damp; a couple of crates; old beer cans and fag-ends;
rusty syringes containing a residue of a dark liquid, old spoons, discoloured tinfoil, a few old shoelaces. Bin-bags covered
the window. On the walls were posters and pages ripped from magazines: hard-core porn. Women taking two men at a time, women
with animals, women being anally violated by screwdrivers and other tools, expressions of agony that didn’t looked feigned.
The S&M pictures made Larkin want to throw up. A man had a nail hammered through his penis, safety pins holding his foreskin
back, while another man took him from behind.

The other downstairs rooms yielded much the same. The kitchen was home to a couple of startled rats and a family of cockroaches
feasting on bits of mould. But no sign of The Prof.

He was shaking now. His instinct screamed at him to get out while he still could, but curiosity drove him on. Next stop, the
stairs. Larkin gripped the rickety bannister and started up.

The boards creaked with every step. At least, he hoped it was the stairs; if not, it was the rats, scampering secretly around
him in this halfway house to hell. They would be under the floorboards, in dark recesses, infesting the
whole structure: a house with living, rodent walls. He hoped that was the most he’d have to worry about.

He reached the top of the stairs. There were three doors leading off the landing, one at the back and two at the front. None
of them looked particularly promising. One of them, however, was slightly ajar; he could just make out a faint sliver of light
from underneath the doorframe. His scrotum shrivelled up and his heart went into overdrive as he slowly pushed at the door.

As it creaked open on worn hinges, he saw that the light was coming from two candles at the far end of the room. They were
both lit, but would have been impossible to see from the street; thick black-out curtains were taped to the window. The candlesticks
flanked a stained, damp mattress. And lying there, bruised, battered, and naked, was The Prof.

Larkin rushed over to him. The Prof moved slightly and expelled a gasp of air. He was alive – but only just. Larkin examined
him. It was a thorough, sadistic job. Apart from the bruises and red blotches, frightening evidence of internal bleeding,
someone had tried to erase the tips of the fingers on his right hand with what looked like a cheese grater. His shoulders
showed deep, straight weals; one of his nipples was missing, leaving a bloody hole. His penis had a razored gash in it; the
toenails of both his big toes were gone. There was vomit all down The Prof’s chest, and Larkin felt like adding to it.

Larkin put down his makeshift weapon, slid his hands underneath The Prof’s body and tried, gently, to lever him off the mattress.
Then he heard a sudden commotion behind him. He saw a black blur, felt a dull pain, sensed an exploding yellow firework of
light and colour, before everything went black.

As his consciousness dribbled back, Larkin felt cold. Very slowly he realised he had been stripped to the waist and tied to
a chair. He was in the same room; a quick glance sideways revealed The Prof, still lying on his mattress. Larkin’s head pounded;
he felt nauseous. He
strained to get his hands free, but only succeeded in tightening the knots.

His struggles must have alerted his captors, because at that moment the door opened and in walked Pierced Nipples, wearing
his leather jeans and motorbike boots. He was bare-chested, showing off his nipple rings – two razor blades hanging from silver
chains. The welcoming smile on his face scared Larkin all the more. He walked into the room, light, compact, his steroid muscles
rippling, and spoke.

‘You’re back with us! Good. It’s no fun when they pass out, like your friend there.’ He nodded towards the prone body of The
Prof.

‘If you don’t do something, he’s going to die,’ said Larkin.

‘We all will, one day.’ Pierced Nipples turned his head to the door. ‘Boys? Are you ready to join us?’

Into the room stepped the biker Larkin had seen round the back of The Hole In The Wall, and his twin brother. They were nonchalant.
Thug B took a biro casing out of his pocket and put it into his mouth. He pulled out a rectangular piece of tinfoil and smoothed
it out; from a plastic bag in his other pocket he shook a small handful of white powder and scattered it on the foil. Thug
A took out a cheap lighter, played the flame underneath the foil; Thug B sucked the vapour into his mouth and held it there,
till his eyes narrowed and his mouth puckered like he was sucking a barbed-wire lemon. Eventually he breathed out with a feral
grimace. Pierced Nipples crossed towards Larkin.

‘Mr Larkin. You’ve been making a bit of a nuisance of yourself. Interfering, with my business, sending your lackeys round
to spy on my staff. We can’t have that, can we?’ He spoke in perfect standard English, like he was reading the news.

Larkin tried to swallow. ‘So what are you going to do to me? What you did to
him
?’ He looked at The Prof.

‘That thought had crossed my mind.’ He gave a little
giggle. ‘But no. That was just to fill in the time until
you
turned up.’

‘Look,’ began Larkin, trying to keep a note of desperation from creeping into his voice, ‘if you must know, I was going to
call it all off. Finish it. Go back to London.’

‘Of course you were.’

‘I
was
! Look, I couldn’t care less what you’re doing – it’s not my problem. Why don’t you just let me go? I’ll get on the train
and that’ll be the end of it. Yeah?’

Pierced Nipples sighed. ‘Oh, Mr Larkin, I wasn’t born yesterday. Yes, by all means leave Newcastle. Go to London, go to bloody
Timbuktu for all I care. If you can.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘An example must be made. A warning to others.’ He spoke to Thug A. ‘Robin? Come and show Mr Larkin how you take your medicine.’

Despite the threat of a painful and imminent death, Larkin was amused. ‘
Robin
?’

‘Yes. Batman,’ Pierced Nipples indicated the other thug, ‘must have his boy wonder. I myself am Superman. But only in the
Nietzschean sense, of course.’

Robin brought a chair over. He sat down opposite Larkin, rolled up his sleeve, took out a leather thong and tied it round
his left bicep; Larkin could see the faint tracks in his arm. At the other end of the room, Batman was busy with a spoon,
some powder and his lighter, preparing a syringe.

Pierced Nipples strutted round in front of Larkin, flexing his ego. ‘Are you admiring my body? Do you find it attractive?
You think I must be queer, is that it?’ He smiled; it wasn’t pleasant. ‘Sex, death, fear and pain. That’s all there is. And
power, of course. Does that make me queer?’ He gave a glance in the direction of Batman and Robin. ‘If you’re lucky my two
friends may fancy you too, Stephen. Give you a bit of special loving.’

Batman came towards him with the full syringe.

‘Blood,’ said Pierced Nipples, ‘and needles. So exciting.
But so dangerous, these days. And these boys being so impulsive, I doubt they take proper precautions.’

Batman stuck the needle into Robin’s arm; he pushed the plunger, pulled it back, pushed, pulled it back. Larkin could visualise
the drug creep round Robin’s system, poisoning him like a cancer. Robin’s head pitched forward and he sat in his chair, immobile,
as Batman lovingly pulled out the needle. The syringe was still about a third full.

Pierced Nipples continued. ‘Bad blood mingling, co-mingling. How did Shakespeare put it? “Many thousands have the disease
and feel it not.”’ He smiled at Larkin. ‘You look too clean, Stephen. Want to get dirty?’

He took the needle from Batman and held it at the tip of Larkin’s nose. Larkin stared at it, in cross-eyed terror. Pierced
Nipples went on.

‘Now, in the unlikely event that my boys have no nasty infections, you’ve nothing to worry about. But on the other hand …’
Batman pressed down on a vein in Larkin’s arm, making it stand proud. ‘How do you rate your chances, Stephen?’

Fear made Larkin defenceless. He knew he had no control over whether, or how, he lived or died; the needle focused him, enabled
him to see how every bad move he’d made in his life had led him to this spot. He felt his legs become wet and realised he’d
pissed himself. One push of the plunger and his barren, uncertain future would become significantly shorter.

Suddenly, he wanted to live. He promised the God he’d lost his faith in that he would stop living in the past, make a future
for himself – if only he was allowed one. The needle came closer. Pierced Nipples towered over him; freaky eyes bored straight
into his pain. Larkin could see the erection in his leather trousers as Pierced Nipples touched himself, moaning softly.

The cold of the needle touched Larkin’s arm. This was it. He began provisions for his fate, tried to accept a slow, premature
death.

Larkin grimaced against the expected entry of the
needle, but nothing came. He looked up. Pierced Nipples was standing, legs apart, on a high that no chemical could induce.
His eyes fixed Larkin’s and he licked his lips lingeringly. ‘Now, what to do with you.’ He began to pace the room. ‘Should
I kill you? Probably not. That would only lend you credibility. Should I hurt you so much you become an example to others?
Possibly. Should I make you disappear? Perhaps.’ He sighed theatrically. ‘So many options! So many options. What’s a poor
boy to do?’

Suddenly he stopped pacing. ‘I have it! We’ll start from a fixed point, and improvise a little. My boys are naturally creative
– but they do get carried away sometimes. So best keep an open mind.’ Pierced Nipples held the syringe in his hand. With a
smile he pressed the plunger and squirted it all over Larkin’s naked chest; Larkin squirmed as the liquid hit.

Pierced Nipples bent close to his ear. ‘If you get out of here alive and, in the future, I hear you’ve so much as breathed
the same air as me, believe me, you’ll never breathe again.’ He stood up and motioned for Batman to untie Larkin. Batman did
so, pulling Larkin to his feet and pinning his arms behind his back. Pierced Nipples produced a switchblade from his back
pocket.

‘One slash of your chest, let the juices mingle – and that’ll be that. Crude, but effective.’ He brought the knife up to Larkin’s
chest. Larkin didn’t move. He tried to hold his breath, keep his chest still, so that the cold, sharp steel wouldn’t puncture
his flesh. Pierced Nipples pushed the knife closer, then suddenly snatched it away with a mirthless laugh. ‘Hand,’ he barked
at Robin; Robin firmly held out Larkin’s right hand. Pierced Nipples took the knife and inscribed a little cross on the palm.

‘X marks the spot,’ he said, as Larkin flinched from the pain. ‘Now!’ In unison, Batman and Robin kicked out at Larkin’s legs
and he fell to the floor on his back, winded. From out of a dim, recessed corner Pierced Nipples appeared with a heavy metal
clawhammer and
an evil-looking six-inch nail. Robin held Larkin’s hand flat, palm upwards, while Pierced Nipples positioned the nail over
the bloody X. He looked at Larkin and smiled. ‘Showtime,’ he said, and brought the hammer down.