Mary's Prayer (8 page)

‘Hey – wait a minute—’

Larkin was in the room. In bed was the barmaid from The Forth, the colour draining from her cheeks as she grabbed for the
bedclothes.

‘Hello. Nice to see you again. Andy, I need all the stuff you got yesterday on the Edgell killing.’

‘What, now?’

‘Yes, now. Where is it?’

Andy sauntered over to the desk, tugging at his bathrobe for decency’s sake. He flicked through a pile of photocopies, handed
a bundle to Larkin.

‘There you go, mate.’

‘Ta. See you later.’

And with that he dashed out, leaving Andy almost lost for words.

‘Don’t mention it …’

Larkin returned to his room to leaf through the stack of papers. When he found what he was looking for, he sat back as though
he’d been walloped in the face with a wrecking ball.

The same date
… As Fenwick was pulled away from Edgell’s body he had been shouting something. ‘
I was just teaching the bastard a lesson. He shouldn’t have been on the wrong side
…’

Larkin was trembling. Was it all just a massive coincidence? Or was ‘Terry’ really Gary Fenwick?

The rain was Sunday afternoon rain; non-committal, clammy and cold. Reminding the world that, on a Sunday, the city is the
most depressing place on Earth. And the loneliest.

There was a time, in his youth, when a walk through a city of rain would have kindled a sense of romantic melancholy in Larkin.
Not any more. He had been caught in too many downpours for that. He was wandering because he had nothing else to do. The Rainbow
Club was due for a visit, but that wasn’t until later; Sir James Lascelles, too, but he hadn’t worked out how to approach
him yet. There was someone else he had to talk to – but that was for the evening. So he walked.

His route had taken him up Dean Street, the Bigg Market, and onto Clayton Street. Cut-price, cheap-jack shops selling crap
that nobody needed; everything a pound, unbeatable offers. Amusement arcades, packed with customers poor enough to start with
and getting poorer by the minute. He walked past the second-hand record shop (closed), the dodgy jewellers. The bingo: twenty-four-hour
fluorescent lights showering the area with fake money and neon stars, simultaneously colourful and depressing.

Over the traffic lights, past the end of Pink Lane. He turned left along the bottom of Westgate Road; finding nothing but
closed motorbike dealers and rip-off secondhand clothing stores, he went in the opposite direction,
past the Central station, into Mosely Street. He wandered down towards the quayside. It was the same route he’d taken on his
first night back; the bleak daylight added nothing to it. The acid rain merely made the grey water greyer.

He had hoped that his stroll would instil some order into his mind, but all he had succeeded in doing was wearing down his
shoe leather on the old unloveable streets, and allowing his past to reach out and grab him. His memories were so firmly ingrained
in the stone and air of the place that he felt he was travelling through a city of ghosts.

He went back up the Side; the cobbled road and looming buildings made him feel like a character in someone else’s movie. He
walked past the men’s toilets. A couple of young men in white jeans walked in; one of them eyeballed Larkin, gave him a little
wave. Larkin shook his head. If they wanted to play Russian roulette in a toilet cubicle, then let them. Bugger all else to
do on a bleak Sunday afternoon.

He walked past The Empress – a dodgy pub if ever there was one – and up by the side of the Cathedral. As he was rounding the
corner, he saw Charlotte, wearing her black overcoat and a determined look. He instinctively ducked into a recess in the stone
wall as she crossed the road heading straight towards him. At the last moment she veered to the left, out of his vision. He
left it a beat, then tentatively looked round the corner. Gone. He breathed a little sigh of relief. Somehow he didn’t want
their next meeting to be one of chance. Her sudden disappearance intrigued him, though; since she was no longer on the street
she must have gone into the Cathedral. Telling himself he was curious, nothing else, he entered.

The last time he’d set foot in a church had been at Sophie and Joe’s funeral. Larkin’s faith in God, like everything else,
had lapsed dramatically since then. He looked around. The usual high, vaulted roof, death-and-glory stained-glass windows,
the air damp and chill. On
an ancient table were piles of musty red prayer books. Leaflets hanging from a pinboard exhorted worshippers to Praise! and
Rejoice! and explained where to find God in the inner city. Posters for a church disco billed it as a ‘Rave ’n’ Save!’. A
slogan written in Gothic script – ‘TRUST IN THE LORD AND YOUR FELLOW MAN’ – sat above a heavily padlocked wooden donation
box, chained to the wall, Larkin shook his head.

Dotted around the pews, a few souls were praying for salvation and accepting their destiny. Heads bowed, their lips mouthed
silent words of supplication. No one seemed to be Praising! or Rejoicing!

It was in a pew that Larkin found Charlotte, shoulders slumped. He was disconcerted; of all the things he’d taken her for,
a lost soul wasn’t one of them. Thinking an element of surprise would give him the edge, he sat down. Her eyes were screwed
shut, her body hunched forward. As his weight hit the pew she glanced up; she didn’t seem recognise him. He spoke.

‘Didn’t think this would be your kind of place.’

She gave a double-take that would have been wonderfully comic it hadn’t been for the expression on her face. Larkin couldn’t
tell if she was angry, shocked or suffering a heart attack. She took control of herself with a great effort and settled for
being embarrassed.

‘Have you been following me?’ Her embarrassment was followed by outrage.

‘No. I was just walking and I saw you come down the Bigg Market.’ Silence. ‘I called out,’ he lied, ‘but you didn’t hear.’

She didn’t reply.
So much for being in charge of the situation
, Larkin thought.

‘Look … if it’s about last night,’ he said, ‘then I’m sorry. I haven’t … It was a shock. Everything happening at once, that’s
all.’

‘That’s all right. I shouldn’t have rushed you.’ She spoke like a bad actor, reading her lines in monotone. She certainly
didn’t sound as if she meant it.

‘So what are you doing here?’

She sighed, obviously not wanting to answer. ‘None of your business.’

‘Just interested.’

‘I don’t have to explain myself to you. And I don’t like you spying on me, either.’

‘Bye, Charlotte.’ Larkin made to go. If he stayed they’d only argue; he’d forgotten how infuriating she could be. She grabbed
his arm.

‘No – don’t.’

She looked up at him, relaxed her grip. He slowly sat down. There was a long pause, during which Charlotte seemed to have
something spiky stuck in her throat.

‘Sorry,’ she eventually vomited out.

Larkin nodded. She’d definitely broken the world record, as far as apologies went. He sat back; it was up to her now.

‘Have you read the diary yet?’ she blurted out.

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘Not a barrel of laughs.’

‘I didn’t think it would be. What about Terry? Any clues?’

Larkin took a deep breath. ‘Well … I thought Terry might have been Gary Fenwick.’

Her stony expression became incredulous. ‘Impossible …’

‘Yes, I know that now, I checked some cuttings. But I do think they knew each other.’

‘How?’

‘Don’t know yet. But I’ll keep looking.’

‘Good. Thank you.’ Charlotte sat back, her face impassive.

Larkin watched one sad old wretch leave her seat, genuflect, then shuffle out to be replaced by another.

‘You never did tell me what you were doing in here.’

She cast her eyes down, mumbled something at the hymn book in front of her.

‘Sorry?’

‘Mary. I started thinking about her. I got a bit upset.’
She took a deep breath. ‘So … I … came for a walk. And came in here. Just to let her know I was thinking of her. And to say
a prayer for Mary.’

The confession seemed to be painful for her to make.

‘Like the song.’

‘What?’

‘“Mary’s Prayer”. By that Scottish group, what was it? – Danny Wilson. Good song.’

She looked at him like he’d just exposed himself. ‘Don’t be flippant.’

He thought of the diary. ‘I didn’t mean to be.’

They fell silent.

‘I’ve got to go.’ Charlotte stood up, then turned towards him. She said, as if at gunpoint, ‘Look, Charles will be away for
a few more days. There’s a little drinks party on tomorrow night. Would … would you like to go?’ The monotone was back.

‘Well …’

‘Will you?’

‘Yeah. OK. I’ve got to cover Edgell’s funeral tomorrow, though.’

‘That’s all right. I’ll leave a message for you at your hotel.’ It seemed as if she’d suddenly run out of things to say. ‘I’ve
got to go. Bye.’

And she was off, without even a backward glance at the altar. Larkin sat back and let out a sigh, glad that the awkwardness
of seeing her again was over.

He got up, walked to the door and was about to exit, when he remembered the chained donation box. He paused, put his hand
in his pocket, and tossed some loose change into the box. He looked up at the agonised figure, the face a mask of purity and
suffering, the hands springing fresh blood, and dug into his pocket once more. He came up with a fiver, stuffed it through
the slot, looked the crucifixion window in the eye, saw the misery of being human, and departed.

As he passed the Central station, Larkin had the irrational feeling he was being followed. He turned
round quickly; no one on the pavement seemed to be paying him the slightest bit of attention. But suddenly, a white saloon
car that had been crawling along the kerb shot out, did a U-turn and was away. Had that been his shadow? He looked after the
car; he didn’t recognise it, couldn’t place the make, hadn’t even noticed the registration number. Reprimanding himself for
his creeping paranoia, he kept walking.

He reached the traffic lights at Marlborough Crescent bus station, waited for green, and stepped into the road. Immediately
the white car appeared as if from nowhere. And this time it was gunning straight for him. Larkin stood still, transfixed.
He couldn’t quite grasp the reality of what was happening. With a monumental effort, he put himself into motion and lurched
to the left. The car swerved. To the right. The car swerved. Forcing himself to wait until the last possible minute, he ran
for the side of the road. He leapt onto the pavement, narrowly missing the front of the car, and lay there, spread-eagled
and winded. The car pulled out to avoid careering into the railings next to the traffic lights then roared away.

A small group of people began to cluster round Larkin’s prone body. He heard their voices coming and going, as if he were
tuning in a transistor radio.

‘All right, pet?’

‘Drive like maniacs, don’t thuh?’

‘Kids, man.’

‘Aye, the
Chronicle
said so.’

‘– was a Lancia, an’ all.’

‘– smart, them. Ee, are you all right, pet?’

He blinked. Looming into his face was a rotund woman of about sixty with a furrowed brow.

‘Yeah, I—’

He gingerly struggled to his feet. He was at least eighteen inches taller than her.

‘Kids! Bloody kids. Bloody joyriders. Dreadful, in’t it? And the parents. I blame them. They just let them run wild.’

He stopped her tirade before she brought back the birch.

‘Did anyone get the number?’

Several shaken heads. People were drifting away, disappointed, now that Larkin was standing. The ghouls were retreating.

‘It was definitely a Lancia,’ said one man before walking off.

‘Thanks.’

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ the munchkin asked, genuinely concerned.

‘Yeah, thanks. I’m fine.’

He started to walk away, unsteadily, his heart pounding.
Joyriders
? Someone had just tried to kill him.

The hall was cavernous and dark. Fringed, fake-candled wall lamps waited to be lit and the maroon and black velveteen flock
wallpaper seemed to absorb what little light there was. Lining the walls were plush velvet booths, giving the illusion of
shabby intimacy. Chairs were stacked on tables; a woman wearing a cotton print dress and a lacquered hair-do was struggling
to get them down. At the other end of the hall a hefty, balding man in a short-sleeved, polyester-mix shirt and tie combo
was making heavy weather of opening up the bar. He was clunking crates of Britvic around so heavily that it was a wonder he
wasn’t surrounded by a pool of tomato juice and broken glass. In the cathedral-like expanse of the hall, the bar was the altar:
just right for a Sunday night.

Larkin was still pretty shaken after the incident with the Lancia. He badly wanted a drink, but had denied himself; he knew
that just one wouldn’t have been enough. Instead he had walked round until he found the Rainbow Club. He looked dishevelled
from the hangover and battered from the pavement, but he was still going strong. Thinking his brand of charm would work better
on the woman than the man, he approached her.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Yes?’ Her head sprang round brightly. She had round eyes, a wide mouth and was so cheerful that she must have had a natural
Prozac gland in her body.

‘I’m terribly sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if you
could help me.’ Larkin looked round innocently. ‘This is the Rainbow Club, isn’t it?’

‘Well, it will be in a few hours. Frank – that’s my husband—’ she pointed to the barman, who was now wrestling with a knife
and a lemon as if in preparation for a bizarre communion, ‘he and I run the club.’ She appraised Larkin. ‘Are you seeking
membership?’ She sounded doubtful, clearly thinking he wouldn’t help to raise the tone of her clientele.

‘No, no. It’s … business.’

She didn’t hide her scepticism; the charm wasn’t working. He’d have to work fast to gain her trust. No hesitation, or she’d
think he was lying. He drew Mary’s photo out of his inner pocket. ‘Do you know this woman?’

She looked at the photo. ‘Yes. She used to come here.’ She gave Larkin a quizzical look. ‘Could I ask who you are, please?’
She spoke with one of those sing-song Geordie accents that some women affect to make them sound middle-class.

‘I’m working for her solicitor. We’re trying to trace that man.’ He tapped Terry’s face.

‘Oh. Is he her son?’ she asked.

‘No, he’s her—’
Killer
, thought Larkin. ‘Boyfriend. We think.’

‘We’re a club for middle-aged, divorced, separated or bereaved people. We provide a place where they can come together, share
a common interest. Meet others in the same boat, help regain a bit of self-confidence. We treat them as our friends.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Larkin.

She looked at the photo again. ‘I haven’t seen him in here.’

‘We think she may have met him after she stopped coming here. We’re just checking. Can you remember anything about her?’

The woman suddenly froze. ‘I read about this. She killed herself, didn’t she?’ Her eyes grew to the size of dinner plates.

‘Yes, I’m afraid she did.’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘No, no. She didn’t make a will, you see,’ he was winging it now, ‘so we’re just making enquiries. Just routine.’

‘There won’t be any bad publicity for the club, will there? Only we’ve got our reputation to consider.’

Yes
, thought Larkin;
you treat them all as friends
. ‘None at all.’

She subsided. ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t be much help. I didn’t get to know her very well, you see. She only came a few times
– and when she did, she didn’t seem to be enjoying herself very much.’

‘Can you tell me what kind of person she seemed on first acquaintance? If there was anyone in particular she gravitated towards,
that sort of thing.’

‘What can I say? She seemed pleasant enough, but she didn’t make friends with anyone special.’ The woman thought for a moment.
‘She didn’t seem to have much confidence when she first arrived, but by the time she stopped coming she seemed to have a lot
more.’ She beamed beatifically, like a born-again Christian. ‘Perhaps the club did that!’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Larkin. Realising he was down a dead end, he wanted to leave, but the woman had decided to talk.

‘That’s how I met Frank, you know.’ She gestured again to the martyred barman, this time struggling so intently to wipe the
bar down that he was in danger of removing the formica veneer. She was still giving her testimony: ‘Two ships that passed
in the night!’ She came back to the present. ‘That’s all I can tell you about … what was her name?’

‘Mary.’

‘Of course. Mary. Yes, very sad. Tragic. Perhaps if she’d stuck with the club it might not have happened.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said again. ‘What about the young man in the picture?’

‘I’m sure I’ve never seen him here. We tend not to let
the younger ones in. We suspect their motives – their sincerity.’

‘How d’you mean?’

The woman’s sunny mask slipped for a moment. ‘People who come here have usually suffered something in their lives. They’re
a bit vulnerable. And there’s always someone waiting to pounce. Usually you can spot them, but sometimes you can’t. It’s best
not to take any chances. I know an opportunist when I see one.’

‘And d’you think he,’ Larkin pointed to Terry, ‘could be one?’

The woman looked at the photo again. ‘Could be.’

‘Well, thanks again,’ said Larkin.

‘Don’t mention it.’ She gave a mock sigh, the mask back in place. ‘Well, back to the grindstone. No rest for the wicked.’

‘Time and tide wait for no man,’ said Larkin. He could out-cliche her any day of the week. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

He walked to the door leaving the two ships, that had collided in the night and formed a safe harbour for others, alone. He
took one last look around the gloomy hall, imagining how it would appear later; the lonely people dotted round the tables,
just like the lost souls at the Cathedral.

The long-suffering Frank was about his sacred duty, hands raised, appealing to the optics. Larkin walked out. He didn’t leave
a donation. There wasn’t a box.

The Broken Doll occupied the same place it always had. And judging by the people that Larkin saw walking in and out, it served
the same customers. Depending on your point of view, it was either a place where the unwaged detritus of society got arseholed
at the taxpayers’ expense; or a place where the genuinely disenfranchised could meet like-minded souls. The truth was probably
somewhere in the middle. The only thing Larkin knew for definite was that if he wanted information, this was the place to
come.

If Larkin had stayed in Newcastle he would probably
have ended up as a regular. The Broken Doll had been his favourite pub: the Bigg Market was, intellectually speaking, beneath
him, The Trent House too pretentious, The Strawberry too laid back. It was here also that, unless he was very much mistaken,
he would find The Prof.

No one knew The Prof’s real name. When asked he’d come up with something different every time. When he worked, which wasn’t
very often, his wage-slips were made out to ‘The Prof’ – Larkin had seen them. He claimed ‘The’ was his Christian name and
‘Prof’ was his surname and no one had ever proved otherwise.

His age was another mystery; he could have been anywhere between twenty-eight and forty-five. He never admitted to the same
age twice and claimed numerous and varied birthdays. He had once said to Larkin, without a trace of a smile, that he was three
hundred and sixty-five – quite young for a Time Lord.

Most people regarded him as a bit of a joke but this was to underestimate him totally. He was one of the best read and most
erudite people Larkin had ever encountered, as well-versed in the sciences as in the arts. He had been employed in both areas
– not for very long, though. His near-genius meant that he was easily bored. The Prof was also one of the biggest users of
recreational drugs Larkin knew. If something was happening on the drug scene in Newcastle, The Prof would know about it.

Larkin entered The Broken Doll. It was like stepping back into his past. A thrash metal band occupied the miniscule stage
area, ranting about what was wrong with society: same song, different singer. The tobacco-coloured walls were covered with
xeroxed posters for gigs, featuring unknown bands, the floor was haphazardly covered in threadbare lino. An unhealthy mix
of bikers, anarchos, drop-outs, and untouchables huddled on wobbly chairs round rickety tables; a small number of nervous
sightseeing students were being ritually ignored. The book-learned and the street-learned had nothing in common.

Larkin walked slowly down the steps to the bar. The
music was at pain level, but none of the drinkers seemed to notice. It wasn’t the kind of place where you could reserve seats,
but there at the bar, on his usual stool, sat The Prof, painstakingly rolling himself a cigarette. Larkin sidled up to him.
The Prof’s clothes were worn like a uniform; DMs, faded Levis, faded Madman Comics T-shirt, bike jacket, crew-cut, red braces;
his little, round granny specs denoting his intellectual status. The barmaid, a short girl with a Gothic white face and a
slack mouth, widened her eyes; clearly it would be uncool actually to ask Larkin what he wanted. He realised he hadn’t eaten
or drunk a thing all day – apart from a medical couple of gallons of water before he left the hotel that morning. He pointed
to the Becks pump, manoeuvred himself to The Prof’s side and tapped him on the shoulder. The Prof turned round, his expression
quizzical, the elaborately rolled cigarette left unfinished. Larkin beamed at him.

It took The Prof a few seconds to recognise Larkin, but when he did his face lit up.

‘Good Lord! Stephen. Stephen Larkin.’ Still the same deeply modulated baritone: a combination of perfect enunciation and a
broad Geordie accent. He pumped Larkin’s hand enthusiastically.

‘Hi, Prof. Good to see you again.’

‘Well, well! A blast from the past. What brings you round these parts, stranger?’

‘Mainly business – but I have to have some time off.’

‘So you came here? Wise choice. Wise choice.’

The barmaid chose that moment to arrive with Larkin’s pint; despite his protestations, The Prof insisted on paying for it.
Larkin took a few sips and, social niceties out of the way, they began to fill each other in on the intervening years.

Larkin told The Prof he was still a journalist, for a paper he was too ashamed to name. The Prof’s career had obviously been
a lot less clear-cut: ‘This and that. Sometimes flourishing, sometimes surviving.’ Larkin left
it at that. He knew it was as much as he would get from him.

‘I heard what happened to you,’ said The Prof.

Larkin fell silent.

‘A few words were said in your honour that night. You should have had some strong psychic energy around you.’

‘Much appreciated. I suppose you’ll say that’s what I deserved for being a capitalist bastard.’

‘Stephen, you should know me better. There’s an old Navajo proverb: “Before you judge me, walk a mile in my moccasins”. Drink
up.’

They drank. The Prof told Larkin what had become of their old gang. Who was in prison; a girl they knew who had stabbed her
two-timing boyfriend when she found out he was married. Who’d changed; ‘Dave split the band up. Never went anywhere. He’s
running an agency for freelance journalists now. Give him a call.’ Who had died; ‘Remember Jack? Overdose. That old horse
habit? Well, he just did too much. And when they cut him open, they found he was HIV positive. Devil and the deep blue sea.’

Larkin sat back. Listening to The Prof, he began to realise that the past was exactly that. Things had moved on, out of reach:
people, places, the city itself. The only constants seemed to be this pub and The Prof.

‘They’re thinking of knocking this place down and building a flyover, you know,’ said The Prof.

There you go
, thought Larkin. Just The Prof left.

The band finished their set with a sonic barrage that threatened to mutate into a solid wall. A couple of people clapped.
The silence that followed was deafening.

‘Hey, Prof.’ Larkin tried for casual; the knowing glint in The Prof’s eye made him realise that he had failed.

‘You
do
want something.’

‘Just your help. It won’t cost you anything.’

He mulled it over. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

Just then the jukebox burst into life with a noise like a bone-china dinner service being thrown into a stainless-steel
sink. It made the hairs on the back of Larkin’s neck stand up, his stomach lurch: ‘Do Anything You Wanna Do’ by Eddie And
The Hot Rods. The first few power chords kicked in, and then the voice: a charmless growl, fired with the eternal optimism
of youth.

‘This song …’ Larkin began, ‘it was
my
song.’

‘It was lots of people’s,’ said The Prof. ‘Forget The Pistols, forget The Clash – this song more than any other from the punk
era defined the spirit of a generation.’

And on it thrashed, a blueprint for cocky individualism. ‘It was such a positive era,’ The Prof continued. ‘Such a positive
time, a time when we could be anything, do anything we wanted. Hedonism plus idealism; the perfect equation.’ The Prof sighed.
‘You can take the temperature of a society from its popular culture. You wouldn’t get a record like that being made today.
Now we live in a regressive society. No idealism – just hedonism. A state of decay. What bands there are sound like they wish
they’d been going thirty years ago. The cult of the DJ has replaced the musician. The creative act is now no more than recycling,
repackaging someone else’s creativity. That’s how we experience the world now. By sampling it, not living it.’

Larkin nodded. All he’d said was that he liked the song.

‘Anthem for doomed youth,’ mused the bar-room philosopher
par excellence
. ‘The eighties were a bad decade for anyone with integrity.’