Mary's Prayer (13 page)

Larkin was prodded and poked, tested and goaded. Over the days, his condition slowly improved. He was told he would be kept
in hospital for a couple of weeks, although they were very pleased with his physical progress.

He still wouldn’t talk to anyone about what had gone on in that room; he didn’t feel able, yet, to confront it. His doctor,
Dr Baker, often popped by to see him; Larkin enjoyed their conversations, but got the impression that the man fancied himself
as an amateur therapist. Perhaps the hospital had adopted a holistic approach to healing and he was just doing his job.

On one such visit, Baker tried again to draw Larkin out.

‘Look,’ said Larkin, ‘I know you mean well – but I’m just not ready to talk about it.’

‘Fair enough. All in good time.’

Larkin paused. ‘Can I ask you a question?’ he said.

‘You can.’

‘Have you ever seen anyone die from drugs?’

Baker sat at the corner of the bed. ‘I presume we’re not talking about an overdose of valium here.’

‘No. I’m talking about crack, heroin – that sort of thing.’

‘We’ve dealt with a number of fatalities through heroin.’

‘What were they like?’

Baker sighed as if he had the weight of the world
on his shoulders. ‘Not pleasant. Heroin – diamorphine sulphate, if you want to be accurate – can best be viewed as a very
strong painkiller. It blots out the symptoms, the pain of living. I don’t mean to be melodramatic. But that’s the effect it
has. Once it gets a hold, your life’s like a tap that gets turned on so the contents drain away. You could sit in a room for
a year or more, doing nothing. Not speaking, or eating, or washing – just staring at your shoes, numb, until the next fix.
That’s all you think about. Taken too purely, it can send your heart and blood pressure fatally off the scale. But it’s the
rubbish it’s cut with that usually kills you. The profit motive gives pushers
carte blanche
to add anything to it to make it go further. Could be Vim – could be baking powder. Or rat poison. You just don’t know.’

‘And crack?’

‘It’s not the drug that’s addictive, it’s the high. It’s quick, intense. And it grips you. Fast. Coming down’s the hard part.
Some people use heroin for that. It’s the beginning of a journey down a very slippery road. Even your old favourite, powdered
cocaine,’ Baker looked straight at Larkin – could he read minds as well as trying to psychoanalyse them? – ‘that can get you.
It’s like adrenaline. Too much causes arrhythmia of the heart. If it’s too pure, it kills you, usually by asphyixiation on
your own vomit. As for Ecstasy – who knows? Far too early to tell.’ He looked at Larkin again. ‘I take it that whoever did
this to you was involved in the drugs trade?’

‘I think so.’

‘Then you’re lucky to be alive.’

Larkin sighed. ‘So you keep telling me.’

He went for walks, stumping around on his crutches, agonisingly slow, an inch a minute, pain coursing through his muscles.
Round the other wards, down the halls, his crutches leaving deep indentations on the lino, his muted grunts echoing round
the General’s sterile corridors.

He reached the room where the prone figure of The
Prof was lying, wired up to machines that registered the fact that he wasn’t yet a corpse.

Larkin looked at him. Was this how it ended? Larkin on crutches; his old friend on a life-support machine, stuck in limbo.
The villains who had done this to them were out there somewhere, part of the black economy. If they were caught, sentenced,
others just like them would have taken their place by the time they’d been put into their cells. Even inside they’d keep on
working. The laws of supply and demand were the only ones which had any relevance to them.

So what did Larkin think he could achieve? Revenge? Retribution? Yes. For The Prof, and for himself. And for Mary. As he looked
at The Prof, tried to ignore the hot tears that pricked behind his eyes, he knew that soon he would have to turn his self-destructive
rage into something more positive. And take action.

When his couple of weeks were up, Larkin was deemed well enough to be received into Charlotte’s tender care. He said his goodbyes
and was transferred, via wheelchair and ambulance, to Charlotte’s bed. As he was being helped through her house, he noticed
how firmly it was stamped with Charlotte’s personality. There seemed to be nothing of Charles here.

The ambulancemen were ready to leave. Charlotte plumped up his pillows like Florence Nightingale and went to close the front
door after them.

He looked round the bedroom. Bare, honey-coloured floorboards; linen and calico drapes; earthenware pots filled with hazel
twigs and dried flowers. State-of-the-art TV and CD player. The pine furniture was expensively stripped and distressed. It
had an oddly, calming effect.

Larkin looked out of the window to the little guest house opposite.
Andy’s sitting in there
, he thought.
He’s probably watching right now
.

Charlotte returned, a cock-eyed smile on her face.

‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What’s that look for, then?’

‘I’m just thinking – I’ve got to undress you and put you to bed properly …’

‘You don’t have to do it now.’

‘Oh, I do.’

And with that she came over to the bed and began to gently tease his T-shirt from his body.

‘You know,’ she said playfully, ‘I’ve been wanting to do this to you ever since I met you again. Never thought it would be
in these circumstances, though.’ She put her hand on his neck and began, slowly, to stroke him. She shifted her body closer
to his. Her other hand moved over his chest and down to his Levis. His arousal was visible; she looked at him and smiled voluptuously.

‘No.’ His voice was feeble, unconvincing.

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not that I don’t want to … God knows it’s not. It’s just – I don’t think my body could take it yet.’

She looked at him quizzically.

‘Honestly,’ he said.

He felt her hand firmly grasp his dick. ‘I could always …’

‘No,’ he said quickly, ‘the shock would kill me.’

She sat up, looking embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. My timing seems to be dreadful at the moment.’

He smiled reassuringly at her, his erection ready to burst, and said with an effort, ‘It’s fine. There’s no rush. We’ve got
plenty of time.’

‘Yes,’ she said, nuzzling down on the bed beside him, careful not to knock his bruises. ‘We’ve got all the time in the world.’

Saturday became Sunday. Then Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday … all the way back to Saturday again. Larkin could feel the strength
returning to his body with every day that passed.

Since their abortive attempt at lovemaking on the first Saturday, there had been a distance between the two of them. No ice;
just a slight frost. They talked, ate together;
Charlotte wasn’t a born hostess, but by cooking, cleaning and taking days off work, she was doing her best. That was the problem;
they were both making too much of an effort. They were polite, friendly – but when it came down to it, they were two old lovers,
back together and sharing a bed.

It was Charlotte who resolved the situation, as she walked into the bedroom on the second Saturday afternoon.

‘Stephen, I’m sick of this.’

He put down his paperback copy of Scott Fitzgerald’s
Tender Is The Night
. ‘What?’

‘You know what I mean.’ Her cock-eyed smile was back. ‘We’ve been circling round each other for a whole week now – and I’m
tired of it.’ She knelt at the end of the bed.

‘And?’

‘The doctor said I had to keep you calm and relaxed at first. No sudden shocks. But I think all that’s gone on for long enough
now, don’t you? I think you’re ready for a few surprises.’

‘Erm …’

She pulled back the duvet, started to undo his pyjama bottoms.

‘I mean, look at these,’ she said as she went about her task. ‘You’ve been wearing these all week! So I’ve had to be equally
modest – and I hate wearing anything in bed.’ She pulled them off; his erection was rising rapidly. ‘Come on! I know you can
move around a little bit …’

‘It hurts,’ he said pathetically, levering himself off the bed while Charlotte slid her hands gently down his body.

‘I’ll kiss it better.’ And she began moving her lips lightly over his stomach.

He jerked slightly. ‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Does it really hurt that much?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just … do you mind shutting the curtains?’

She looked at him. ‘No one can see in. Since when were you so shy?’

‘Please?’

She crossed the room and drew the curtains. He looked at her body, stretching, silhouetted against the daylight. She was perfect.
She returned to Larkin and took off her cardigan, revealing a cream lace bra. She sat next to him.

‘I’ve looked after you for a week now. Call me selfish, but I want something in return. I think you’re well enough to give
it to me, don’t you?’

‘Possibly,’ said Larkin. ‘Only time will tell.’

Slowly, she slipped off her shoes, knowing that Larkin was watching her, relishing the effect she was having on him. Her eyes
never left his as, with great deliberation, she took off her bra. She had kept herself in good shape; her breasts were full
and firm, her stomach tight. Hauling himself up, he reached forward and stroked her breasts with his good hand. The move cost
him some pain, but it was worth it. She moaned slightly, her nipples hardening under his fingers. Her head tilted and she
moved towards him, her breasts covering his face. He started to kiss her body, her shoulders, her neck, her breasts, taking
each nipple in his mouth in turn, sucking, licking, biting. Charlotte’s gasps of pleasure confirmed that her enjoyment was
as overwhelming as his own.

Suddenly she wriggled free and stood up. Unbuttoning her jeans, she pulled them down over her hips, to reveal a pair of black
panties which she peeled off in similar fashion. At last she was naked. And she gloried in the knowledge that she was driving
him wild.

Once more taking the initiative, Charlotte climbed back onto the bed and straddled him. She took his dick in her hands, rhythmically
slipping the foreskin up and down, pressing it against her clitoris, her eyes closed in sensory delight. Aware of Larkin’s
readiness, she opened her legs wider and took him inside her. She rocked backwards and forwards, drawing him deeper with every
stroke. Her hand slid down and she started to tease herself, without breaking her rhythm, her muscles still holding Larkin
tight. Her orgasm began to build as her
other hand played over her body, exploring her breasts, running through her hair, over her stomach. Larkin was fascinated
– and highly aroused – by Charlotte’s total absorption in her own body, by her single-minded sexuality.

She came, tumultously. The waves of her climax went on and on. Eventually she came back to earth; but Larkin was still unfulfilled.
As she climbed off him he thought that was that; but he was wrong. Curling up on the bed, she began to suck him, powerfully,
demanding a response with her lips and tongue. It wasn’t long before he felt his own climax approaching.

Charlotte sensed the change and, with almost military precision, finished the job with her hand. And he came, experiencing
pleasure and pain in almost equal proportions.
Funny
, he thought to himself,
now I can’t even come without Charlotte taking charge
.

The whole episode had a bizarre, unreal quality – like a hospital fantasy come to life. Afterwards she got up and cleaned
herself clinically with a tissue. She hung her clothes up neatly and lay close beside him, a look of catlike contentment on
her face.

‘How was that?’

All his doubts about her had been shoved to the back of his mind; everything was postcoitally right with the world. ‘Fine.
Very
fine.’

‘Didn’t hurt you?’

‘It was worth getting hurt for.’

‘Good. I did promise the doctor I’d look after you.’

‘You’re doing that, all right.’

It was late afternoon now, getting dark, and neither of them had moved. After making love, Larkin had nodded off; he came
round to find Charlotte awake, staring fixedly ahead, her thoughts unfathomable. He moved his head to look at her; after a
couple of seconds’ delay, she turned to him, suddenly aware of his presence. She gave him an ambiguous smile, kissed him on
the forehead and got up. She was still naked; Larkin wanted nothing more
in life, at that moment, than to watch her body more. He was starting to want her again by the time she left the room.

She returned a few minutes later, carrying a tray holding a chrome cafetiere, a milk jug and two mugs. Also a CD. She put
the tray down, crossed over to the CD player and put it on, bringing the remote back to bed with her. She poured Larkin a
cup of coffee.

‘Milk, no sugar.’

She smiled again. ‘I thought I remembered.’

Wincing, he sat up and she handed him the coffee.

‘Thanks.’ He sipped it: hot and bitter. Her hostess skills were improving. She pointed the remote and the song started. ‘Are
You Ready To Be Heartbroken’ – Lloyd Cole And The Commotions. Charlotte smiled. ‘Told you I bought this on CD.’

‘To remind you of me?’

She smiled ruefully, as if she were being forced to make a shameful admission. ‘Partly. Also to remind me of how it was back
then. It’s a part of my life on that album. I’m not a naturally acquisitive person – but songs, books – films, even – make
better records than any diary. They tell you much more about your life, where you were, what you were doing. You hear a song
again, see a film, and you’re there. In the past. Sometimes it’s good to look back. It was easier to be happy, then.’

Larkin listened to the music. Charlotte was right; nostalgia did make life less complicated.

The song came to an end. ‘So, Charlotte,’ Larkin said, ‘does it still remind you of me?’

‘Always.’

She pointed the remote at the player. The jangly, jaunty guitar of ‘Perfect Skin’ kicked in. Their reflective mood was punctured
by the faster tempo; they returned to the present. Charlotte turned on her side, propping her head up with her hand, her breasts
hanging gorgeously loose. She looked at Larkin.