Mary's Prayer (14 page)

‘Stephen … d’you think … What I’m saying is …’

‘D’you think there’s a chance for you and me again? Is that it?’

‘Yes.’

He sighed. ‘I don’t know. Here we are, in bed – and here you are, married, so …’

‘Stephen … there’s something about my marriage I haven’t told you. It’s Charles. He’s … well, it’s not a real marriage. It’s
more of a business arrangement. When you saw Charles behind The Hole In The Wall the other night – chances are he’d been in
there. He’s gay.’

Larkin nodded. ‘I guessed that. So why the marriage? Surely, in this day and age, being gay doesn’t matter so much.’

‘It doesn’t, no. To be honest, it was for me as much as him. Over the last few years, all I’ve done is career, career, career.
Nothing else.’ She offered Larkin a little smile. ‘I know you’ve always thought I was ambitious – too much so, you once said
– but it’s paid off. I’ve got a position in the company that I never dreamed possible a few years ago. Trouble is, there’s
still a stigma attached to single career women. Up here, anyway. Some of our clients are really reactionary. Dyed-in-the-wool
traditional Northerners, businessmen who still wouldn’t dream of employing a woman as anything more than a secretary. If you’re
single as well as being a working woman, they tend to look very suspiciously at you. They see you as something unnatural.
I was starting to find that some clients didn’t want me to represent them. It was as if I wasn’t safe, somehow. My professional
life is much simpler as Mrs Twigge than it ever was as Ms Birch. So it was better for my career prospects if I got married.
Charles was unattached – we were always getting sat next to each other at functions and dinner parties. The two odd halves.
So we came up with this arrangement. Half the house is mine, half his. We keep ourselves, and that works just fine. If he
wants to bring anyone home, that’s fine – the same goes for me.’

Larkin was letting all this sink in. ‘So if he doesn’t
care about you and who you see, why did he take a swing at me that first night?’

She reddened slightly. ‘That’s because … he’s an arsehole when he wants to be. I didn’t say I liked him, I said I married
him.’ She paused and stared hard at him, assessing his reaction. ‘Do you have any comment to make about that?’

‘Well … I thought Charles might be gay, after I saw him outside The Hole In The Wall with his little friends. Though presumably,
since he’s lying low, they’re professional as well as personal associates. But I just never pictured you making a marriage
of convenience. It just seems a bit—’

‘Sordid?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I suppose it looks that way. But our arrangement doesn’t rule out the possibility of my meeting someone and – falling in
love. If that were to happen, we would divorce like any normal couple, divide our things painlessly according to our pre-nuptial
agreement, and go our separate ways.’

‘So what about lovers?’

‘You’re pushing it, aren’t you?’ She smiled, a brittle smile.

‘Invalid’s prerogative,’ said Larkin. Actually, he wasn’t sure whether he really wanted to know.

‘One or two.’

‘Anything serious?’

She took a long time answering. ‘No … you couldn’t call them that.’

‘Oh.’ He decided not to pursue the subject. They lay there quietly, sipping coffee, listening to the CD.

‘Are you concerned about Charles?’ Larkin asked eventually.

‘Well, it’s not unusual for him to stay away this long – but yes, I am worried.’

‘Have you thought of calling the police? Reporting him missing?’

‘I’ve thought about it, but what could I say? “Sorry
to trouble you, officer, but my husband has disappeared. I shouldn’t worry, though, he’s probably shagging some guy senseless
– or getting stoned. Or hiding from you, because his friends have half-beaten a friend of mine to death.”’

‘So you know about his—’

‘His drug habit?’ She sounded scornful. ‘Of course. You can’t live with someone, even if it’s not a proper relationship, and
hide something like that. Anyway, how did you find out? Was it just because of the company he keeps?’

‘When I saw him at The Hole In The Wall … he was doing a line of cocaine.’

Charlotte scoffed. ‘Right out there, in the street? He must have been desperate. He’s finding it hard to keep it a secret,
if you must know. He’s in trouble at work, making mistakes, screwing clients around. It was bound to happen sooner or later.
You can’t sweep a coke habit of that magnitude under the carpet forever.’

The fact that Charles was clearly such a loser meant Larkin could afford to be generous. ‘Perhaps that’s why he’s gone missing.
We should give him the benefit of the doubt – after all, there’s no proof that he was connected with what happened to me and
The Prof. When I saw him with those guys – maybe they’re just his suppliers.’

Which didn’t explain why Larkin had seen Pierced Nipples strolling into Sir James Lascelles’ lair. And Charlotte’s lack of
enthusiasm for his altruistic suggestion made it clear where her suspicions lay.

Charlotte was silent, musing. Then: ‘Those men – the ones you saw with Charles – would you say they were definitely gay?’

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.

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.’