Mary's Prayer (15 page)

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!’

And in the gathering dark no one was more surprised than Larkin when he heard himself reply, ‘I love you too, Charlotte.’

Larkin sighed, rolled over and woke up. He righted himself with a grunt and looked around: Charlotte’s bedroom. As he was
shutting his eyes to go back to sleep, he noticed something. Charlotte. Her absence. The room was crack-of-dawn dark and there
was no sign of her.

The possibilities went rattling through his head. Perhaps she had gone to work early and hadn’t wanted to wake him; perhaps
it was later than he thought and it was an exceptionally dark day outside. Perhaps she’d gone to get a paper, or some milk.
Perhaps she had gone to the toilet. Perhaps.

As his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, he looked around. The bedclothes had been thrown back on her side; the wardrobe
door was slightly open. He checked the bedside table for a note: nothing but a half-drunk cup of coffee and
Tender Is The Night
.

He lay back. And as he did, a figure appeared in the dim light of the landing outside the open bedroom door.

‘Charlotte,’ he said, ‘where have you been?’

The figure didn’t stop. Larkin looked closer. It wasn’t Charlotte. It wasn’t a woman. It was a man. Because of the gloom Larkin
couldn’t make out his features but he could see that he was quite tall – nearly six foot – and smartly dressed.

‘Charles?’ said Larkin fearfully.

‘No. It’s not Charles.’

And suddenly Larkin knew who it was. With that realisation, the cold sweat of terror returned like an unwelcome friend from
a dead and buried past. He felt helpless, trapped. There was no one he could call, nothing he could do. Right in front of
him was the person he’d been looking for. And the last person he wanted to see. Terry.

He tried to get up.

‘Stay where you are!’

Larkin did as he was told. But he felt he had to say something. He couldn’t let Terry have it all his own way.

‘Hello, Terry. Didn’t hear you come in.’

Terry seemed taken aback, rendered speechless for a few seconds. ‘You must be Larkin.’

‘Yeah.’ Larkin gulped. He tried not to show his vulnerability, knew he wasn’t succeeding.

‘I hear you’ve been looking for me.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Why?’

‘I wanted to ask you some questions.’

‘What sort of questions?’

‘You know what. About Mary.’

He looked thrown for a second. ‘
Mary
?’

‘Yeah. Mary Torrington? Or Greene, when you knew her.’

Terry, even in the half-light, looked confused. ‘What d’you want to know about her?’

‘I want to know what you know about her death.’

‘I don’t know anything about her death. That was nothing to do with me.’

‘That’s not what it said in her diary.’

‘What diary?’

‘The diary she kept all about you.’

Terry was suddenly angry enough to explode. Or was it panic? ‘She can’t have kept a diary!’

‘She did. I’ve read it.’

‘Where did you find it?’

‘In her house.’

‘Liar!’ He moved forward. Larkin could see his face, contorted by desperate rage, for the first time.

‘It’s true,’ he said quickly. ‘I found the diary in her house. And I’ve got a photo of you and her together. I must say it’s
a very flattering one.’ He regretted the words almost as soon as he’d said them.

Terry stepped forward and pulled his fist back. There was nowhere for Larkin to move; he braced himself for the blow. When
he finally found the courage to open his eyes, Terry was standing there, his arm at his side, his rage under control.

‘Where’s this diary now?’

Larkin opened his mouth to reply, then paused. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Come on!’

‘Honestly, I don’t. It must have got lost. With the photo, they were together.’ He hoped he sounded sincere. ‘But I have seen
them.’

Terry seemed scared, almost desperate.

‘Mary committed suicide. That’s all there is to it. You think I killed her, is that it?’

‘That’s what it said in the diary.’

‘Then you’d better find that diary, hadn’t you? Because I didn’t do it.’

‘I’m not really in a position to go anywhere or do anything, am I?’

Terry came up close to Larkin’s face; Larkin could smell cheap aftershave mingled with stale cigarette smoke and deodorised
sweat. ‘You listen to me, and you listen good. I had nothing to do with that. Nothing at all. And if you can’t find me, it’s
because I don’t want to be found. So stop trying. Or you’ll be sorry.’

Larkin didn’t respond. He couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t get him hurt. Terry looked at him. ‘Yeah?’

‘OK.’

‘Good. I’m glad you understand me.’ He reached down for Larkin’s bandaged right hand. ‘Cos if you don’t …’ He grabbed Larkin’s
hand, pushed his thumb right into
the middle of the palm; Larkin felt the tenuously healed new skin rupture and break. His face contorted, neck muscles bulging,
but he was determined not to scream. He wouldn’t give Terry the satisfaction.

Blood started to ooze through the bandage. Still Larkin didn’t scream. Terry pressed harder, blood pooling around his thumb.
Larkin was just about ready to pass out, but he held on.

Suddenly Terry removed his thumb. Like a siren winding down, the pain in Larkin’s injured hand slowly decreased and his breathing
returned to something approaching normal. Terry stood up, wiping Larkin’s blood onto a handkerchief. When he had finished,
he tossed the bloody cloth onto the bed.

‘Just remember what I said.’

Larkin stared at him.

‘I don’t want to be found. So don’t come looking – right?’

The only thing that Larkin could use to threaten him effectively was his eyes. So he stared as hard as he could. Terry held
his gaze for a while, but he wasn’t a match for Larkin.

He tried to salvage his pride. ‘Yeah, well. Let that be a warning to you.’

Larkin waited until he heard the front door slam and then let the pain and fear tumble from him. He started to sweat again.
How had Terry got in? Why had he come here? He lay there not daring to move, not
able
to move, not even able to reach for the phone and ask where the fuck Andy had been. He lay there motionless, until the sky
got lighter and the day started to break. Larkin had never been so grateful to put a night behind him.

The knife-like ringing of the phone cut through the silence. Larkin’s eyes opened to an atmosphere as charged with electricity
as if a thunderstorm had recently passed overhead.

His left arm shot out, knocking his novel off the bedside table in his invalid scramble for the phone. It was the first time
he had moved since the fear-induced paralysis of Terry’s visit and his tense muscles had pins and needles, stabbing him all
over. He grabbed the phone, pulling the aerial out with his teeth, pressing the talk button with his thumb. He didn’t want
to raise his right hand; he’d already glimpsed the fact that the blood and bandage had coagulated into a hard, dirty, red
glove. He didn’t dare look closer. He held the phone to his ear.

‘Hello?
Hello
? Is that you, Stephen?’ Charlotte’s voice had an edge to it.

He finally spoke and the edge disappeared. She was phoning to apologise for leaving so early; she’d taken time off to nurse
Larkin and had a huge backlog of work. The sound of her voice began to calm him. Then she said: ‘Look, Stephen, there’s a
reason for this call. That policeman’s on his way over. He’s just called in to the office to pick up my spare keys – I didn’t
know if you’d be able to make it to the door. He says he’s waited long enough for you to get better.’

‘So I’m better now, am I?’

‘You were fine last night.’

He chuckled in reply. He was building up to tell her about Terry, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was that he didn’t
want to worry her, to spoil their new relationship with too much reality.

‘Are you all right, darling?’

‘Yeah. Yeah.’ The moment, if it had ever been there, had passed. ‘Well, if I’m getting company, I’d better whizz round with
the Hoover.’

She laughed. ‘Don’t forget the dusting. And I left you a pile of dishes in the sink.’

‘Earning my keep now, am I?’

‘I think you’ve done that already.’ There was a pause; Larkin took a couple of deep breaths, willing the moment to return,
but it was Charlotte who settled it. ‘See you soon, darling. Look after yourself. Bye.’

Larkin sighed. Where the hell was Andy? He dialled the number of the guest house and spoke to a woman straight out of ‘Dr
Finlay’s Case Book’. He asked for Andy Brennan. After a palaver which involved him being ‘put on hold’ (during which the woman
covered the mouthpiece with her hand), Andy reached the phone. From the echoing of his footsteps it sounded as if he had journeyed
from the far reaches of Gormenghast. ‘Yeah?’

‘Andy?’

‘Yeah?’ The voice was blurry; that explained a lot.

‘It’s Larkin. What the fuck happened to you?’

‘When? Whassamatter?’

‘I thought you were keeping guard.’

‘I was. I am. What’s up?’

Larkin sighed. ‘Terry’s been here.’

Andy’s voice changed immediately. He was wide awake. ‘What? When? Where?’

‘Where d’you think? Here. When? I don’t fuckin’ know. You were the one supposed to tell me.’

‘Must have dozed off. Had to sleep some time, you know. I tried me best, but even with the speed—’

‘Yeah, well, you picked the right time to do it in.’

‘Sorry. Won’t happen again.’

‘Fucking right, it won’t.’

‘So what happened?’

Larkin steeled himself and told him. When he had finished. ‘Shit,’ Andy said. Then, in the background, Larkin heard a stern
Scottish voice. ‘Please, Mr Brennan – not all our guests share your love of gutter invective.’ Then Andy’s shamefaced, mumbled,
‘Sorry.’ Larkin smiled despite himself.

He told Andy he wanted him to score him some heavy-duty analgesics and some amphetamines.

‘What the fuck for?’ There was a muffled noise. ‘Sorry! I
know
there are. I won’t say it again.’ Then he was back. ‘I was saying, what for? It’s bloody madness. All
right. Sorry
.’

‘I can’t lie here any longer. There’s things to do. If you score me some stuff I can do them.’

‘Get stoned and take on the pushers? That your sense of irony, is it?’

‘Fuck irony – this is personal. You said you’d help. So, you still in?’

Andy was silent for a moment. ‘I don’t like this.’

‘I’m not asking you to like it. I’m asking you to do it. Please.’

There was a big sigh on the other end of the line. ‘Oh, all right. But I’m not happy.’

‘Look, Terry’s been round once. He knows where I am. Who’s going to come next?’

Andy thought for a moment. Finally he relented. ‘It might take me a couple of hours. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Cheers, Andy! You’re a pal.’

‘Yeah, right. You told Charlotte any of this?’

There was a pause from Larkin. ‘I thought it best not to.’

‘Probably right. For the time being. ’Ere, if you’d kept your curtains open, I could have had a nice little sideline going
with some wank mags!’ He chortled.

‘Piss off, Andy.’

‘Suit yourself. Fuckin’ ’ell, most people would jump at
the chance!’ There was more verbal sparring at his end; Andy made some placatory noises then, in a whisper that cut right
into Larkin’s ear, ‘I’d do anythin’ to get me out of this fuckin’ madhouse! I’m goin’ off me fuckin’ rocker.’ Loudly, ‘Fuckin’
sorry
! All right?’

The birds were out in noisy, chirruping force; the sky was a crisp, autumnal blue. Just as Larkin was beginning to enjoy the
morning, Moir arrived.

He entered wearing the twin brother of the suit Larkin had last seen him in – it may have been the same one – with a voluminous,
dirty, Philip Marlowe trenchcoat thrown over the top.

Larkin smiled to himself. Policemen, he thought, fell into two categories: those who thought principles were a code to live
and work by, and those who thought principles was a place to buy smart suits. Larkin reckoned Moir fell into the first category.

Larkin had pulled himself out of bed and dressed himself in a sweatshirt and Levis; bending down was still a problem, so his
feet were bare. He sat on the sofa. ‘If you’d given me a time I could have had the kettle on.’

Moir smiled and approached an armchair. His sweat stank like old kebab grease.

‘So, Mr Larkin, I think it’s time we had a wee chat.’ There was a hardness and strength underlying his cosy words. For all
his down-at-heel appearance, thought Larkin, he wouldn’t want to go twelve rounds with him.

‘Your friend came out of his coma,’ said Moir.

‘I know. I phoned the hospital.’

‘Clever wee bugger, aren’t you?’

‘How is he?’

‘Comfortable, as they say. He’s been through a lot and he’s resting. There may be some damage, both physical and mental, but
they don’t know if it’s going to be permanent. He’s going to be scarred, though. Nastily, too.’

‘Has he said anything?’

‘Well, we asked him how he got to the house – and he said that he was tipped off by someone he met in a pub. He followed it
up, and then …’

‘Yeah?’

‘He won’t say anything more. He’s blanked it out of his mind. Won’t face it.’

‘I don’t blame him. I was there too.’

‘That’s right.’ Moir sat forward. ‘So what have you got to tell me?’

Larkin looked at him, instinctively wary. ‘I’m taking a big chance, you know, if I tell you anything.’

Moir looked amused. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Because I don’t know you. Every man has his price.’

‘That’s true, Mr Larkin, and I doubt that I’m any exception. But …’ He trailed off, scrutinising Larkin. ‘I think I can be
honest with you. Yes, I’m sure I can.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Mr Larkin,’ he began again.

‘Look,’ Larkin interjected, ‘I hate to get overly familiar on a first date, but please, just call me Stephen or Larkin. None
of this “Mister” business.’

Moir was clearly taken aback. He wasn’t used to being interrupted. He reassembled his demeanour and continued. ‘Stephen,’
he forced out with some difficulty, ‘let me tell you something. I’m from Edinburgh. Now, most people think of it as that quaint
wee town with the Castle, the Tattoo and the Festival. And so it is. But, like most places, there’s another side to it. And
that, I’m afraid to say, is the side I know best. It’s got one of the worst drug problems in Europe. Likewise AIDS-related
diseases. Of course, the two are not unconnected.’

He looked at Larkin, gauging what to say next. Eventually he spoke. ‘It’s the children that get me,’ he said. His eyes misted
over; he was pulling out all the stops. ‘You can see them on the housing estates, nine- and ten-year-olds, looking at you
with these flat, snake eyes. I mean, you know what they’re goin’ to turn into. You know what kind of chances they’ve had,
you know what they’ll end up as. They’re easy prey for the gangs and the pushers. For the kind of scum who did for you. Soon
they’ll be so bored they’ll be hooked on smack and crack and all sorts, dealing in school – if they’re ever there – burgling,
stealing, mugging …’ He trailed off, lost in thought, shaking his head, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. ‘All to feed
their habits. Oh, they hate themselves for it. And they hate everybody else too. You go onto housing estates where you’ve
got fourteen-year-olds with AIDS, shooting up, sticking their used needles through the hand-rails, catching folk unawares,
getting a twisted sort of revenge.’

He sighed and stood up. He walked over to the window, looked into the street, then turned round, his jaw set, his eyes hard.
Larkin knew there and then that Moir would be a terrible man to cross.

‘I can see it creeping in here, Stephen. And that creep will turn into a walk, and that walk to a run. And it’ll be too late
to do anything about it. You don’t believe what I’m saying, look around you. You’ll see I’m right.’ He leaned in closer, his
voice soft. ‘Now, I think I know who they are. They like to think that they’re untouchable – well, I’d like to prove them
wrong. But I’m going to need your help.’ Moir sat down again, wheezing; the trip to the window seemed to be the most exercise
he’d had in ages. ‘Does everything I’ve said make sense?’

Larkin bit his lip. ‘If you’ve said all that just to make me open up to you and they find out, then you’re a heartless bastard.’

Moir chuckled. ‘True. You’re quite right, I am a heartless bastard. But you have to believe me. I’m deadly serious.’ And he
looked it.

Larkin mulled it over. He was pretty sure that Moir was on the level. ‘OK – I’ll tell you.’

And he did. Starting with Wayne Edgell’s funeral. He played down Charlotte’s role as much as he could and played up Charles’s,
whether out of jealousy, or revenge for the bruises, he didn’t know. He finished up his story on Woodcross Lane. Then breathed
out hard, relieved to have got it over with.

Moir sat back, the cogs in his brain working almost
visibly. ‘Right. Working backwards … this guy with the pierced nipples who did the number on you – his name, believe it or
not, is Abel Cain Hutton.’ He sat back, waiting for a response.

Larkin obliged. ‘What?’

‘Abel Cain Hutton. Like in the Bible. You know – Cain and Abel, the two brothers? The first murderer and the first victim?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ said Larkin impatiently.

‘Well, our Abel was born in some weird religious sect, based on fear and flagellation. We’ve got a file on him as long as
your arm. Started off torturing animals and birds – the usual stuff – but when he moved on to other children, that’s when
we became interested. He was taken into care, the child psychiatrist didn’t know what to make of him.’

‘Don’t tell me – abused as a kid?’

‘More than likely. Anyway, the sect’s broken up now, and his parents are – dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘His father died in a fire, supposedly accidental; his mother fell down a flight of stairs. Both open verdicts, so work it
out for yourself.’

‘Oh.’

Moir nodded. ‘Indeed. Well, to cut a long story shortish, Cain was eventually discharged into our wonderful care-in-the-community
programme, where he got in with the scurviest lowlifes going. Like attracts like. He dropped the Hutton, attached himself
to the gay boys and started to behave like a star.’ He sighed. ‘We’ve been after him for ages. This might be our big chance.’

‘Why haven’t you moved in on him before now?’

‘Because it’s not that simple. Up to a wee while ago Cain was just your average psychotic scum, but recently, he seems to
have moved up in the world.’

‘How?’

‘Proper job, for a start. He claims to be in the import-export business,’ said Moir with a sneer.

‘Importing and exporting what?’

‘What d’you think? Oh, it’s all legit to look at – on paper anyway. Leather jackets, hold-alls. Taiwan’s finest. We think
someone is putting up the money, Cain’s fronting it and the drugs are hitting the street through it. The money from the drugs
is laundered through that many different sources, it would take years and more manpower and computers than we’ve got to track
it down. He’s got this thing sealed up tighter than a gnat’s arse, and we want him out of circulation. But we need something
watertight to pin him down.’

‘Like my testimony.’

‘Mr Larkin, I cannot impress upon you strongly enough that this man must be put away. This is strictly off the record – but
if there’s anything you can find out, anywhere you can go that I can’t, then do it.’

Larkin looked at him. ‘So you’re asking me to risk my life against this bloke? After what happened last time?’

Moir’s face was impassive. ‘Yes.’

‘And what do I get out of it?’

‘Enough background information to write the feature of your career.’

Larkin thought for a moment, then sighed. ‘Put like that, I’ve got no choice, have I?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘OK, then,’ Larkin said, ‘trade of information. It was on the gay scene that he met Charles Twigge?’

‘Looks like it. By the way, we’ve got a warrant out for his arrest too. Conspiring with our friend to do you over.’

‘Really?’ Larkin couldn’t disguise his joy.

‘Thought that would please you. We talked to his wife today. Apparently, she knew he was gay—’

‘I know.’ Larkin was wary.