Mary's Prayer (19 page)

‘You told me ideals were a luxury! One you couldn’t afford.’

‘Just let me finish! I was trying to justify myself – what I’d become. I’m trying to explain to you – I wasn’t like this at
the beginning. Oh, I’ve always wanted to do well, better than my parents ever did for themselves, but I wanted a career where
ambition and integrity could go hand in hand. That was why I chose to study Law. And then I became a solicitor. And it wasn’t
all about defending the vulnerable, getting justice, righting wrongs.
Far from it. Everyone I saw was on the take, feathering their own nests. And they were the ones getting on! Not people like
me – I was a bloody good solicitor, but who cared about that? I began to realise, if I was going to make a success of my life,
something had to give. And I knew that I wasn’t going to win power and respect by slogging away in a solicitor’s office till
the end of my days.

‘Marrying Charles was just the first step. Then I met Sir James Lascelles – Terry. I did actually call him Terry when we were
together – never in public, of course. He told me that his mother and his lovers were the only people allowed to call him
that.

‘Anyway, Sir James found me attractive and didn’t hide the fact that he wanted to sleep with me. So I let him. He’s very influential
in this city – I thought it was bound to open a few doors. And it did.’ Charlotte saw the look of contempt on Larkin’s face.
‘Stephen, it’s not as bad as it seems! It wasn’t just that. Remember, I had no love in my marriage. To all intents and purposes,
I was alone. I wanted to believe that I could love someone, and that they could love me. I knew I was pretty worthless. And
because I didn’t have any self-respect, because I knew I’d let myself down, I let Sir James do whatever he wanted. I let him
abuse me.’

She broke off; Larkin noticed that she was trembling. He waited for her to regain her composure.

‘Believe it or not, I enjoyed the sex at first,’ she said. ‘It was so wild – it was like a drug. But when I thought about
it afterwards, I hated myself. I hated the fact that I allowed this horrible, ugly, fat bastard to do those things to me.

‘Writing that diary helped me to get it all out of my system. Free myself from it. Oh, it was also helpful as far as the thing
with Mary was concerned – but that wasn’t the only reason I wrote it. Perhaps I needed to let someone know what I had been
through – someone who mattered.’

Larkin turned away from her. She grabbed hold of
him, swung him round to face her. ‘You have to believe me! You have to trust me. I want to start again, with you. I need you
to give me a chance.’ Her eyes were begging him. He stared into them and found, perhaps because he wanted to, the truth. All
he’d ever wanted to find in Charlotte’s eyes. He relented.

‘All right. I believe you.’ He looked straight at her now, her mask ripped away. And for the first time in his life he saw
her as she really was: pitiful, desperate, damaged. He couldn’t turn his back on her. ‘We’ll do what we can. We’ll get it
sorted.’

She looked up at him, hope glimmering through the tears, the disco lights creating a halo around her head.

‘Will we?’ She looked like a child who’d been expecting punishment, spared at the last minute. Perhaps she was telling the
truth, thought Larkin. Perhaps on this jetty, where they’d parted all those years ago, was where life could start again.

‘We will. We’ll do something. Come on.’

He put his arm round her. As they turned to walk away, their path was blocked. Larkin thought at first that the man was carrying
a fishing rod, aiming to do a bit of late-night angling. Then, as he stepped into the glow cast by the disco lights, he saw
who it was. Torrington. Carrying a shotgun.

‘I thought I’d find you together. The two of you, you’re as bad as each other. Oh, you think you’re so clever. But you’re
not, are you? You, you bitch – I was tailing you, all the way from your house, and you never even noticed. You’ve destroyed
my family. But you won’t destroy me. I’ve got the better of you now.’

Larkin tried to be rational. ‘Mr Torrington, what exactly is it that you’re doing here?’

Torrington swung the gun at him. ‘Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t say anything. D’you know what you’ve done to Carol? Do you know
the state she’s in? Coming round, saying the things you said – you’ve no respect for ordinary people.’ He gestured at Charlotte.
‘And nor does she.’

‘Just listen,’ Larkin said frantically. ‘Think of your wife, think of Carol. Think what you’re doing to her.’

But Torrington would not be deterred. ‘I heard her. I heard the two of you, scheming away. So she’s killed him. She’s denied
me that opportunity. He deserved to suffer, for what he did to me and my family. To my son. But she got there before me. And
you – you were going to help her get away with it, scot-free.’

He swayed to and fro unsteadily; Larkin wondered if he were drunk as well as unhinged. Whatever he was, he was dangerous.

‘If I can’t have that degenerate bastard,’ Torrington continued, ‘then I’ll have the next best thing. Oh, yes. Either the
murdering whore bitch –’ he pointed the gun at Charlotte – ‘or the big-mouthed piece of scum.’ He aimed the gun at Larkin.

‘Don’t be fucking stupid.’ Larkin had had enough. Pain was driving a bulldozer to his brain as he looked straight down the
twin barrels of the shotgun. And up into the cold, killer eyes of Torrington, as his finger tightened on the trigger.

Larkin knew he only had one chance. He tried to move as quickly as he could, but his battered body telegraphed his intention
and Torrington neatly sidestepped, his middle-aged reflexes sharpened by adrenalin. As if it were a slow-motion dream, Torrington
pulled his gun out of Larkin’s range and swung it at Charlotte. And emptied both barrels into her.

Larkin pivoted laboriously, the jetty now molten tar. He reached out to stop the shots. Too late. He saw the bullets fly into
Charlotte—

Into Sophie
—

Cutting her almost in half, launching her off the end of the jetty, into the air and down into the Tyne—

Cutting her almost in half, exploding in a blossoming fractal flower of red
—

He heard a loud roar, huge, full of anger and loss, and realised it was his own. He turned and faced Torrington—

Faced Sickert
—

Walked over to him, his legs working painfully, and grabbed the gun from Torrington—

From Sickert
—

Grabbed the shotgun from his hands, hefted it up, and brought it down on Torrington’s—

On Sickert’s
—

– face. Then again. Then again. Tears streaming down Larkin’s face, anger and pain flooding his body, screaming at the top
of his lungs—

‘You’ve taken my
life
! You’ve taken my fucking
life
!’

Living every single second as if it were an hour. Oblivious to everything except revenge.

Twenty minutes later, the police arrived and found Larkin slumped over Torrington’s prone body. He had nothing left to give.

He lay there in bed and stared at the ceiling. He’d been doing it for so long he knew it by heart, every contour, every slight
bump. But if he shut his eyes, he couldn’t even remember what colour it was.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there. It could have been days, or hours. When he shut his eyes, all he saw was emptiness.
Dark, swirling emptiness. He had stopped dreaming. When he slept, all he saw was black. He closed his eyes. If he had no more
dreams left, he might as well look back. To a few days ago, just after he’d been let out of hospital …

‘You didn’t have to come and fetch me, you know. I can manage perfectly well on my own,’ said Larkin, hobbling along outside
the General.

‘Believe me,’ said Moir, ‘I didn’t do it out of compassion.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘You’ve got some very serious charges stacked up against you. Stealing police property, interfering in an arrest, assault
probably with intent to kill, deliberately withholding evidence – and, above all, seriously pissing me off. That’s the worst
one. Believe me, you don’t want me for an enemy.’

‘I can imagine. So what are you going to do with me now?’

‘Well,’ he said, opening the door of the Rover so
Larkin could get in, ‘by rights I should take you to the station and book you.’

‘But?’

‘
But
, I think we should talk about this somewhere quiet. Get in.’

‘Nice car, by the way.’

‘Don’t push it, sunshine.’

They drove to a pub Moir knew, up by St James’s Park. It was the kind of place committed drinkers went to when they had nowhere
else to go – which was often, to judge by the clientele.

They got their drinks and sat down.

‘So,’ Larkin ventured, ‘what’s all this about?’

‘Shut up and listen. And don’t interrupt. I told you I don’t like journalists – and I fucking hate vigilantes. But before
I moved to Newcastle, I had a family. A wife, two lovely wee daughters. And personally I was on the up – a fast-rising star
in the police department. I spent all my time working, I never got to see my family. But I didn’t care – I was on the up.
I courted the right people, went to the right parties, was a member of the right Lodge. I didn’t see what was happening. I
was so blind.’ His eyes dimmed for a few seconds, lost in the past. ‘My wife found it difficult to cope when I wasn’t there.
You see, my oldest daughter had started running with – how shall I put it? – the wrong crowd. Sheila, that’s my wife –
was
my wife – asked me to have a word with her. I did, halfheartedly, but she got worse. And I couldn’t see it. One night I was
down at the station, just about to go for a few drinks with the boys, when they brought in some kids from a heavy drugs bust.
And there was Karen.’ He was breathing hard, the memories weighing heavily on him. ‘What could I do? Nothing. Fucking nothing.
I talked to her, got angry with her, but it was no good. She wasn’t my daughter any more. She stayed away from home all the
time and eventually she didn’t come back at all. We caught up with her through an old friend of hers, last year.’ His voice
started to crack. ‘She’s HIV positive. Living in a squat somewhere. I don’t know
exactly where – Karen didn’t want me to have her address.’

‘What about your wife?’

‘She took our youngest and went. They blame me for what happened. But that’s all right – because so do I.’

They drank in silence. Eventually Moir managed to go on. ‘Moral of this story; look after your kids. If you don’t, there’s
always some shitbag waiting to pounce.’

He didn’t need to tell Larkin that.

‘I’ll be taking no further action over what you did. I’m not condoning it – I just wanted to let you know why.’

Larkin nodded. He knew how painful it must have been for a man like Moir to confide in him. His respect for the man was growing.

‘But if you ever do something like that again. I’ll come down on you so hard you’ll wish you’d never been fuckin’ born.’

Moir had asked if there was anywhere he could drop him; Larkin gave him Charlotte’s address.

‘Must be weird for you to go back there,’ Moir said, when they were in the car.

‘You could say that.’

‘How’re you feeling?’

‘Physically better than I thought I would be – but the rest …’

‘Give it time. You mourn, you grieve, you get on with life. That’s the way it goes.’

‘Yeah. That’s the way it goes.’

Larkin found the lies strangely comforting, he suspected Moir did too.

‘How’s Torrington?’ asked Larkin.

‘He’ll live. He’ll stand trial for Charlotte’s murder, but he’ll live.’

‘Is he going to press charges?’

‘After he tried to kill you? What d’you think? No – he’s on remand, pending a psychiatrist’s report.’

‘What about Cain?’

‘It’s doubtful he’ll ever walk again – at least, not without crutches. He’s got his charges to answer to.’

‘What about his mental condition?’

‘Oh, come on. You really prefer him the way he was?’

Larkin didn’t answer; they drove on. ‘And Danny Torrington?’

‘Again, on remand. He didn’t get far without loverboy to hold his hand. He broke down, told us everything. Apparently, he
really loved Charles,’ he said with a derisive snort, ‘if they can call that love.’

They pulled up outside the house. It looked suddenly desolate, abandoned, a ghost house.

Larkin got out of the car.

‘Nothing’s changed, has it?’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Moir.

‘We caught a few scumbags. That’s all. Plenty more where they came from. The pyramid’s still in place.’

‘And always will be,’ said Moir bluntly. ‘The only way to change that, is to changed human nature. And until that happens
…’

‘Just keep on keeping on,’ said Larkin.

‘That’s right,’ replied Moir. ‘Fight the good fight.’

‘Thanks for the lift. And – for everything.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘See you again.’

‘I fuckin’ hope not,’ Moir retorted, and sped off, breaking several traffic laws along the way.

Larkin turned to the house. He had Charlotte’s old key poised at the lock when it was opened for him from the inside by a
walking, suit-wearing slab of beef, all gristle and no fat. It loomed over Larkin. ‘You Larkin?’ it asked.

He decided that, in the circumstances, truth was the only option.

‘I am,’ he said. Then, trying to be cool, ‘Who wants to know?’

From inside came a voice he recognised. ‘Hurry up, Mr Larkin. We haven’t got all day.’

He entered. In the living room sat another slab of gristle – and Sir James Lascelles.

‘Come in, Mr Larkin. And don’t worry – you’ve nothing to fear from Hector. He’s here for my protection only.’

Larkin looked dubiously at the doorman’s impassive face; he seemed to have had his last independent thought in 1986 or thereabouts.

‘Sit down,’ invited Sir James.

‘I was going to,’ Larkin said truculently and sat.

‘Are you surprised to see me?’

‘I’m wetting myself.’

‘There’s no need for vulgarity. We’re all friends here.’

Larkin was about to argue, but Sir James cut in. ‘Just listen, Mr Larkin. I owe you my gratitude. You saved me a lot of trouble.
You also prevented a very nasty shipment of crack and heroin from reaching the streets. I’m grateful for that, too.’

‘You’re grateful for that?’

‘Oh, don’t misunderstand me – I’m not grateful from any philanthropic standpoint. That shipment will only be replaced by another
– I realise that. But this time I’ll be behind it. The Londoners have seen where we stand and they’re ready to do business.
On my terms. And I have you to thank for that.’

Larkin found disgust and rage welling up inside him. ‘You’re proud of your little empire, are you? Your shining city, built
on wasted lives? That’s what you’re the Great Architect of, is it?’

Before Sir James could speak, Larkin went on. ‘I’ll fight you. The next shipment, or the one after that – it’s personal now.
And next time I’ll have some help.’

‘Oh, how very naive. I, to all intents and purposes, own this town – or at least a good percentage of it. Including its press
and police force. You could never touch me. And this little chat? It never happened. I was never even here.’

‘Is that all you wanted to say to me?’ Larkin felt if
Lascelles didn’t leave soon, he would probably hit him – Hector notwithstanding.

Lascelles gave him a thin smile and passed Larkin an envelope. It was addressed to him. He recognised the handwriting.

‘Your mail. It was waiting for you when we arrived. Of course, I haven’t opened it – a gentleman wouldn’t pry.’

Larkin tore it open, his hands shaking. There were some documents – and a letter.

Larkin put the letter down, tears in his eyes. He was determined not to let them show. He turned to Sir James, loathing his
smug corpulence.

‘Get out of my house. You cunt.’

Sir James smiled. ‘Ah. I thought it might be something along those lines.’

‘Get out – or I phone the police.’

Sir James stood up. ‘We were leaving anyway. I’m a
very busy man, Mr Larkin. And I’ve done what I came here to do.’

‘You’d better get used to looking over your shoulder, Sir James. Because one day I’m going to be right behind you. And you
won’t be able to shake me off.’

Even in the void the bell was ringing.

Larkin awoke from his doze. He pulled back the covers, and realised he was fully dressed – he couldn’t even remember getting
into bed. He went downstairs to answer the door and found Andy standing there, soaked to the skin in the pouring rain.

‘Awright, mate? Mind if I come in?’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Well – I just happened to be passing. Here.’

He handed him a brown paper bag; Larkin opened it. Jack Daniels.

‘Oh,’ said Andy in mock surprise, ‘wanna hand with that?’

Larkin smiled for the first time in ages. ‘Come in.’

The living room was a mess. Pizza boxes, beer cans and MacDonalds cartons littered the room. Charlotte would be spinning in
her grave.

Andy sat down. ‘You wasted no time in making yourself at home.’

‘Fuck off,’ Larkin shouted from the kitchen. He returned with two glasses: ‘Here.’

‘Ta,’ said Andy, taking a glass and pouring a generous slug for himself; Larkin did likewise. He sat opposite Andy, the bottle
between them.

‘So,’ said Andy, ‘you heard from Lindsay lately?’

‘Only to tell me I was fired. Took the huff because I wouldn’t sell her my story.’

‘You don’t seem too upset.’

‘I’m not. It was time for a change.’

‘So what you gonna do now?’

‘Don’t know. Write a book, maybe? Might even become a proper journalist again. What about you?’

‘Oh, you know me. Have camera, will travel. I just go where the work is.’

‘Best way to be.’

‘You miss her, then?’ asked Andy quietly.

‘I … yes, I do. Like hell. She came back into my life just to leave again. I can’t hold on to anything for long.’

‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve got to keep going. You’ve got no choice.’

‘I know that now,’ he said. ‘I’ll go on. Don’t know where, though.’

‘No – but it’s a start.’

They sat for a while longer, making considerable inroads into the bottle. The talk was as bitter as the whisky; they both
knew any victory had been Pyrrhic. After a couple of hours Andy left, making copious, drunken promises to keep in touch.

Larkin was left alone. In his very own ghost house. He picked up a newspaper and started to read. Princess Di had, yet again,
announced her retirement from public life: he reckoned she would end up making more comebacks than Status Quo. The Irish peace
initiative had broken down – surprise surprise – a serial killer had been found guilty and condemned to life. He put the paper
down. He couldn’t read any more.

He thought about what Andy had said. He couldn’t go back; he had to go on. That much was true. He aimlessly paced the floor,
poured himself another drink. He thought of Charlotte, tried to ease her from his mind. But he knew she would always be with
him. Just like Sophie, just like Joe. He thought of Cain, of Torrington and Danny, what they’d lost. Of Mary, the woman whose
death he had thought he was avenging; he remembered Charlotte’s prayer for her and silently added his own voice to it.

He found his jacket on the floor, picked it up and shook pizza crumbs from it. A crumpled piece of paper fell out of one of
the pockets. He picked it up. It had two numbers on it and a message:
Jane. Call me, you bastard!

He thought for a moment. Jane? It clicked: the girl from the party. Should he ring her? He found himself walking over to the
phone, paper in hand, picking up the receiver. Then he paused. Probably not a good idea. He looked out of the window; behind
the rain, and the clouds, he could see the sun, trying hard to shine. He looked again at the piece of paper.
No
, he thought.
Not now. Maybe later
. He left it by the phone. Yes, the sun was definitely struggling to break through. But it wouldn’t manage it today. Not today.