Mary's Prayer (9 page)

Larkin stayed silent. The Prof looked at him. ‘The Government’s fault, of course. There’s an old Chinese proverb: “When a
fish dies, it dies from the brain down”.’ He took a meditative swig of his pint.

The song finished, to be replaced by ‘Teenage Kicks’ by The Undertones; someone had taste, thought Larkin. He grinned, knocked
back his pint, and almost forgot that someone had tried to kill him earlier.

‘You know, Prof – good company, good beer, blinding music – this could be heaven.’

‘Not heaven – but a haven, at least, and that’s something to be thankful for.’

Larkin smiled. ‘Just like old times.’

The Prof sat back in his chair and looked serious. ‘You wanted my help, I believe.’

Larkin dragged himself back to the present. ‘Drugs.’

‘You want me to score some for you?’

‘No, no. Haven’t touched them for years. No coke, no speed, nothing. Not even a spliff. No, what I need is information. And
I thought you would be the best person for the job.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ll try.’

‘You still experimenting?’

‘I’m still on the journey of self-exploration in which consciousness-altering substances play a part, yes. It’s a noble calling,
shamanism, and I’m following a long and worthy tradition. De Quincey, Byron, Shelley – all the way down to Kerouac, Leary,
and Burroughs. A lot to live up to. So what would you like to know?’

‘A bit of background, really. I’m covering Wayne Edgell’s funeral for the paper. I just want to know more about the state
of the market up here.’

The Prof cleared his throat, preparing to give a lecture. ‘Look around. What d’you see?’

‘People in a bar.’

‘Notice anything?’

‘They all need a wash?’

‘Look closely. Most of the younger ones are on fruit juice or water. They’re just waiting to slip a few Es, stand in a field
all night and dehydrate. It’s the sad old farts like us who are doing most of the drinking.’

‘Your point being?’

‘My point being, hard drugs are not a counter-culture thing anymore. Everyone’s off on one. Indie has gone mainstream. There’s
a demand. And where there’s a demand, there’s a supply.

‘It used to be the usual gangs, the criminal families, running things. That’s all changed. Crack is easy to make, easy to
supply, and highly addictive. You can get hold of
a batch of Es anywhere. Everyone’s having a go. And competition’s fierce. It’s big business. The new bunch have corporate
structures with quarterly profit projections, demigraphs – the lot. They have target areas, to increase their market share.
Pushers have infiltrated schools: start them young. Hedonism plus capitalism minus idealism doesn’t add up.’

‘I know all this, Prof. But how does it apply locally?’

The Prof took a swig of his beer and continued. ‘Globally it’s a pyramid.’

Larkin butted in. ‘I know
globally
. How about locally?’

The Prof looked hurt, disappointed that his specialist knowledge was being rebuffed. ‘Impatience,’ he said, and shook his
head in admonition. Then he relented. ‘Put simply, someone wants to be Mr Big. They want everyone under their control. It’s
not so much a battle as a hostile takeover bid. Then there’s also the Londoners wanting a share. Very nasty.’

Larkin took the battered photograph of Terry and Mary out of his pocket. ‘Recognise him?’

The Prof squinted hard at the picture. He held it up to the light, up to his face, put his glasses on his head and squinted
at it some more. Eventually he handed it back to Larkin.

‘No joy?’

‘No. He’s never been in here. Too classy for him.’

‘So. You got any names for me?’

‘I’m not entirely sure. I had heard that there was a strange bunch involved. Real hard trouble. Some kind of weirdo sadists.’

Larkin looked at him. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. Proceed with extreme caution.’

‘I will. And if you should happen to hear something?’

The Prof smiled. ‘Then I’ll let you know.’

‘Thank you.’

They both looked at each other. Larkin felt he should say something meaningful, but The Prof beat him to it.

‘Look Stephen,’ he began, ‘even though we haven’t seen each other for years, I’d still like to think of myself
as your friend. You’re dealing with some dangerous people out there. Please – be careful.’

Larkin assured him that he would. With nothing left to say to each other, they made their goodbyes.

‘It’s great to see you again, Prof. You restore my faith in humanity.’

‘Your faith’s intact. You just don’t know how to look for it.’

They shook hands. Larkin left The Prof the name of his hotel – ‘That pre-fab on the quayside’ – and went out into the night,
leaving The Prof to contemplate his place in the universe.

Larkin walked through the dimly lit backstreets, over the pockmarked tarmac. These were the kind of streets where dealers
dealt, where couples of either sex and any combination consummated something that could never resemble love.

His feet took him behind Marlborough Crescent bus station. Suddenly he caught a sudden, shadowy movement from the corner of
his eye. Remembering the events of earlier that day, he instinctively ducked into a garage doorway. He heard a pounding, hi-energy,
disco beat, remembered that The Hole In The Wall, a gay pub, was right in front of him. That calmed him a little. Probably
some customers had come round the back for a snog. Still, something stopped him moving.

A shadow came round the corner; Larkin could just about make out a youngish-looking man. He was well-dressed and, to Larkin’s
concealed eye, vaguely familiar. He was trying to work out where he’d seen the young man before when another shadow came round
the corner and stood in the light. Larkin’s heart flipped over. It was Charles.

Larkin stayed stock-still, hoping that the disco music would drown his ragged breathing. The last thing he wanted was another
run-in with the Shithouse. But what the hell was Charles doing frequenting a gay pub?

As Larkin watched, Charles, dressed in a loose-fitting
suit that was shapelessly expensive, was joined by another man: tall, clad in motorbike boots, leather jeans and, despite
the chill in the air, a white vest. The cold made it quite obvious that his nipples were pierced, with rings inserted through
them. The two men shook hands. Pierced Nipples held his left hand out to Charles, who bent in close. Left nostril: sniff.
Right nostril: sniff. Then again. He straightened up, blanking for a few seconds as the cocaine jolted his body – the freezing
heat that Larkin remembered so well – then shook his head, his lips curling at the side. The two men started talking, but
the throb of the music hid their words. Another man joined them. Dressed in a similar uniform of leathers, he was holding
his arm by the crook of its elbow, flexing it rhythmically. He lolled against the wall, mute, a gay bodyguard. Heroin, post-fix.
These guys weren’t fussy, thought Larkin, transfixed and terrified.

Formalities concluded, Charles and Pierced Nipples proceeded to have a very businesslike chat. Then, after what seemed like
hours, they went their separate ways: Charles to the right, towards the main street and the bus station; the vicious-looking
mute ambling off to the left. But Pierced Nipples came straight towards Larkin.

Larkin froze, tried to stop breathing. As Pierced Nipples reached Larkin’s hiding-place, there was a muffled call from down
the road; he turned and hurried towards it. Then he was gone. He had been close enough for Larkin to smell his Armani aftershave,
study his razor-cut hair, feel the cruelty that emanated in waves from the man. Larkin counted to two hundred, then ran as
hard as he could in the direction he had just come from.

Andy was performing his camera ablutions when Larkin knocked frantically on his door. He opened it and Larkin tumbled in to
the room.

‘What the fuck’s the matter with you?’

Larkin was panting, trying to get his breath. It was the most exercise he’d had since he was sixteen.

Andy moved over to the fridge and got out two beers; he popped one and handed it to Larkin, who gulped a long draught then
flopped back on the bed.

‘So?’ demanded Andy.

Larkin didn’t move.

‘Fuck’s sake, what’s the matter?’

‘It’s … it’s …’ Larkin sat up. He looked at Andy, his heart still pounding.

‘Are you gonna tell me, or what? Here’s me, stuck in fuckin’ chickentown, to quote John Cooper Clarke – and there’s you, runnin’
all over the fuckin’ place! Not even showin’ me where I can get a proper drink, or pick up a decent piece of skirt. And now
you burst in here like all the hounds of hell are after you, crash on my bed and keep stumm. What the fuck’s wrong with you?
You’re a right fuckin’ nutter, you know that?’

‘I never knew you liked John Cooper Clarke,’ Larkin gasped.

‘Lot about me you don’t know.’

Larkin took a deep breath. ‘Can I trust you with something? I mean,
really
trust you?’

‘What is it? A matter of life an’ death, or summink?’

Larkin managed a weak laugh. ‘Yeah. Yeah, it’s exactly that.’

‘Is this goin’ to be an epic?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, get another couple of beers out. Reckon it’ll be a long night.’

‘This duck goes into a chemist, right? An’ he goes up to the bloke behind the counter, an’ he says, “You got any lip balm?”
And the guy gives him some. Then the duck goes, “Er …”’ at this point Andy patted his pockets, ‘and says, “Look, I can’t find
my wallet.’ Andy pointed to his face. ‘Could you just put it on my bill?”’

Larkin smiled: Andy, meanwhile, was convulsed by a near-apoplectic fit of laughter.

‘D’you like it?’

‘Yeah! It’s a good one, that.’

‘Why aren’t you laughing, then?’

‘Because I don’t like people who laugh at their own jokes. Reminds me of Tony Blackburn.’

There was a silence, then Andy guffawed. ‘You’re quite funny, you know that?’

‘Yeah. Sure.’

Andy had kept up the barrage of jokes all the way from Newcastle. Larkin had told him everything the night before, and in
doing so had gained an ally. Probably. With Andy you could never be sure.

Larkin had had a bad night. He had dreamed of coffins and Lancias, of being carried up the aisle of the Cathedral in a coffin
while Charlotte, Andy, The Prof and Mary said prayers over his body. He had woken up in a cold sweat at about five o’clock,
and hadn’t been able to get back to sleep again.

They went past Alledene New Town – another failed
experiment in sixties anthropology – and turned off towards Grimley. A new bypass system made the place look even more neglected
and unapproachable. They went down the slip road and into Grimley itself. As Larkin had suspected when he saw it from the
train, it hadn’t altered much. A few new buildings here and there, old pubs newly painted, corner shops that had changed hands.
Hardly anyone about. All it needed was for some tumbleweeds to blow across the street and it would resemble a ghost town in
a Western. They drove on until they reached the Catholic church, where a gaggle of people were standing outside.

‘They’re starting early,’ said Andy.

They pulled off the road and parked along a street of old stone cottages. They got out, Andy with his cameras over his shoulder,
Larkin with his portable cassette recorder and notebook. They locked the car, headed down to the main street. The police were
already erecting barricades and diversion signs beside the war memorial, as if they were preparing for a state visit.

Larkin went over to a talk to one of the coppers. He took a bit of warming up but, after some skilful persuasion on Larkin’s
part, he wouldn’t stop once he got going.

First of all, to warm things up, Larkin elicited the policeman’s views on law and order, which were discussed in great and
reactionary detail. Then, subtly, Larkin commented on the elaborateness of the funeral arrangements, asked if the poor old
taxpayer was, as always, footing the bill. The policeman looked round to check if he could be overhead and then dropped his
voice conspiratorially.

‘Well, it’s backhanders all round, isn’t it? That, and the funny handshakes, I suppose. I mean, how are we supposed to operate
like this?’ He pointed to Larkin’s cassette. ‘Is that …’

‘Don’t worry. You’re not being recorded,’ he lied.

‘We’ve been told to say nowt. But someone has to speak up.’

Larkin smiled. ‘You’re a rarity, you know that?’

The policeman became suspicious again. ‘How’s that?’

‘An honest policeman. Not a lot of them about.’

‘Oh, there are. There’s lots of our blokes hate this sort of thing. Treatin’ that cunt like a fuckin’ hero.’

Larkin was about to leave him when he continued.

‘I mean, like, we caught this other un piss-easy – and now we have to make him out as the bad guy! Makes you laugh, dunnit?
Or makes you sick.’

Larkin thanked the policeman for his time, and left him alone with his unhappy lot.

The funeral wasn’t for another couple of hours so they found their way to the nearest pub, an old, crumbling, Victorian edifice
called Stephenson’s Rocket. By the look of the place Stephenson might have still been in there: a spit-and-sawdust pub, if
they’d had any sawdust. Bare boards, bare walls, and a thick patina of greasy dust covering everything, including the manager.
They ordered two pints, which came complete with filthy glasses. The barman was wearing a stained shirt and thick Dr Cyclops
glasses which lent him the air of a child murderer. Perhaps he was. He seemed glad of the custom and tried to start a conversation.
To avoid this they took their drinks, sat in a run-down booth and talked in quiet voices, in case the vibrations cracked the
plaster.

‘So, how does it feel to be back?’

‘How do you think?’

‘Yeah. I see your point.’ Andy looked around. ‘Are all the pubs like this?’

‘No! Some of them are real shitholes.’

They both laughed.

‘No, seriously there’s the scampi-in-a-basket kind, as well.’

‘Grimley doesn’t look big enough.’

‘Oh, just about.’

Andy looked round. ‘I can’t see you growing up here.’

‘Everybody has to grow up somewhere.’

‘Yeah, suppose.’

Larkin asked Andy where he was from. He reddened a shade.

‘Oh, Hampshire. My dad was a gentleman farmer.’ As he talked his accent cleared slightly. ‘Sent me off to boarding school,
university and that – hated it, so I dropped out and got a job as a roadie with a heavy metal band. Took some photos of them,
decided there was money to be made, and off I went.’

‘I figured that all this Sarf London wideboy bit was just smoke.’

‘You become the mask you choose to present,’ said Andy, no trace of an accent. ‘I mean, who’d have employed me if I’d told
them that I was some rich farm boy?’

‘True.’

Relaxing a little more, they downed the rest of their pints in unison.

The funeral procession had reached and entered the church by the time Larkin and Andy decided to emerge from the pub. The
streets were now like a scene from a fifties thriller; chock-a-block with onlookers, well-wishers and the usual funeral ghouls,
there for the spectacle.

Larkin and Andy made their way through the crowds up to the church. Lining the pavement in front of the stone wall of the
church was what looked like a bouncers’ convention. They were dressed like movie gangsters; sober suits, sunglasses despite
the non-existent sun, white shirts, black ties, chunky gold knuckle-duster rings. They were impassive, anonymous mannequins
modelling the latest in designer mourner-wear. There was space around them; they exuded a palpable aura of menace.

‘Where they from, then?’ asked Andy.

‘London, I reckon,’ said Larkin.

‘All this fuss just to pay their last respects to their little soldier.’

‘And to show off a bit.’

Andy snapped away; Larkin talked into his cassette. Other reporters, presumably from the local press, had been sent along
to do the same. A plate-glass carriage hearse, drawn by two white horses and festooned with flowers, appeared from a side
street by the Catholic Men’s Club, followed by two flat carts, both horse-drawn and piled high with flowers. Bringing up the
rear were three black stretch limos. They drew up to the entrance of the church, where the porch doors opened and out stepped
the funeral party.

A man was led out first, supported by another suit.

‘That’ll be the father,’ said Andy, snapping away.

The flow continued, with carefully orchestrated wailing from the women, and suitably downcast looks of regret from the men.
Then the coffin emerged – all glass, revealing Edgell lying on satin cushions with orchids rimming his face. He was dressed
in a dark grey lounge suit; his face looked at peace, probably more so than when he was alive.

The movie gangsters, doubling as pallbearers, took the coffin and loaded it into the hearse. Then, with the streets cleared
and the traffic halted, the horses moved off. They headed down the main street, past the war memorial, and turned right down
Hawksley Lane.

‘Where they off to now?’ asked Andy.

‘Either the crem or the graveyard. Doesn’t make much difference, really.’

‘You reckon? They’ll have their work cut out getting all that glass to melt.’

They followed the procession all the way to the crematorium. It was a long walk, down roads thronged with crowds; the whole
town seemed to be there. Shops were closed, offices shut down; clearly an official day of mourning had been declared. A cacophony
of cameras clicked away.

‘Look at all these people!’ Andy said, staring around him. ‘You’d think it was the Lord Mayor’s Show.’

‘It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened in Grimley for years,’ said Larkin. ‘You don’t get many
gangsters round here. It’s like the Krays all over again. But I reckon it’s fear as well. Shock. If a murder like that can
happen here, they don’t know who’ll be next for the knife.’ He looked round at the streets, the bleak faces of the onlookers.
‘Just wait. Soon everyone’ll be saying what a tragedy it is. What a great bloke Edgell was. How kind he was to his granny.
No one’ll dare come out and say he was a vicious, psychotic little thug who deserved everything he got.’

They walked on a little further, along a street where rows of terraced houses snaked off on either side, dark-bricked and
anonymous. Larkin pulled at Andy’s sleeve as they passed the top of one street, indistinguishable from the others.

‘You see down there, third on the left?’

Andy looked: third on the left or twenty-third on the left, he couldn’t tell them apart. ‘Yeah,’ he said.

‘That’s the house I grew up in,’ said Larkin.

‘Yeah? Happy memories?’

Larkin looked. The house now had a new front door, a mock-Georgian job, to give the house a little originality. Unfortunately
it had been cloned up and down the street.

He shrugged. ‘The usual.’ A swirling mixture of emotions were fighting for dominance. He couldn’t decide how he felt, but
he knew, as he looked at the house, that Grimley wasn’t his home any more. Not now. He put it out of his mind; he had a job
to do.

They moved on. With sudden clarity, last night’s dream came back to Larkin and he realised what it meant. The coffin they
were following, like the one in the dream, was symbolic; he was burying his old innocent self, his past. Grimley, his childhood
refuge, was in reality as corrupt and violent as anywhere else. He had no one to turn to but himself.

They eventually reached the gates of the crematorium, to find their way barred by a Missing Link. Andy took a couple of token
shots, but couldn’t really get close enough to make them worthwhile.

‘Hey, you wanna go round the side, see if we can get in that way?’

‘You think there’s any point?’ asked Larkin.

‘If I can get a picture, yeah.’

‘With this lot on guard?’

Andy looked around. The suits were standing motionless, dormant Rottweilers, waiting for the Pavlovian command. ‘Yeah … maybe
you’re right.’

They walked back the way they had come, the crowds now dwindling. The British Legion had a sign up: OPEN ALL DAY TO GENUINE
FRIENDS OF WAYNE EDGELL. MEN ONLY.

‘Where do the women go then?’ asked Andy.

‘Same place they’ve always gone round here. Back home.’

They decided to push their luck.

The decor was just as Larkin remembered it: early Gothic crossed with MFI. They went up to the bar and got their drinks.

‘Are you friends?’ said the barman.

‘Known each other for years.’ replied Larkin.

The barman smiled politely. ‘Of Wayne’s.’

‘As a matter of fact I was at school with him.’

‘OK – what would you like?’

They ordered. All drinks on the house.

They had just got seated when the Missing Link’s twin brother, Piltdown Man to the other one’s Bromsgrove, came up to them
and did a bit of towering.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, going slowly, as if speech were a novelty, ‘are you mourners? Genuine friends of Wayne?’

‘Yeah we are, actually,’ said Larkin.

‘It’s just that you look like gentleman of the press to me.’ His brow was creased with the effort of completing a whole sentence;
he was really pushing the boat out.

‘That too,’ said Larkin, thinking that if he swung at him, the brain-to-muscle ratio on the Missing Link was in inverse proportion
to his steroid-boosted size. ‘I went
to school with Wayne, I grew up here. I just wanted to pay my last respects.’

The Link mulled this one over. ‘You may finish your drinks, and then leave.’

‘We may, may we? That’s most magnanimous of you.’

The Link leaned in close to Larkin, his breath as fetid as a garlic-eating pit bull terrier’s. When he spoke it was in a growling
whisper. ‘Listen – just drink up and leave, and I won’t break your fuckin’ arms. Right?’

‘Oh, but the atmosphere is so convivial!’

‘Right. That’s it, you smart-arsed cunt.’

And with that the Link took a swing at Larkin. He was surprisingly quick, but Larkin was quicker. Both he and Andy jumped
out of the way, sending chairs, table and drinks flying. The Link turned round, sighted Larkin by the bar. He made a lunge
for him but Larkin anticipated it and swerved out of the way at the last minute, leaving the Link winded on the edge of the
bar. Larkin grabbed a soda syphon from between the peanuts and squirted him full in the face. This stopped him in his tracks.
Larkin took the opportunity to swing the syphon at his head; it connected, but he didn’t go down. Larkin persisted, swung
it again. And again. The Link was beginning to crumple when Andy rushed forward with a pool cue and walloped him in the balls.
The steroids couldn’t have shrivelled them completely because, once the signal got through to his brain, he doubled over.

‘Is he dead?’ asked Andy.

‘Was he ever alive?’ retorted Larkin. He bent down to check his pulse. ‘Sadly, he’ll live.’ He stood up again. ‘Well, we’d
better be on our way.’

The barman was gaping at them; Larkin turned to him. ‘You saw what happened. My friend and I were enjoying a nice drink, paying
our quiet respects to my old schoolmate, when this brute set upon us. Self-defence. Tell the big boys that when they arrive.’
The barman looked terrified; Larkin bent in close. ‘Just because there’s more of them than there are of us, doesn’t make them
right. Remember that.’ He started to
walk out. ‘And you serve a crap pint as well. No wonder it’s free.’