Mary's Prayer

by Martyn Waites

  ‘One slash of your chest, let the juices mingle – and that’ll be that. Crude, but effective.’ He brought the knife up to Larkin’s chest. Larkin didn’t move. He tried to hold his breath, keep his chest still, so that the cold, sharp steel wouldn’t puncture his flesh. Pierced Nipples pushed the knife closer, then suddenly snatched it away with a mirthless laugh. ‘Hand,’ he barked at Robin; Robin firmly held out Larkin’s right hand. Pierced Nipples took the knife and inscribed a little cross on the palm.

  ‘X marks the spot,’ he said, as Larkin flinched from the pain. ‘Now!’ In unison, Batman and Robin kicked out at Larkin’s legs and he fell to the floor on his back, winded. From out of a dim, recessed corner Pierced Nipples appeared with a heavy metal clawhammer and an evil-looking six-inch nail. Robin held Larkin’s hand flat, palm upwards, while Pierced Nipples positioned the nail over the bloody X. He looked at Larkin and smiled. ‘Showtime,’ he said, and brought the hammer down.

  16: Come Away, Death

  Black.

  Walls, floor and ceiling seeped together into an all-enveloping liquid darkness. Larkin was back on the chair; tied, helpless. There was no sound, no light.

  Suddenly, Pierced Nipples’ face loomed in front of him, a garish light distorting his features into a hideous grin. He stepped back and from out of nowhere appeared the syringe. It was bigger than Larkin had remembered it, older and rustier. Pierced Nipples brandished it, light glancing off the barrel; Larkin recoiled. Pierced Nipples stopped his advance.

  ‘Don’t want it? Then you needn’t have it.’

  Larkin breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Don’t want to waste it, though.’ Pierced Nipples’ eyes gave off a glint as warm as gun oil. ‘I know someone who’d appreciate it.’

  Larkin’s son Joe appeared at Pierced Nipples’ side. He looked exactly as he had the last time Larkin had seen him alive. He stood there mute, expressionless, eyes cast down.

  Pierced Nipples turned to face Joe. He pointed the needle at him; Joe didn’t flinch.

  ‘Feeling helpless?’ Pierced Nipples asked Larkin.

  ‘Get off him!’ Larkin screamed. He struggled against his ropes; they became tighter. ‘Leave him alone!’

  ‘Someone’s got to have it.’

  ‘Then make it me!’ shouted Larkin.

  ‘Too late,’ said Pierced Nipples, and pressed the plunger. There was a booming roar as the liquid leapt from the needle and splattered over the boy’s chest. It seeped into his clothes, burning them away, and Joe screamed as the liquid turned to acid and began to scorch his flesh.

  Larkin watched, horror-struck, as the acid ate its way through the boy’s body, skin, muscle, organs, until there was a gaping hole from front to back, ragged and bloody.

  He screamed.

  Black.

  Larkin woke with a start. He sat bolt upright in bed and looked around.

  Sunlight streaked through the curtains, the room was summer-warm; and Larkin felt safe. He looked at the sleeping form beside him: his wife, Sophie. He touched her gently, trying to wake her up.

  ‘Time to get up, love. Time to go.’

  A voice came from the other side of the bed. ‘It’s not time for you. Not yet. Just me.’

  She turned over and Larkin saw where the shotgun had done its work. He shut his eyes but it was too late. He screamed.

  Black.

  ‘Three choices, really.’

  ‘Not as many as that,’ said Larkin.

  ‘How many, then?’

  ‘Two, I reckon.’

  Larkin looked round. He was in a pub, unfamiliar; but all the same, he was somehow no stranger to the place. Larkin looked at his drinking companion. Dressed casually, with a face that seemed to be constantly changing. Larkin had the uncanny feeling he knew him, though he realised that was impossible.

  The man nodded and moved over to the jukebox while Larkin ordered two pints. By the time they arrived the man had returned, and The Clash’s ‘Should I Stay Or Should I Go’ was echoing round the place.

  ‘You were saying?’ said the man. ‘Two choices.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So what’ll it be?’

  Larkin shrugged. ‘I’m happy here.’

  ‘You can’t stay here forever.’

  ‘Suppose not.’

  ‘What if all this disappeared?’ The man gestured with his hand. And suddenly they were alone in a dark, silent void. ‘What if there was nothing?’ said the man. ‘What if this? What if that? What if? What if?’

  The man’s features coalesced into a giant pair of lips. They blew Larkin a grotesque parody of a kiss. And then—

  Black.

  Flashlight, then black. Flashlight, then black. Suddenly, light. Continuous, blinding. He was hit by a wave of agony, from a toxic sea. He was back. He knew he was alive, because this was how he defined living. He was in pain.

  17: Born Again

  The vague, grey blur became a retina-searing burst of white. Figures milled about in space, some of them familiar, some of them not. Voices spoke, distant, indistinct. Pain coursed through his body, red-hot at first, becoming numb. The white turned to grey. And darkness returned.

  Grey, white, black. How long he was adrift in limbo he didn’t know. Eventually shapes became distinct, voices audible, surroundings clear. His senses slowly began to regain their vocabulary.

  ‘He’s back.’ The man who spoke was slightly rumpled with receding, dark hair, a garish check shirt that clashed with a bright red tie, and a stomach that had spent too long in the staff canteen. ‘How are you feeling?’

  Larkin tried, experimentally, to speak. Whatever he had said the doctor nodded at, so it must have been the right thing.

  ‘Of course you hurt,’ said the doctor. ‘That means you’re alive.’

  ‘How long …?’ It was as much as his cracked voice could manage.

  ‘How long have you been out? A week, more or less.’

  Larkin couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Whoever did this to you meant business. It was a professional job. If your friend hadn’t found you when he did, they’d have finished you off.’

  ‘What friend?’ Larkin sounded like a stroke victim.

  ‘All in good time. This is what you’ve got: ribs – four broken, two cracked. They’ll heal, given time and rest. Hand. Well, it’ll mend, but you’ll always have that scar. You may never have full use again, I’m afraid.’

  Larkin stared at the heavily bandaged lump on the end of his right arm. He shuddered, suddenly back in the room. A scar. A reminder. He’d leave the bandage on for as long as possible, to avoid seeing what was underneath.

  The doctor consulted his clipboard. ‘Some internal injuries – again, nothing that won’t heal given time. Your left kidney took quite a hammering, as did both your kneecaps.’

  ‘Will I ever be able to play football again?’

  ‘Could you before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have a comedian on our hands, do we?’ The doctor sighed. ‘I’d say you’re going to be ninety per cent there. Eventually. We thought we were going to lose you for a while, but you kept fighting. You must have a strong lust for life.’

  ‘Yeah. I must.’ He moved his head a little, awareness flooding back now. ‘So who’s my friend?’

  ‘The one who got you out of there? Andy Brennan. You owe him a pint.’

  ‘What about the other guy that was in there with me?’

  The doctor’s face darkened. ‘He’s … stable.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘It means he’s not getting any worse.’

  ‘But he’s not getting any better either.’

  The doctor tried to change the subject. ‘Just concentrate on getting yourself well – we’ll take care of him.’

  ‘Shit. It’s my fault. I got him into it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too harsh on yourself. We didn’t give you much hope when you first came in.’

  Larkin fell silent as something came back
to him.

  ‘Doctor?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did I … I don’t know … die?’

  ‘You mean, did your heart stop?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It was touch and go for a while. But we pulled you back. What makes you ask?’

  ‘I just had some … trippy dreams. That’s all.’

  The doctor smiled. ‘Sometimes people have what they call epiphanies. We don’t know what they are. You know the kind of things, dead relatives, benign deities, dark tunnels, bright lights. I don’t how to explain them. It could be your subconscious, you could just be dreaming, your mind fighting like your body is, or maybe, I don’t know, maybe it’s God. Who knows?’

  Larkin remained silent.

  The doctor smiled. ‘Don’t let it worry you now. You’re back. Get some rest. I’ll look in on you later.’

  ‘Thanks …’

  And Larkin, feeling a slight sense of peace, slipped into a dreamless sleep.

  They told Larkin they thought The Prof was slipping into a massive, shock-induced coma. They had given him seventy-two hours to fall into PVS – a persistent vegetative state. He’d had thirty-six of them. Even if he did come round, they thought he might have some lasting brain damage. That really made Larkin feel better.

  A visit from Inspector Moir didn’t exactly do wonders for his recovery either. Moir sat at the far end of the bed, with a told-you-so expression on his face and a barrage of questions. Larkin was in no mood for them, so he maintained the pretence that he couldn’t move and could barely talk. In the end Moir left, exasperated but vowing to return. Larkin could hardly wait.

  The next time he woke up, Charlotte and Andy were there. And Andy told Larkin how he came to find him: ‘The train was cancelled. Derailment at Doncaster – vandals on the track.’ He’d gone back to the hotel, found The Prof’s note, and followed on, not wanting to miss the fun. His arrival at the house had caused Larkin’s aggressors to flee; horrified by what he saw, Andy had quickly called an ambulance.

  ‘Cheers, mate.’ Larkin didn’t trust himself to say anything more effusive.

  ‘Don’t mention it. The police turned up as well. They’ve posted a guard on your mate’s bed.’

  ‘There was one on mine too. Is he still around?’

  ‘Naw – they’ve given you up as a lost cause.’

  Then Charlotte spoke. Or tried to speak. She got as far as apologising for missing the party before she broke down in tears. Andy put a comforting arm around her; Larkin felt helpless, impotent.

  ‘Charlotte, don’t blame yourself. I’m doing enough of that for both of us, believe me.’

  ‘What have you got to blame yourself for?’ she sobbed.

  ‘The Prof. It’s my fault he was there. If he dies, it’ll be on my conscience. It shouldn’t be on yours.’

  Then she was hugging him. It hurt a little, but he didn’t mind. They stayed that way for a while, Andy surprisingly tactful, looking anywhere but at the two of them. Once the tears had subsided, she disengaged.

  ‘Look, Stephen, I’ve been talking with the doctors, and with Andy, and – well, how would you like to move into my place for a bit?’

  ‘What about Charles?’

  Her face darkened. ‘Charles has … He’s disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared? Why would he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Charlotte. ‘The only thing Andy and I can think of is that he was somehow mixed up in all of this.’ She looked shamefaced.

  ‘It’s a strong possibility, yes. Last time I saw him he was with the guy who did this to me.’ Larkin raised his right hand slightly; Charlotte looked away. ‘Any idea where he’s gone?’

  ‘None,’ replied Charlotte. ‘And, to be honest, I won’t be sorry if he doesn’t come back. But I think it settles it. Would you like to stay? I’ll try my best to be the perfect hostess.’ She was smiling, but it was a fragile smile that could crack at any moment.

  Larkin returned it. ‘Best offer I’ve had for ages.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to be back at work. I’ll see you soon.’ She gave Larkin an unforced, delightful grin. ‘You don’t know how glad I am to see you again!’ And she kissed him, full on the lips, while Andy minutely examined the bowl of fruit at Larkin’s bedside. And then she was off.

  ‘You should have seen your little machine when she did that! Off the scale, it was.’

  ‘Ha, ha. Hey, Andy?’

  ‘What?’

  Larkin smiled. ‘You saved my life.’ He felt more ready now for the ‘thirtysomething’ bit. But Andy’s reaction was typically British.

  ‘Oh, fuck off, you melodramatic bastard!’

  ‘You know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve had … I don’t know how to put it. I’ve … being that close to death,’ he shivered, ‘it makes you think.’

  Andy looked at him. ‘Couldn’t have put it better meself.’

  ‘I just feel like I’ve been–’ he almost said ‘born again’, but thought better of it – ‘given a second chance.’

  ‘Oh yeah? To do what?’

  ‘Lots of things. But the first thing is, get the bastards who did this to The Prof and me.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it. Count me in. You’ll be interested in these, an’ all.’

  He fished into his case and brought out an envelope full of photos. ‘Here we are – Truprint’s finest. Have a gander.’

  Larkin looked. There were photos for the tabloids and the qualities. He had to hand it to Andy, he knew his stuff. The procession, the coffin, the church; the atmosphere of the whole day, captured on film. Except the fight in the British Legion, of course.

  ‘Look at that one there.’ It was the crowd outside the church.

  ‘Yeah? So what?’

  Andy sighed impatiently. ‘Look closer!’

  ‘What am I looking for, exactly?’

  ‘You’ll recognise it when you see it.’

  He did. Standing on the pavement, half-hidden by the crowds, were Terry and Charles. Larkin’s blood ran cold; his stomach lurched.

  ‘Fuck me …’

  ‘No thanks, mate. What d’you reckon? Spooky, eh?’

  Larkin looked at the photo again and pointed to a soberly dressed middle-aged man. ‘Who’s this guy they’re both talking to? One of the suits?’

  ‘Looks like it. He’s in with the London crowd on one of the other photos.’

  ‘Does Charlotte know about these?’

  ‘Credit me with some fuckin’ sense! “Awright, love – want to see some photos of your missin’ husband doin’ some dodgy drugs deal with some dangerous bastard from London?” Do me a favour.’

  ‘So what next?’ asked Larkin.

  ‘Already got it sussed,’ said Andy, pleased with himself. ‘There’s a place opposite your bird’s house – little hotel. I’ve got a room there. Keep an eye on you, in case Charlie boy makes a return. Then I can save your life twice.’

  ‘You’ll not be quick enough.’

  ‘You reckon? I scored some speed to keep me awake. Don’t worry. When d’you think you’ll be able to move?’

  ‘Couple of days, I should think. Fill me full of painkillers and point me to the door. Then it’s Charlotte, here I come.’

  Andy put the pictures away. ‘What about this Charlotte? You think she’s on the level?’

  ‘You mean, do I think she’s involved in any of this? No, I don’t. I must admit the thought did cross my mind, but why would she be doing all this if she wants me out of the way? Anyway, she’s my ex-girlfriend. I’ve known her for years. Ex-girlfriends don’t try to kill you.’

  ‘Mine do.’

  ‘With good reason, probably … Changing the subject – sort of – have you heard from Lindsay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Andy. ‘It was her that ordered me to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘Not like her to be concerned for my health.’

  ‘She’s not. She just reckons you’re on to something and
she wants to make sure you’re well enough to write it.’

  Larkin thought for a minute. ‘You know, I’ve tried for years not to get involved. With anyone or anything. But nearly dying like that … I dunno.’ He sighed. The painkillers were making him more voluble than he’d intended; he felt slightly foolish. ‘If I’ve had some kind of reprieve, or something, then I’m going to try not to balls it up this time.’

  Andy looked at him. ‘What’s happened to you? You’ve gone from Mr Misery to Mr Pretentious.’

  ‘Don’t worry – the old me’ll be back soon. What goes around comes around.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It’s a karmic thing,’ he said with a grin, knowing what effect his words would have.

  ‘Karmic?’ Andy stood up and paced the room. ‘Karmic?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘That’s all I need! Nursemaid to a fuckin’ hippy!’

  18: Ghost Laying

  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.’