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.
Dear Stephen,
If you’re reading this, it means that something’s happened to me. Perhaps I’m dead – in which case I wanted you to know that I’ve changed my will. After tax, the rest of my estate will go to you. My savings, the house – everything. I want you to have something. You deserve it. And I’ve no one else to leave it to.
I’m not very good at saying how I feel – I think you know that. But I think I’ve always loved you. I tried to put you in a little box, file you away – but since you’ve come back I’ve realised just how much I’ve missed you. How much I care.
Read the diary again. It’s the only way I can tell you what’s happened to me, what I’ve become. Don’t judge me too harshly. I was only trying to do what I thought was best.
I love you, always,
Charlotte.
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.
He put a disc in the CD player, selected the track he wanted and sat down. Tomorrow, he thought, if it’s a good day, I’ll phone her. I’ll get myself sorted out. Tomorrow. He leaned back, refilled his glass. He looked round the room, at all the ghosts. He knew they would always haunt him, no matter where he called home. He lifted his drink in silent acknowledgement as the song began. ‘Are You Ready To Be Heartbroken’. Lloyd Cole And The Commotions. He listened. Tomorrow, he thought, as the silent tears ran down his cheeks.
Find out more about books by Martyn Waites and Tania Carver on his website:
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Mary's Prayer Page 21
