Mary's Prayer Read Free

straight away?
    ‘Tomorrow.’
    ‘Why not today?’
    ‘Because, darling, I have had the most godawful trying day, and what I really need is a good mind-cleansing fuck. My place.
     Eight o’clock sharp.’
    And she rang off, leaving him to reflect on the inspired working relationship he enjoyed with his editor. Professional to
     the end.
    Larkin had once vowed, in a dramatic, Scarlett O’Hara fashion, never to return to the North East. But as he stared through
     the window, reacquainting himself with half-forgotten landmarks, he found he was besieged by conflicting emotions. The places
     that had once marked the boundary of his whole world now felt strange, distant. It was like sleeping with a lover after a
     fewyears’ gap – the contours were familiar, but the quality of intimacy had changed.
    The train passed Grimley. It had the same old greyhound track and chemical factory; the same church, shops, school and houses.
     Apart from being the unlikely focal point of a rather nasty little gangland war, it still struck Larkin as nothing more than
     a town for leaving.
    The train sped on through Gateshead: a wasteland of industrial estates and row after row of dingy terraced houses interspersed
     with patches of bulldozed earth and rust-coloured tower blocks for a bit of variety.
    Then the bridge. Despite himself, Larkin got quite a thrill seeing it again. The sharp drop to the Tyne on the north side,
     the steep sweep up from the Tyne on the south side – like passing over a moat into some giant medieval fortress. On the Tyne
     itself sat the floating nightclub he remembered from his adolescence. The lights were on all along the quay, casting the city
     in an unreal, romantic glow. Perhaps it was only because the lights gave it a rosy hue – but to Larkin, it looked like a place
     that could almost have possibilities.
    He shook his head and walked back to his seat where Andy was cheekily inviting the two giggly girls to take a look at his
     equipment. He completely ignored Larkin, so Larkin collected his bags and prepared to leave the train. And as he stepped onto
     the platform he made a token effort to convince himself that he wasn’t just a little bit excited to be back.
    Larkin was lost. The city had changed and the hotel wasn’t where he’d thought it would be; after plenty of asking around,
     he was eventually directed to the quayside.
    Larkin had last caught a glimpse of Andy and his two new friends as they disappeared into The Forth on Pink Lane. Now alone,
     he walked through the darkening streets down to the Bigg Market, where he was greeted by a burgeoning mass of lads sporting
     shirtsleeves, pegged baggies and loafers, with styled, cropped hair,Boss aftershave and chemically inflated grins. Herding from bar to bar, they were gearing themselves up for Friday night’s
     fuck, fight or bag of chips, their broken noses and swollen stomachs testifying that two out of three wasn’t bad for starters.
     The women were all perms and fake tans on microskirted gooseflesh, going through the rituals, playing the game. Everyone looked
     immaculately turned out, Larkin noticed; they’d clearly spent their wages if they had a job, or their dole money if they didn’t,
     on trying to look and feel special. Either way the major growth industry seemed to be in Italian designer-wear; and, of course,
     the black and white stripes of the born-again football fans.
    He left them to it in the primal disco thud of the Bigg Market – more like a cattle market, he thought grimly – and went down
     the cobbled streets of the Side, past Scott’s the Barbers, past the Keep and down to the quayside. He was surprised to find
     it gentrified; surprised and disappointed. Buildings once full of genuine character and individuality had been expensively
     refurbished and themed by big brewery chains. They bore names like, O’Hanrahan’s, Flynn’s: a phenomenon referred to by an
     Irish colleague of Larkin’s as Plastic Paddy pubs.