Mary's Prayer by Martyn Waites Page A

him in here.’
    ‘We think she may have met him after she stopped coming here. We’re just checking. Can you remember anything about her?’
    The woman suddenly froze. ‘I read about this. She killed herself, didn’t she?’ Her eyes grew to the size of dinner plates.
    ‘Yes, I’m afraid she did.’
    ‘Is there a problem?’
    ‘No, no. She didn’t make a will, you see,’ he was winging it now, ‘so we’re just making enquiries. Just routine.’
    ‘There won’t be any bad publicity for the club, will there? Only we’ve got our reputation to consider.’
    Yes
, thought Larkin;
you treat them all as friends
. ‘None at all.’
    She subsided. ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t be much help. I didn’t get to know her very well, you see. She only came a few times
     – and when she did, she didn’t seem to be enjoying herself very much.’
    ‘Can you tell me what kind of person she seemed on first acquaintance? If there was anyone in particular she gravitated towards,
     that sort of thing.’
    ‘What can I say? She seemed pleasant enough, but she didn’t make friends with anyone special.’ The woman thought for a moment.
     ‘She didn’t seem to have much confidence when she first arrived, but by the time she stopped coming she seemed to have a lot
     more.’ She beamed beatifically, like a born-again Christian. ‘Perhaps the club did that!’
    ‘Perhaps,’ agreed Larkin. Realising he was down a dead end, he wanted to leave, but the woman had decided to talk.
    ‘That’s how I met Frank, you know.’ She gestured again to the martyred barman, this time struggling so intently to wipe the
     bar down that he was in danger of removing the formica veneer. She was still giving her testimony: ‘Two ships that passed
     in the night!’ She came back to the present. ‘That’s all I can tell you about … what was her name?’
    ‘Mary.’
    ‘Of course. Mary. Yes, very sad. Tragic. Perhaps if she’d stuck with the club it might not have happened.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ he said again. ‘What about the young man in the picture?’
    ‘I’m sure I’ve never seen him here. We tend not to letthe younger ones in. We suspect their motives – their sincerity.’
    ‘How d’you mean?’
    The woman’s sunny mask slipped for a moment. ‘People who come here have usually suffered something in their lives. They’re
     a bit vulnerable. And there’s always someone waiting to pounce. Usually you can spot them, but sometimes you can’t. It’s best
     not to take any chances. I know an opportunist when I see one.’
    ‘And d’you think he,’ Larkin pointed to Terry, ‘could be one?’
    The woman looked at the photo again. ‘Could be.’
    ‘Well, thanks again,’ said Larkin.
    ‘Don’t mention it.’ She gave a mock sigh, the mask back in place. ‘Well, back to the grindstone. No rest for the wicked.’
    ‘Time and tide wait for no man,’ said Larkin. He could out-cliche her any day of the week. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
    He walked to the door leaving the two ships, that had collided in the night and formed a safe harbour for others, alone. He
     took one last look around the gloomy hall, imagining how it would appear later; the lonely people dotted round the tables,
     just like the lost souls at the Cathedral.
    The long-suffering Frank was about his sacred duty, hands raised, appealing to the optics. Larkin walked out. He didn’t leave
     a donation. There wasn’t a box.
    The Broken Doll occupied the same place it always had. And judging by the people that Larkin saw walking in and out, it served
     the same customers. Depending on your point of view, it was either a place where the unwaged detritus of society got arseholed
     at the taxpayers’ expense; or a place where the genuinely disenfranchised could meet like-minded souls. The truth was probably
     somewhere in the middle. The only thing Larkin knew for definite was that if he wanted information, this was the place to
     come.
    If Larkin had stayed in