Mary's Prayer by Martyn Waites Page B

Newcastle he would probablyhave ended up as a regular. The Broken Doll had been his favourite pub: the Bigg Market was, intellectually speaking, beneath
     him, The Trent House too pretentious, The Strawberry too laid back. It was here also that, unless he was very much mistaken,
     he would find The Prof.
    No one knew The Prof’s real name. When asked he’d come up with something different every time. When he worked, which wasn’t
     very often, his wage-slips were made out to ‘The Prof’ – Larkin had seen them. He claimed ‘The’ was his Christian name and
     ‘Prof’ was his surname and no one had ever proved otherwise.
    His age was another mystery; he could have been anywhere between twenty-eight and forty-five. He never admitted to the same
     age twice and claimed numerous and varied birthdays. He had once said to Larkin, without a trace of a smile, that he was three
     hundred and sixty-five – quite young for a Time Lord.
    Most people regarded him as a bit of a joke but this was to underestimate him totally. He was one of the best read and most
     erudite people Larkin had ever encountered, as well-versed in the sciences as in the arts. He had been employed in both areas
     – not for very long, though. His near-genius meant that he was easily bored. The Prof was also one of the biggest users of
     recreational drugs Larkin knew. If something was happening on the drug scene in Newcastle, The Prof would know about it.
    Larkin entered The Broken Doll. It was like stepping back into his past. A thrash metal band occupied the miniscule stage
     area, ranting about what was wrong with society: same song, different singer. The tobacco-coloured walls were covered with
     xeroxed posters for gigs, featuring unknown bands, the floor was haphazardly covered in threadbare lino. An unhealthy mix
     of bikers, anarchos, drop-outs, and untouchables huddled on wobbly chairs round rickety tables; a small number of nervous
     sightseeing students were being ritually ignored. The book-learned and the street-learned had nothing in common.
    Larkin walked slowly down the steps to the bar. Themusic was at pain level, but none of the drinkers seemed to notice. It wasn’t the kind of place where you could reserve seats,
     but there at the bar, on his usual stool, sat The Prof, painstakingly rolling himself a cigarette. Larkin sidled up to him.
     The Prof’s clothes were worn like a uniform; DMs, faded Levis, faded Madman Comics T-shirt, bike jacket, crew-cut, red braces;
     his little, round granny specs denoting his intellectual status. The barmaid, a short girl with a Gothic white face and a
     slack mouth, widened her eyes; clearly it would be uncool actually to ask Larkin what he wanted. He realised he hadn’t eaten
     or drunk a thing all day – apart from a medical couple of gallons of water before he left the hotel that morning. He pointed
     to the Becks pump, manoeuvred himself to The Prof’s side and tapped him on the shoulder. The Prof turned round, his expression
     quizzical, the elaborately rolled cigarette left unfinished. Larkin beamed at him.
    It took The Prof a few seconds to recognise Larkin, but when he did his face lit up.
    ‘Good Lord! Stephen. Stephen Larkin.’ Still the same deeply modulated baritone: a combination of perfect enunciation and a
     broad Geordie accent. He pumped Larkin’s hand enthusiastically.
    ‘Hi, Prof. Good to see you again.’
    ‘Well, well! A blast from the past. What brings you round these parts, stranger?’
    ‘Mainly business – but I have to have some time off.’
    ‘So you came here? Wise choice. Wise choice.’
    The barmaid chose that moment to arrive with Larkin’s pint; despite his protestations, The Prof insisted on paying for it.
     Larkin took a few sips and, social niceties out of the way, they began to fill each other in on the intervening years.
    Larkin told The Prof he was still a journalist, for a paper he was too ashamed to name. The Prof’s career had obviously been
     a