Free Mary's Prayer by Martyn Waites Page B

His hands moved down to her waist, over the curve of her hips, and slid between her
     thighs, making her gasp. His fingers were as avid as their mouths, devouring her. Her perfume might have changed; her dress
     sense had become more conservative; but her body still felt exactly the same. Eventually she pulled away from him, her lips
     swollen, parted, sexy.
    ‘Let’s go inside.’ She pulled at him; he didn’t move. ‘It’s all right! Charles isn’t here. Come on. We’ve got a lot of catching
     up to do.’
    He couldn’t think straight. This was what he wanted most in the world, right here and now, and he recognised that. But he
     wanted it too much, and that scared him. It wasn’t the sex, it was the involvement; he had wrapped so many layers around himself
     that his emotions had become mummified. In the last day or so Charlotte had found a loose piece of bandage and started to
     pull, spinning him round, unravelling him. If he allowed it, she would leave him naked and dizzy. Desire and despair were
     mixed, fighting for possession of his soul, but she wanted an answer.
    ‘No.’ A cracked whisper.
    She stopped. ‘What?’
    ‘I can’t.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘I … it’s what I want.
You’re
what I want, I just haven’t … I can’t do it. Not with someone I … care about.’
    ‘It’ll be all right. We’ll make it all right.’
    He started to move away, back to something he could handle, something he could control.
    ‘I’ll call you. Sorry. Thanks for a … a lovely evening. I’ll see you soon. I really am sorry.’ And he hurried away, leaving
     Charlotte standing alone.
    He walked through the streets of Newcastle like a sleepwalker. Back at the hotel he went straight up to his room, telling
     himself over and over that he’d done the right thing. He tried to relax. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Charlotte. He
     got out his bottle of whisky and a glass, turned on the TV and flicked idly through the hotel’s cable channels. Finding the
     porn station, he stared at it dumbly, watching writhing flesh lovelessly simulate passion. Charlotte.
Charlotte
… He turned the sound down and put a tape in the machine: Roy Orbison. He lay back on the bed, letting Roy tell him that only
     in dreams could he find true love. The flickering images washed over him and the sour alcohol ran round his body. When the
     tears finally came, he was too drunk to notice.

9: A Little Light Reading
    It was the dream again. It began as always, with a clear, blue sky. He’d done his two early morning lines, left for work,
     realised he’d forgotten something, driven back to his Georgian town-house in the Porsche. He could see Sophie holding little
     Joe, standing on the front step. A car pulled up ahead of him. Ralph Sickert got out and crossed towards them, carrying a
     double-barrelled shotgun. Heavy black clouds rolled over the blue sky. He saw the smile on Sophie’s face turn to a look of
     confusion as Sickert raised the gun and aimed it at her. Larkin told himself it was going to be different this time; he’d
     shout out, he’d get the gun, he’d take the shot. But the dream never changed. His legs turned to lead and he watched as, in
     sickening, cinematic slow-motion, Sickert pulled the trigger. A huge, reverberating, industrial roar; Sophie’s front exploded
     in a blossoming fractal flower of red. Little Joe, drenched in so much of his mother’s blood he looked as if he’d just emerged
     from the womb, began a slow, air-raid siren wail. Another roar – and Joe’s head was gone.
    The heavens opened with a torrential downpour as Larkin heard a deep bull howl and realised it was his own. He was too late.
     Sickert turned round. And with swift dream logic, he metamorphosised into Charlotte. Something had happened! This wasn’t the
     normal route for the nightmare to take. Naked, she held the shotgunin her hands, reloaded both barrels and looked at him. She smiled gently and spoke.
    ‘I’ve released