Mary's Prayer by Martyn Waites

CDjukebox Michael Bolton was getting himself all worked up over nothing in particular. In short, it had become just like any
     other brass-arsed city pub. It had no identity – or not one that Larkin wanted to share.
    On entering, he had ordered his drink and taken a trip to the toilet, surprised to find it now at the top of a spiral staircase
     and newly tiled in gleaming grey and white. As he returned to the bar he overheard a customer chatting with the barmaid, enthusing
     at the speed with which the vicious Stanley-knife stabbing in the toilets a couple of nights ago had been cleared up. At Larkin’s
     approach they both fell silent, keen not to spoil a stranger’s impression of their local. Larkin took his beer to his seat,
     smiling to himself.
You can tart up the pub
, he thought –
but you can’t change the people
.
    He sat in contemplation. He tried not to spend too much time in reflection, but he had cut himself off from humanity to a
     point where he distrusted emotional involvement, found it painful even. His relationship with Lindsay provided him with sexual
     gratification, if nothing else, and his job put food in his mouth. But that was the present. He was still so bound up with
     the past that he didn’t dare think about the future.
    And then there was Charlotte. Her presence puzzled – if he was honest, frightened – him.
    He was still deep in thought when Andy appeared.
    ‘Oi! Where’s my fuckin’ pint, then?’
    Larkin jerked out of his reverie.
    ‘Don’t matter, I’ll get them.’ His colleague looked at him. ‘Still the same miserable face. What’s the matter with you, then?’
    Andy was framed by the fading light spilling in from the doorway. His mousy hair was scraped back into its inevitable ponytail;
     his beard was neatly trimmed; the earring in his left ear glittered; his Levi T-shirt and jeans were immaculately faded. Cat
     boots and Chipie suede bomber completed the ensemble. Every inch the South London wide boy. Larkin saw the smattering of early
     evening drinkers eye Andy with mistrust; through centuriesof Northern in-breeding, they had instinctively rejected him. Everybody’s pal, Andy Brennan, had become another outsider –
     just like Larkin.
    Andy didn’t notice their hostility, however, as he ordered drinks for himself and Larkin, his South London accent at full
     decibel. The barmaid eyed him like a laboratory specimen as he returned to Larkin with the drinks.
    ‘Bit of a fuckin’ borin’ cow, ain’t she? Don’t they teach them manners up here?’
    ‘They do, but only in relation to other Geordies. Southerners always get the cold shoulder.’
    ‘And how far south d’you have to go to be considered a Southerner, then?’
    ‘Durham, I think.’
    Andy took a deep drink, nodding seriously. ‘Yeah, figured. Why do they hate Southerners so much?’
    ‘Well, traditionally it’s because Tory landowners from London fuck us over so many times. But …’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘I think it’s because they keep beating us at football.’
    Andy laughed. ‘Used to, you mean.’
    ‘Yeah, right. More to it than that, though,’ said Larkin pensively. ‘When my dad used to go to work on a Monday – he was a
     mechanic at the Northern bus garage – if Newcastle had won over the weekend then he knew he was in for a good week. But if
     they lost it would be awful. That’s what football means to people up here.’
    ‘Yeah?’ Andy paused and drank, then grimaced. ‘I’m not surprised it means so much to them. The beer’s shit.’
    Larkin shook his head and tried to ignore him.
    ‘So what’s she like, then?’
    ‘Who?’ Larkin knew full well who.
    ‘This bird you went to see. What’s she like?’
    ‘She’s a lawyer. Involved in the Edgell case. I thought it would be helpful if I spoke to her.’ He was trying to sound convincing,
     dismissive, but he couldn’t help remembering Charlotte’s breasts constrained by the lacy bra underneath a sheer cream silk
     blouse