Suddenly the heavy door lifted from her. She almost bent over double when she was liberated; her lungs taking a deep and grateful breath. The young man used his thin arm to swing it open further, enveloping the room in light and with it the noise of the busy street beyond. He flashed a smile at her which she briefly caught, twisting her face like a chewed toffee before quickly regaining her composure and shuffling out, knocking him against the door.
“Nice to see you too, Mrs Ahmoudi!” he shouted after her.
There was an open cardboard box crooked in his arm and held close to his chest, the contents of which peeped out over the top. Packaged goods, columns of food, a bloated bag of brown rice, tomatoes, garlic and onions jostled around for position on the top layer. Most of it was safely contained within the box and, as he entered the building, he let the door close on itself. Inside the building, there was a second door and he used the edge of his sandal to kick-tease it further open, until he could slide through. A second arm reached underneath the package to steady the food, as he climbed the stone stairwell.
A curled iron bannister had come loose from the cement joint, inviting an accident, but he veered away from it and stayed close to the wall. Graffiti marked the walls of the ground floor that receded the higher he climbed, the artists clearly not as blessed with athletic ability as they were creative ability. Lumbered with the box, he didn’t take the time to study the fresh designs, instead tracing the route upstairs, his slapping sandals reverberating off the hard floor and travelling all the way to his destination on the tenth floor.
Somewhere around the sixth level, a group of kids scuttled past with water guns, boundless energy that he wished he could plug into as his slow climb became a crawl. They barely noticed him as they descended, and he could hear their joyful screams grow more distant as he continued to climb. Despite his age, the muscles had been dormant for too long and they quivered under the load. Muscles that he imagined would eventually adapt to the task, just like the priests had done.
The slow plodding pace was economical and when he rounded the final corner of the top floor, he was greeted by the familiar sight of the number ‘10’ in black letters against a white background. A little audible cry of pleasure escaped his smiling lips and he noticed the little red election sticker of Khaled Hossani in the centre of the zero. Milky drops, drawn with Tippex, leaked from the centre, giving an impression of a lactating breast.
He paused for a moment and breathed deeply, stretching the lower back and wiping the sweat off his brow, before opening the door into the hallway. It was hotter at the top, the sun outside magnifying its rays and heating the air all around.
A couple of small port hole windows to the outside marked the corridor, guiding his path which was obscured and littered. Broken bikes and abandoned toys filled the passage and he carefully stepped over them, sweeping some of the loose ones closer to the wall and away from his path. Two doors on either side were half way down the hallway, facing one another, and he could hear the TV sets blaring from behind the thin walls as he passed.
He was about to lower the bag of groceries down and reach into his back pocket for the key but found that the door was ajar. With breath lowered and ears straining, he pressed it forward ever so slightly and caught the faintest sound above the ventilator inside. The sound of the priest. There was a desperate tone in his voice and as the door moved further back on its hinge, he anticipated the squeak, trying to smother it as best he could, gently teasing it out inch by inch.
It was dark inside, but he could see his mirror reflection on the wall ahead. There was an L shape bend which opened into the living room, where the sounds appeared to be coming from. Setting the groceries down gently, he crept into the apartment, tracing his step on the carpeted interior. A sudden scream from the priest almost brought him running through the door in a panic. Other voices in the room, shouting at the priest were audible and he felt his breath quicken in his chest. The reflection seemed foreign to him, body tensed in fight or flight mode, his skinny arms and legs looked like a child’s, no match for whatever was around the corner.
On the table top below the mirror, his eyes fixed on a silver chalice, the type he had seen used for Eucharist and without thinking he found his arms reach out for it and he gripped its metal base. Creeping to the wall, he peered around the corner. Directly ahead, through a gap in the doorway, the priest was sitting in his usual seat, but a foreign man was standing over him. It looked like the man was pressing down on the priest’s arm. As he approached, the voices became clearer. Each step closer to the living room brought his heartbeat quicker until he could feel the pulse in his hand against the silver ornament. It was slick in his palm now and he wiped a jean leg and tried to find a sure grip again.
“Who ya tink ya talkin’ to? We knows ya gat sam hidden away samwher.”
“I don’t have anything,” the priest cried. “Please. You’ve got everything. Please don’t hurt me.”
From the entrance, he observed two men. A short, stout man who had been holding down the priest’s hand exchanged glances with the one who had just spoken. The man was tall and had a shaved head which sat atop a thick neck that sloped onto shoulders - hard sharp edges that looked like they could cut the T-shirt like tissue paper. He strode around the room, circling the priest like a shark before stopping suddenly with his back to them. Hands were tucked behind his back, white palms chasing thumb over thumb. The arms were thick and the muscle on the dark surface rippled like a bed of eels.
“Ya tink we stupid, Fadar? Ya gat gold cups, silva plates, bronze crossis. And dats jus what we see. What abut wat we don’t see? I try to be reasonble but I see dat aint wurkin’. Jules?”
The short man looked up at the speaker and received a nod as an answer.
All eyes leapt to the finger of the priest. It was held in the hollowed fist of the man standing over him. The pleas that shot from his mouth were quickly replaced by shrieks, unnatural and sickening which pierced the thick air. The finger of the priest jut up at a right angle, its owner thrashing around on the seat in agony.
Whether it was the sudden shock that inched the young man forward into the room or something else that gave him the gentle nudge, he found the stare of the torturer on him, wide eyed. Before Jules could shout a word of warning to the other man, the chalice struck him hard in the face. The blow staggered the man to the floor amid the priest’s continued screams, but his lids had now opened to see he had been liberated, recoiling the hand and cradling it to his chest.
The sound of the blow alerted the other man to turn and his body, although chiselled and tough like granite, was no match for the speed of the smaller man who bounded head first into his chest, sending him crashing to the ground. Stunned and before his muscles had a chance to flex, a fist of metal struck him hard in the eye socket. The blows continued to rain down on his face from above; arms flopped by his side like wet fish with the assault, unable to summon a response until suddenly there was nothing.
“Stop.”
It was the sound of the priest who had cut through the red mist in his brain. The younger man let his exhausted arm drop and the broken cup fell from it to the ground. The beaten face was a bloodied pulp and the eye sockets were pooled with the wetness. In the centre of the face, the skull had caved in. Fragments of skin and bone floated in the centre in a bloody soup. The final bubbles of air which would have been from the nose made their way to the surface.
There was a shuffling sound behind and they heard it run from the room, out the corridor and strike the bag of groceries, before the slap of his feet was swallowed by the sound of the fan in the corner of the room.
The younger man slid off the broad chest and crumpled to the floor, looking down at the dented cup, bloodied red and then at his hands. He held them up to his eyes and stared at the palms, a confused expression on his face.
“Are you hurt?”
He turned the palms over and looked them up and down, as if trying to find the source of the bl
ood. He pulled his sleeves back, searching for it, before touching his own face, looking for a clue, smearing it with fingerprints.
“Are you hurt?”
He looked up at the priest and shook his head, mouth opening and shutting like a door caught in the breeze. The priest struggled to rise, carefully cradling his arm and crouched down beside the body. He drew an arm around the young man’s shoulder and pulled his head into his chest. The man’s hands were still splayed out in front away from his chest and the priests like a father with a new-born baby, unsure what to do or where to hold them.
“What do-”
“Don’t worry about that now, son. You did the right thing.”
“But-”
“Shush. Quiet now,” the priest said, and he started to stroke the back of the man’s head which was matted with blood and sweat. “It was God’s wish.”
EIGHT
During the summer months, the paths that trailed along the canal bank were busy with prams and pets, one being pushed, the other being pulled around meanders in the little river, cloaked from the overhead sun by the shade of deciduous trees lining the way.
Weekends were busiest, starting on Friday at 6 p.m. The after-work crowd would congregate around the bank. Open mouthed bins which ordinarily would reach capacity on a month of weekdays soon overflowed by the time the Saturday sun broke. Piles of beer cans. Silver turds that lined the river. The height of each respective mound eclipsed the sun as it rose from the East, casting a long shadow across the river, confusing families of ducks who stopped for a closer look, pulling plastic hook sheets with them, nibbling on spooled chips that lay squashed across the path like Mr. Tayto’s footprints. The neatly cut grass had been lowered, churned by rough boots and sprawled bodies. Patches of sick coloured it in places, soaking into the thirsty ground below. Undigested objects emerged from the bent green grass, shining up from the mud in the midday sun like lost jewels.
At night, however, a different crew of people descended on the canal. From the shadows, they stood, waiting. Sometimes they would sit on the bench but usually their time was better spent walking up and down the paths, slow careful steps, always looking, always waiting - rubbing hands and lit embers of cigarettes, the only sign of life on the canal.
That night, Molly Walker was parked up on the kerb outside a row of terraced houses that looked out onto the canal. A street lamp behind her stretched the light far enough to make out the silhouette ahead which was stationary. She had watched the woman smoke six cigarettes, and had seen the sparks fizz under her heel as she extinguished the butts. On the third one, Molly had opened the car door but quickly shut it again when she noticed the cigarette light turn back in her direction. Now, the woman hadn’t smoked in ten minutes and replaced the flashing light of the cigarette for the glow of her mobile phone, which shone a hazy pixelated beam on her face.
Steeling herself and tipping back the coke can she already knew to be empty into her mouth, the last few drips falling onto her tongue, she opened the door wide and stepped out. In the distance, the mobile phone glow snapped dark and she approached where she figured the woman would be. She was conscious of her steps, the flat shoes almost stealth like quiet, and feared for a second that her approach might take the woman by surprise and cause a reaction. She coughed into her fist and cleared her throat a little too enthusiastically and continued. The night sky was completely dark, without stars or a moon. The river on her side flowed quietly, a soft whisper with gentle steady laps. She couldn’t see the edge clearly and it was the only noise she heard, with the buzz of traffic relegated far away. On her right, she passed under trees which crinkled like paper under the little breeze. Beyond them, she knew there were tall office buildings which would be empty on a Friday night. That fact offered no comfort as she approached the spot where she had last seen the woman, her shape beginning to form, an ink blot on a black canvas.
The woman, if she was aware of Molly’s approach, showed no sign, continuing to stand and wait. Her face suddenly appeared from the darkness, a round plate under a sink of dirty water. Molly felt her breath faster now, too far along to turn back. The face was staring straight at her, curious eyes scanning her up and down.
When she finally reached the other woman, Molly stopped suddenly.
“Hi.”
“Hi yourself.”
“I… I…”
“Look kid. You’re new to this. It’s your first time. I get it. You don’t need to say nothing. You got money and someplace we can go?”
Even in the darkness, Molly could see the woman was heavily made up. Dark blusher on her cheeks looked like bruises. Lines around her lips pulled the smoker’s mouth into a puckered asshole. Her hair was red or brown. It was hard to tell for certain without the light, which Molly was suddenly glad there wasn’t more of.
“No. I’m looking for information.”
The woman looked over her shoulder and then along the pavement at the line of parked cars.
“What are you? Police?”
“No! Not at all,” she said, noticing the woman had tensed, her eyes narrowed on Molly. “I’m hoping to find someone.”
“Aren’t we all?” the woman said, and Molly was surprised to see she hadn’t actually run out of cigarettes. Fishing out a new one, she caught it in her teeth like a bear swiping a flying fish. “Three hours I been out here.”
“Two and a half actually.”
The woman sparked the lighter to the fag tip, an eyelid weighed down by mascara remained undaunted, eyeing Molly suspiciously.
“Detective or private eye then?”
“No. I’m a student,” she said and watched the woman take a deep breath, which crushed her chest against a tight corset, then let it steam off into the air.
There was a fresh little chill in the air, one that fingered its way through shirt openings and up trouser legs. Moly felt it and pocketed her hands; the other woman wrapped her long coat around her, tying the loose belt and she crowded her hands around the cigarette for heat. Soon, they were walking, the woman ahead and Molly pulling at the shoulder a short pace behind.
“Can you help me?”
“Jesus. What is it?” the woman barked.
“Do you know a guy called Lazarus? Short, light brown skin, about twenty years old…”
“Yeah. I know him,” she said and snorted. “Showed him the ropes. Get it?”
“Is he working tonight? I mean,” Molly corrected herself, “do you know where he is?”
“What’s it to you?”
The woman had stopped, turned and leaned closer to Molly; she could smell the menthol cigarettes on the woman’s breath. Her eyes were like faded glass marbles that hadn’t been polished for decades.
“It’s just for a report I’m doing at uni.”
“Why would you want anything to do with him? He’s a nut job. Do your report on me. Pay me enough and I’ll give you all you need to know. I been on the streets a lot longer than him. Seen things that’ll make your toes curl.”
“That’s fine.”
“Suit yourself,” she said and flicked the cigarette from her fingers into the river, where they saw the little flame extinguish.
“Do you think you can help?”
“Jesus,” she said, and she turned away from Molly shaking her head.
“I’ll make it worth your while. I’ve got fifty quid here,” she said and fished it from her pocket.
The woman turned, ripped it from her hand. She reached into her chest and slotted it into some hidden crevice before continuing again, leaving Molly standing.
“Hey! You didn’t tell me anything.”
Molly ran up to her and saw the narrow beam lights of a vehicle loom into view. The headlights bounced up and down over a ramp as it headed straight toward them. The car pulled to a stop and they watched as a young man stepped out of the passenger seat, all smiles, walking around the bonnet. He waited as the tinted window of the driver opened and he moved his head down then kissed the man full on the lip
s.
When he pulled back, the blond-haired man zoomed his window back up until their locked stares were sliced, before he revved the engine. He pulled the sleek black car away and veered down a side road, roaring through the gears.
Out of sight, the standing man turned and his smile dropped. There was a coldness and mechanical quality about his expression and his jaw clenched with lips shut tight. His eye caught the older woman and he offered a little nod before Molly Walker stepped out from behind her shoulder.
“Jesus Christ. Not you again.”
NINE
It was a cauldron of smell, intensified under the bubbling heat of the midday sun. The air was filled with the aroma of delicate spices. It lapped in waves across the gathered masses. They carried it in their clothes and pores from stall to stall. It ebbed and flowed, fighting through the bustle of curious tourists. Watching on, animated merchants and cunning pickpockets were biding their time. Prostrate residents sat in doorways of houses, hard immovable faces like dry clay fixed in a knowing smile, peering out from under the shade of canopies.
The people traffic that filled the narrow street was moving, if not in a straight line, then in a certain direction like a tear of condensation on a window pane. Idle walkers were swept in its current as sharp elbows and foul tempers threatened to spill over, aggravated by the humidity and the slow passage from one end to the other.
Respite from the heaving crowd was found at the various stalls which shot up on either side. Merchants in full voice dangled goods to lure interested eyes astray from the safety of the pack. Dazzling crystal charms, bound by elastic cords, their colours shimmering like wet river stones were hastily wrapped around necks and wrists of the slower walkers. Shawls and throws from the finest cloth, patterned in oranges and reds, a sea of exquisite luxury folded and arranged, asked to be touched. Handicrafts of polished wood, little figurines of horses and giraffes, hand carved with splashes of colour dye for skin spots, cloth saddles fixed by silk thread, standing tall amid the shouts and shuffle of the crowd, peered out with pin prick eyes, resin and shiny.
Raising Lazarus Page 4
