She reached across and pulled up the lock. He got in and sat in the passenger side. Lazarus was looking straight ahead, a vacant face with eyes open but not seeing as cars eased past. The gentle hum of traffic filled the space of their vehicle. The key was in the ignition but Molly hadn’t turned it; she had turned to him and was staring. If he noticed, he didn’t give any indication, glazed unblinking eyes, that showed little life.
“Christ Almighty. Fine. We’ll play it your way,” she said. She reclined her seat back several inches and folded her arms.
After a few minutes, he looked across at her and seemed surprised to see they were still parked. The tension in her face and arms had flowed away and she was slumped back, with her head against the rest and breathing deeply. Her hands had fallen to her lap, fingers linked together. She seemed to sense him stir and opening her eyes met his.
“Everything alright?” he asked.
“Everything alright? Where the hell you been for the past ten minutes?”
“I dunno. Why are we not moving?”
“Give me strength,” Molly said and looked to the heavens for inspiration.
She turned the ignition and drove off, bouncing their heads against the roof as they pulled from the kerb. They drove in silence, weaving in and out of cars, the driver honking a horn which despite its redoubling of her headache still gave her a little bit of satisfaction to let off some steam. Lazarus, contented himself with staring out the window, watching the busy shoppers scuttling around. Last minute stocking fillers to satisfy their child’s needs for quantity and quality. Nervous lovers who, despite agreeing a price and number of gifts in advance, still sought a little added bonus to shock and delight their partner. He watched the thick coats and oversized bags, flutter and bounce along the streets. Named brands were being taken walkies by their owners. The shop fronts were all plastered with the usual sparkled Christmas garb, some with crudely drawn Santa and reindeers painted on the window.
“People never learn, do they?”
They were clogged up with the rest of the traffic now and Molly turned and saw Lazarus staring at a woman a few steps away, sitting at the bus shelter. An organ of open mouthed bags were on the floor in front of her.
“What do you mean?”
“Every year. The same bloody thing. People spending money they don’t have on crap they don’t need. And for what? Because of this thing called ‘Christmas’.”
Her honking horn bought her six inches, which she closed before pulling up the handbrake.
“I’d have thought with your history with JC you’d be all for it?”
“You think all this is for Him?” Lazarus said and shot her a scorned look. “This is a sickness that we’ve created. Lost the real value of family and occasion. People are too wrapped up in the commercial.”
“Alright Grinch. Tone it back a bit or you’ll be getting no gift from me this year,” she said, adding a smile.
“She can’t even afford to get a taxi. Look at her fumbling in her purse for change for the bus. Absolute joke.”
When the traffic finally opened up, they pulled off the main retail streets while Molly hunted for a place to park. Passing up several opportunities which required a deft sense of awareness and experience which she didn’t possess, she persevered until one greeted her that was to her choosing. They hit the kerb hard as it lurched up on two wheels before she stopped its forward movement with a shudder.
“Where are we?”
“Not far from the park. Come on.”
She paid for two hours in the ‘Pay and Display’ machine and slotted the ticket against the windshield. They walked along the street of terraced houses, the muffled noise of TVs within blaring comedy reruns, catching snippets of familiar voices and theme tunes of Christmas movies. The open gateway of the park stretched out before them, a choir of gospel singers strategically positioned. Good looking children with faces polished by their mothers’ spit greeted the passing shoppers and tourists with a medley of tuneful hymns.
On either wing, angelic twin faces, a boy and a girl dressed in their Sunday finery stood with hungry red buckets. A picture of a smiling Pope Francis was plastered on its front above the number 2018. The face peeked out underneath the children’s fingertips. They hugged the big buckets tight to their chest. Parents stopped at the sight of the little ones, commenting on the angelic girl’s beautiful fairy blue dress, blonde pig tails tied in a pink silk ribbon, little sparkle dance shoes as she hopped and skipped her way across the front stage like a performing ballerina. Her smile was a warm butter knife through their hearts. In contrast, the little boy, freckled and smiling through gapped teeth, shied away from the attention, using the bucket as a defence shield but hopped up and down in glee when he heard a new coin drop with the others.
A news crew were filming a segment on one corner of the busy street, the choir in shot behind. A news reporter, auburn hair bunching to shoulders framed with a navy blazer, seemed at the end of her tether. Her high button shirt showed a neck that was scratched in frustration. A couple of teens stood behind her, giving finger signs and making lewd gestures. The camera man called out ‘Cut,’ sending the youths into rapturous delight, making the footage unusable. Despite the season of good will, the woman turned to them and told them in no uncertain terms to play in the motorway.
The little girl who was collecting on the choir’s behalf rushed forward to Molly and Lazarus with her bucket and rattled it in their direction, giving the widest smile her cherub face could manage.
“Piss off,” Lazarus said.
The smile dropped from the girl’s face and she looked around as if lost, lower lip trembling under the weight of the sudden rebuke.
“Hey, hey hey!” Molly said and quickly hunkered down until eye level with the girl.
She took off her shades and held out a finger that touched her snow white cheek.
“He’s just a big meanie. Here you go sweetie.”
The little girl took the coins from Molly’s hand and dropped them into the bucket. She looked up at the mean man who had already lost interest and, turning away, ran back to the safety of her colleagues in the choir.
“What did you do that for?”
“Little bitch was asking for it,” he said and smiled.
Molly punched him in the arm and they started laughing. Lazarus pretended to put her in a head lock before wrapping his arm around her shoulder. She curled an arm around his back and found his hip as together they walked through the gates, treading a path that split in two around the lake. They came to the fork, him pulling left and her pulling right. She pulled strongest, linking her arm in his and knocking him off balance.
A boy barely old enough to walk, crept up to the edge of the lake followed by a rushing mother who pulled him back by the orange puffer hood. They watched her scold him, his little face turning beetroot red as cries erupted. The mother picked him up like a sack of spuds, threw him onto her shoulder and passed them, mumbling curses on the way.
“Holiday stress,” Molly said.
Lazarus’ arm broke off from hers and he walked up to the edge of the lake and bent down, pressing its surface. The path that circled the lake was crusted with a powdery snow, slippy under foot which came off easily. He rose and rubbed his knee free of it before turning to her.
“Still frozen,” he said and looking up caught the sun in his eyes.
“It would need to be,” she said and pointed to a group of kids on the far side, sliding along the surface.
He shook his head before linking arms again, walking along its perimeter. In the distance they could make out the sound of the choir. Squeals of delight nearby as children larked around, making powder puff snowballs that broke in their mitten hands. The cold made them each pocket their free hand and hug tighter for warmth.
“You ready to talk now or should I just keep guessing?”
“I was planning on holding on for a bit longer,” he said and felt her stiffen. “Yeah, of course, sorry.”
“Those guys you saw chucking me in the taxi? They work for Marcus.”
“The blond man you were with at the restaurant.”
“Yeah. Him,” Lazarus said, pausing. “Has a bit of a thing for me.”
“Seems like more than just a crush from where I’m standing.”
“You don’t know the business. It’s complicated.”
“Well then explain it to me,” she said and stopped, watching the struggle of emotions on his face. “Lazarus?”
Molly faced him, freed her arm and reached down for his hand. When she found it, she held it tight. It was cold and she rubbed the back of it. His face was downcast, looking away.
“Hey, it’s going to be OK.” She raised a hand and gently touched his cheek.
His head moved away from her fingertips as if they burned to the touch. His hand broke free of hers again. He turned and walked ahead.
“Laz!” she shouted after him.
“Don’t call me that.”
She ran up to him and tugged back his shoulder with a force that suddenly caught him by surprise.
“Why are you acting so weird?”
“Molly, you don’t even- ”
“No. Time for me to talk,” she said. “You feed me this bullshit story and start showing up at random and when you do, you disappear again and won’t even tell me what’s going on!”
“C’mon, Molly. What’s got you really worked up?”
“You!” she said and pushed him in the chest. “Why are you being so bloody difficult?”
“Why do you care?” he replied and the smile he gave was worse than a slap.
“God’s sake. I don’t know why I even bothered helping.”
“You came looking for me, remember,” he said but she had already turned around and was walking in the other direction.
Suddenly a scream pierced the air and they spun at the same time to see the child break through the lake surface and disappear.
TWENTY-SEVEN
When he pulled the bedcovers off his body and found the light switch, there was a moment of confusion on the young man’s face. The room was unfamiliar, and he lay for several seconds, waiting for the fog in his brain to clear. The white wallpapered walls were without adornment. A wide oak wardrobe occupied the length of one wall, facing the bed. He was underneath a heavy, soft quilt. An assortment of small puffy pillows, creams, pinks and whites like marshmallows spilled onto the carpeted floor.
A sturdy chair, more used to a dining room setting was to his left in the corner. On it were folded shirts, ironed and pressed sitting on top of the buckled rucksack, straps draped to the ground. A blind was pulled over the window above the bed, and he reached across and lifting it noticed that it was night outside.
He sat up and swivelled his legs over the bed edge. A deep breath swelled his chest and he rubbed his face and caught the stubble – a few wispy strands of hair huddled for comfort around his pointed chin.
He rose, slipped on the trousers and pulled his head through a T-shirt which was still warm and scented from the wash, and clicked open the door.
The hallway was dark. A light from beneath a door shone and approaching he could hear footsteps behind it. Pressing his ear to the surface there was a gentle mechanical whirr, like a washing machine but more consistent and level. The steps continued around the room, their owner humming a tune. Touching the cold brass handle in his hand, he pushed it down and entered.
His eyes took some time to adjust to the brightly illuminated room. Polished tile floor gleamed under the high light fixture above, a succession of spotlights penetrating every corner of the room, throwing no shadows. Centre stage was a hospital bed, unoccupied and tightly made with thin white sheets that hugged the mattress like the sleeve of a matchbox. On either side of the bed stood two machines, dials and screens ran along their length but they didn’t appear to be connected to power and sat lifeless against the wall.
On the left and against the corner lying flat on its side, propped up by two trestles was what looked like a cross between a bath tub and a refrigerator. Sleek, silver metallic surface. A door handle and number keypad were on its chest, just below a glass window aperture at the head. The whirring sound seemed to be coming from the machine and thick wires sloped from its back, along the tile and connected to a crowded wall socket on the white wall behind.
To the right was a man wearing a blue dressing gown, trailing to bare calves which sloped down into red carpet slippers. His back was to the door and the interested observer. He was huddled over a wooden work bench, fiddling with something out of sight, which seemed to focus his attention suddenly, because the humming momentarily stopped and was replaced by little irksome grunts as he wrestled with the problem in his hands.
“I… Eh...”
The items dropped from the man’s hands and clanged onto the table. He spun around, draping the gown around him suddenly.
“Christ! You scared me half to death!” he said and tied the waist cord of the robe.
“Sorry.”
“Not to worry. How’d you sleep?”
“Really good. How long was I…?”
Dr. Lewin walked away from the counter top and flicked his wrist free of the robe and smiled.
“Thirty-seven hours.”
“Seriously?”
The man nodded and, smiling, walked over to the source of the noise. He pulled a cloth sheet from below the structure and draped it over the surface.
“You hungry?”
“I could eat an elephant.”
“Well,” Lewin said, flicking off a switch and silencing the machine. “I’m fresh outta elephants, but I’ve been told I make the best toasted ham and cheese sandwich this side of the equator. How does that sound?”
“If you can trade the ham for chicken you got yourself a customer.”
“Deal.”
Lewin had half turned the younger man toward the door entrance again. The sound of the machine had finally died and there was a silence save for the soft stick of their soles against the tile ground.
“What was that machine back there?”
“What machine?”
The younger man hovered in the doorway and pointed back. Lewin didn’t turn and continued looking ahead, arm shielding and pressing the man through the door. He flicked a row of light switches on a panel on the wall and the room was covered in darkness.
“Can you just hit that hall light in front of you there?”
The younger man stepped through, felt along the wall and found it. By the time it illuminated the hallway, the laboratory door was closed with Lewin standing outside it, an arm stretched out to signal the way.
“The one that was giving the noises. The fridge.”
They continued walking, passing the bedroom on the left and another two closed doors on their right. Several portraits hung on the wall, landscape paintings that he didn’t recognise.
“What did Father Docherty tell you about what I do?”
The younger man felt his arm held gently and stopped to look at Lewin, who had a serious expression on his face, searching for a reaction.
“I… He didn’t tell me much. Just that you were a doctor and that you might be able to cure my tumour.”
“Nothing else?” The younger man shook his head and the reaction seemed to please the doctor who smiled. “Well, that machine is what I hope will help to save your life.”
“How does it work?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. I’ll explain everything when Father Docherty gets here.”
“I don’t know if I can wait that long.”
“You won’t have to.” Lewin smiled. “He’s coming tomorrow.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
The sudden scream pierced through the others, marked by its panic and pitch as heads turned to find its source. Adults stood rooted to the spot, hands raised to frozen mouths. On the lake, there was a
flapping of arms waving desperately, spraying water up over the ice surface. Beside a little girl, a teenage boy was holding out an arm and trying to grab the stricken child who had fallen. Time slowed, as mothers and fathers looked on desperately, reading the same panic on others faces without prompting either to venture forward. On a far edge of the lake, they watched as a man sprang into action, trailed behind by a blonde woman who was taking more tentative steps compared to his own strides. While her footing was far from assured, the man seemed to glide across the icy surface, sprinting at a pace which could have been asphalt.
“Be careful,” Molly shouted.
She was on all fours and crawling back to the safety of the edge of the lake where the surface was denser. Her fingertips were splayed but she could see her touch splinter the pane of glassy ice underneath; She shifted her weight between feet and knees with breath held until finally she reached the grass bank. Finding terra firma, she turned around and watched as Lazarus came to a screeching stop at the punctured hole.
The little girl stopped screaming when she saw him, and the teenager was bent over, reaching deep below the surface, groping for a hand that had stopped flailing in the air. Murmurs came from the wings as a crowd gathered. Children hugged mother’s legs. Wives pushed husbands forward. Men tested the spring of the ice stretching out a foot. Their head shakes to wives suggested that it was too risky. Other teenagers had stopped playing and huddled together to watch the scene with morbid interest.
They all looked on as the man quickly stripped off his clothes flinging the garments to one side before jumping into the hole. The murmurs turned to gasps. Wives who couldn’t bear to watch, turning their heads into the chests of their husbands, who offered soothing words. Some of those watching had pulled out mobile phones – some for calling the emergency services, others to capture the moment on camera, zooming on the action, trying to hold the phone steady despite the chill.
For Lazarus, the shock was overwhelming when he broke the surface. In an instant he felt the breath in his chest leap from his body, the sub-zero temperature of the water sharpening his mind to a knife point of focus. When he bobbed upwards, he filled his lungs with the air that escaped and ducked his head below again. The skin felt like it was being torn from his body with each movement. All sense of orienteering below the surface was lost to the darkness of the water. Air beat in his chest, seeking escape, pressurizing his lungs. Legs and arms swung around without coordination. He felt himself sinking and could hear his own breath battle in his throat, mingled with the cries from above. Eyes opened an inch, freezing the corneas as he looked up and saw two blurred figures above. He motioned for them to get back but his arm wouldn’t follow the command as he found himself being gently pulled to the depths.
Raising Lazarus Page 12
