“There,” he said and pointed out at an open space where their eyes tried to narrow. “The handset on the table. We would be with you all the way, so you’d never feel alone.”
“But I will be,” he said and seemed to shrink under the size of the task. “It’ll be like I’ve already been put in the coffin. Might as well just be done with it and be dead already.”
“No, you won’t,” the priest said and stepping forward placed his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I’ll be with you. Every day.”
“Besides,” Lewin said. “You’ll be sound asleep. You won’t have any real memory or knowledge of what’s going on outside after we turn on the machine and flood it with the coolant. It’ll be like a long dream.”
“Or a nightmare. What if I’m struggling? What if I can’t breathe?”
“Listen. We’re going to be monitoring you, every step of the way. We’ll have audio, visual and a measure of your biometrics, so we’ll know exactly if there’s a flicker of distress.”
“And you’d pull me out if there was something?”
“Absolutely.”
They were silent for a few seconds, the heavy sigh of the younger man as he stared down at the tiled floor.
“What are you thinking?” the priest said.
He looked up into the eyes of the doctor and then Father Docherty, who was still holding onto his shoulder, and waited a beat before taking a big gulp of air.
“I think I’m going to do it.”
THIRTY-FOUR
The door swung open and although both men were well over six foot, they were nearly barged to the ground as the woman shouldered past them. One of them, the better looking of the two, which is to say that he had no facial scars and still had his own teeth, reached out a hand and caught the door before it closed shut. The other, who had a face only a mother could love, had turned away, watching the blonde woman pace down the street. Despite the freezing temperatures he was wearing a tight black T-shirt, revealing his muscular frame which made him look like a condom stuffed with walnuts. He watched her get into a parked car, tears running down her face before speeding off.
“Wasn’t that your one?” Beast asked.
“What? No. C’mon,” Beauty said, opening the door up fully so his wide shouldered friend could get in.
They stopped in front of the lift and Beast reached out a stub for a finger and pushed the button. He pointed and laughed at the image on the elevator shaft, but seeing it had no effect on the other man stopped suddenly. When he had exercised his patience waiting for the lift, which was to say several seconds, Beast kept pressing the button, standing back and looking up at the flickering digits above. He began pulling his fingers from their sockets, dull air pops that emphasised the silence. Beauty listened for the sound of a sliding lift but heard nothing. Beast started on his other hand, tensing and stretching his wrist before going in the same order and ending on the thumb which gave a dull thuck, like a mud sucked boot.
“You gonna start on your toes next?” Beauty asked and received a smile from his colleague, a mouth of crumbled mints. “Only three floors. ‘Bout time you had a cardio day.”
They left the lift behind and climbed the stairwell, leaping two steps at a time. When they reached the second landing, Beauty hushed Beast, motioning for him to stay back out of sight as he crept up to the door and listened for a noise within. He could hear steps and nodded to the other man, raising his hand and waving Beast closer to the wall. The man did as he was told, arms splayed behind as if he was preventing the walls from closing in. Beauty knocked on the door gently and listened as the steps approached.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I can…”
The door opened, and the words froze in Lazarus’ mouth as he looked up at the man who had a wide grin on his face. He didn’t have time to shut the door as the man’s foot was wedged against it.
“Someone’s been a busy boy,” he said and crashed a fist square on his jaw.
THIRTY-FIVE
The priest’s head filled the small window. There was a worried expression on the face as it peered into the chamber and then looked at something out of sight before nodding. It was so close to the window, that the young man could see inside his great big ear. The furry lobes had spindles of hair like spider legs against the backdrop of the light above.
The priest’s head turned back again and mouthed something, but there was still no sound. The young man responded by shaking his head. His eyelids continued to flutter, unable to stay open, distracted from sleep by the big moon face that entered his vision from above. Suddenly a pop beside his ear cleared static and he heard a voice which almost felt like it was inside his own head.
“Can you hear me?”
The prostrate patient nodded slowly. The head above relayed the signal to the person out of view.
“I need you to speak.” It was the voice of Dr. Lewin. “Make sure communication is working both ways.”
“Yes… Hear you…”
The priest gave a thumbs up sign and smiled. The younger man managed one of his own but didn’t have the energy to hold it for long.
“Are you OK?”
“Tired.”
“That’s fine. Everything’s going according to plan,” Lewin said, still out of view. “I’ve lowered your blood pressure and your heart rate and they’ll continue to drop lower now so if you get the feeling that you want to pass out, that’s fine. OK?”
He nodded faintly, which the priest caught and passed on.
“You’re going to hear a vent open very soon. I’m going to start filling the LCC with gas, so just relax, take deep breaths. It’s going to get colder in there. OK?”
In his flickering vision, he could see the priest close to the window in conversation with the doctor, but none of what they said travelled into his chamber. The priest left the window and for a few seconds he was staring up from a coffin at the ceiling above with no one around, trapped and helpless. A vent above him opened suddenly. The chamber was so tight he couldn’t raise his arms on either side. The best he could do was wiggle his head but he still couldn’t find the opening.
He could feel the icy chill of Death’s breath on the back of his neck, as if curling around his throat like strangling hands and he suddenly felt the air around get heavy and choking. His spine curled back, dominoes along its length falling from the gentle wind. Little shrieks came from his mouth as he rocked his body around inside the chamber, kicking at the door which were barely taps, finding his energy levels depleted.
“You’re OK. I’m here.”
Suddenly the priest came into view. A little device was held up to Father Docherty’s face and he spoke into it.
“You don’t need to be afraid. I’ll be with you.”
“So. Cold.”
The chamber had dropped drastically in temperature and seemed to glue him to the floor of the box. His shallow breath clouded in front of his face as he felt his throat constrict. He tried to clench his teeth but his jaw hung loose, frozen in place. Hands were by his side, curled into fists. His body shivered violently.
“That’s OK, son,” the priest said, voice crackling on the other end. “You’ll come out of there and we’ll get you the best treatment. You’re going to be alright, you hear me?”
The younger man no longer had the strength to nod his head, but batted his eyelids. An anguished pain left the priest’s mouth and he framed the corner of the window with his hand and moved closer to the thick pane. The chamber was filled with the sounds of his soft sobbing, growing more distant now. Little tears hit the window and settled there like a frozen rain.
“Just be strong.”
His vision was blurring. The face of the priest fading in focus and clarity. Colours drained from above. The condensation on the window became thicker, reflecting his cold breath which barely rattled now in his thin chest. The trembling had ceased. The little energy he had, no longer found life to continue the effort. Edges softened inside the box, becoming fluid and distract
ing. The voice in the chamber receded. He closed his eyes for a few moments, tuned into the sound of the whoosh of air that seemed soothing. Comforting.
Figures above continued to dance through his half opened eyelids, which now dragged open and shut, slow under his command. Final words from inside the chamber trickled their way into his consciousness before the darkness took him under.
“I’ll never forget you…”
THIRTY-SIX
Tradition in the Walker household dictated that gifts be opened after Christmas dinner. The family had gathered around the table, one eye on the boxed presents beneath the tree, the other on the countertop where Susan Walker was standing with her back turned, piecing together various customised plates to each family member’s taste. Music was playing from the stereo, one of those free CD album covers of classic medleys that helped to shift a few extra copies of a newspaper. It was on a loop playing songs from the sixties to the noughties, Bing Crosby to East 17. Something for everyone in the audience.
At the head of the table was Mark Walker, bedecked with paper crown, already in his carpet slippers with no intention of leaving the house that day. He was holding the bottle of wine and offered it to his mother-in-law on the right, who staunchly refused. He poured himself a fresh glass, and added a few drops to Molly’s on his left which hadn’t yet been touched.
“Oh, I love this song,” Mark said. “Can you turn it up, Roy?”
Roy Walker was sitting beside Molly and turned around to look at the device behind.
“Don’t worry, Granda,” Molly said and rose. “I’ll get it.”
Johnny Matheson started singing When a Child is Born which brought a smile to everyone’s faces. Mark joined in on the chorus, lowering his voice a baritone, waving his fingers in the air like a conductor. They laughed at him and shook their heads.
“OK, Roy here’s yours,” Susan said, turning and placing a plate down on the table. “Mind, it’s hot now.”
White slabs of turkey were neatly sliced and propped on top of each other like a deck of playing cards. Bulbous green Brussel sprouts were tucked on the edge of the plate, forced into the wings by the creamy mountain of mashed potato. A gravy stream trailed through it and pooled at the base where it was asking to be mopped up by the finely crumbed stuffing. A corn in the cob, stubbed on either side with a small wooden fork, steamed from the plate, the fleshy ripe coat a yellow bubble wrap.
“Susan! This is too much!”
The woman had already turned around and couldn’t see his exasperated expression or the hungry eyes of the others who devoured the plate, taking big breaths of it.
“Kitchen’s closed after this folks, so make the most of it. Ma, ready for yours?”
Oven gloves gently lowered the plate down. The mashed potatoes had been traded for roast potatoes and big wet button mushrooms had been preferred to Brussel sprouts. The woman began prodding through it with her knife tip and gave a satisfactory nod.
“Tuck in,” Mark said, addressing the grandparents. “Don’t wait for us.”
They looked at their other opposite number across the table and nodded, grabbing the silver cutlery and diving in.
“Honey, this is yours.”
Molly leaned away from the hot plate which came above her. When it landed, she shook her head and smiled.
“Next year Ma, I’ll cook. It looks amazing.”
The grandparents all chipped in with their own compliments through mouthfuls of food. Mark had picked up his own knife and fork and slowly began a drum roll against the table. It picked up pace until his wife had returned to the table and parked the plate down in front of him. He reached his hands up, pulled her toward him and gave her a big kiss on the lips. The others cheered. Susan walked away to the table top blushing. Her husband gave a little triumphant fist pump in the air.
“I wouldn’t get too excited. There’s dishes to be done,” she said and scraped the final pieces of oven trays and heated plates into a mishmash which was to be her own.
She sat down with it and saw the others were already half finished, their head start too far to catch.
“Oh, there’s more gravy,” she said and started to get up.
Molly reacted quickest and went to the countertop to bring over the ceramic bowl which looked like an open-mouthed Aladdin’s lamp. She removed some of the items in the centre, plates which had already been cleaned of their contents, the remains of crusty onion rings, potato wedges bathed in sweet and sour sauce. A jug of cordial mix hadn’t been touched and Molly replaced it with the gravy bowl.
“What’s this with Susan telling me you were on the news, Molly?”
“Yeah,” Molly said, retaking her seat again. “It was last week in the park. No big deal.”
“I’ll say!” Mark chipped in, crunching a sprout in his teeth. “She helped save a kid’s life out there. Was all over the news.”
“Really?” the grandmother asked. “What happened?”
Molly gave a brief description of the events, receiving silent nods from the woman opposite.
“And this man,” she asked. “Is he a boyfriend?”
Molly looked around the table and saw them all too busy in their own plates. She detected an uncomfortable shift on her left, where her grandfather was seated.
“Not sure about that,” Molly said and corralled the last of her peas in a corner, where they stuck in the gravy. She crushed them with the back of her knife to prevent their escape. “He’s just a friend.”
“It’s not like your day, Ma,” Susan Walker said. “Men and women can be friends without it meaning anything.”
A few minutes later, most of the workers had downed tools and sat back, debating whether they could find a square inch to squeeze any more turkey. Burt Bacharach sang about a lonely Christmas as they each took sips of their drinks to rinse their mouths.
“Black fellow though, isn’t he?”
“Mam!” Susan scolded.
“What? That’s what you told me?”
“No, I didn’t,” she said. Rising from her seat, she started to clear some of the dishes away.
“Nothing wrong with it if he was,” the grandmother added, although her face spoke differently. “As long as he’s not one of them illegal ones you hear about on the TV. Those freeloaders.”
“Jeez,” Susan said, turning to the sink and clattering the dishes.
The noise seemed to spur her husband to life. His head was swimming, dampening the brim of the paper crown that slipped from his head, the world beginning to slant along with the smile. It sloped off his face, creeping unawares into the next room to lie in front of the fire. He rose and joined it, thanking his wife and mumbling something about dishes.
“Tell them Roy. I’m sure you’ve had lots of them in your prison. What do you think?”
Roy blew out a long breath and shook his head, hands raised in defeat at both the meal and the conversation.
“Come on. Not like you not to have an opinion.”
“OK,” he said and wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Number one Joy. He’s not black – he’s from the Middle East. Number two – not all those immigrants that you hear and read about on the TV are freeloaders. Most of them are actually skilled workers, doctors and lawyers who can really add something to society.”
“And what is he then?”
“Granny, he’s got a name,” Molly said, embarrassed by the turn in conversation.
“OK then. What’s his name?”
“Lazarus.”
“Lazarus? What kind of name is that?” she said scrunching up her face. “What does he do?”
“That’s not important,” Roy jumped in. “You said that you hoped he wasn’t an illegal immigrant. Truth is that most of the foreigners who end up in our prisons do so because they hit hard times. It could be a clash in culture, where they find it difficult to integrate. Most times though, the life they have here is much better than back home. Some of them are escaping war zones and terrorism.”
The grandmothe
r took a moment to digest this, along with her food. Roy and his granddaughter watched and waited for her eyes to climb off the wall and respond, which she finally did after a pause.
“But he’s not a terrorist.”
“Jesus, Ma!”
There was a crash of plates from the sink as Susan turned and stormed from the room. Her mother looked up, confusion scrawled across her face. She rose from the seat and followed her daughter out of the room, calling her name, but the woman’s footsteps were already on the stairs and ascending.
Roy and Molly were alone now with the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra, who despite the unwelcome turn of events continued like a trooper and sang a version of Silent Night.
“Thanks for not being honest,” Molly said.
“You’re welcome.”
He avoided her eyes as he excused himself from the table, lifting his plate to the sink where he placed it gently in the washbasin. When he turned, he approached the table, took her plate and paused. There was a pained expression in his face.
“What is it?”
“I didn’t know if it was my place to bring it up. Or if I should.”
“Listen, Granda I know he has baggage. There’s nothing going on. Honest. Remember I was the one that asked to study him. Don’t worry. I’m not going to get involved in- “
“It’s not that,” he cut her off. “Something happened.”
“What?” Molly said and pulled back from the table. “What happened?”
“He’s in a bad way.”
“How-”
“They contacted Mitch last week. Wanting to find out more about his medical history.”
“Who?”
“Westbrook Hospital. He’s taken a serious beating.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Molly enquired at the front desk and was told the patient had been moved from intensive care to the general ward. She thanked the nurse and followed the overhead signs. She banked left into the room and was greeted by two rows of beds, split either side. Some of them had a curtain looped around the rail, patients preferring their privacy that Christmas day to reflect. Most were propped up in the bed watching TV on opposite ends of the room. Old faces stirred when she approached, hope lighting their eyes, quickly extinguished as she walked past. When she had reached the final bed in the far-right corner, the patient was lying unmoved, with eyes closed. She walked up to the side of the bed and looked down.
Raising Lazarus Page 15
