Lazarus Island

by Lee Moan

  It was Emma Foster. They were the same age and attended the island’s tiny school together. Ben had been in love with her forever.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” he replied, trying to hide the trembling in his fingers.

  “What you doing?” she asked. She was wearing a summer dress with yellow flowers and she looked so beautiful to him, more beautiful than ever before. Her dark eyes seemed huge in the moonlight.

  “Drawing,” he said.

  “Wow,” she said. “Cool. You always were good at drawing.”

  He laughed. It was his attempt at shrugging off one of the most amazing compliments he’d ever had in his life. This girl was like a drug to him. Whenever he was around her or near her or even in the same classroom, he felt sick with excitement and anxiety – and yet, after the feeling had passed, he wanted to experience it again, couldn’t wait for the moment. He didn’t realise it at the time but this girl gave his life meaning.

  The sound of gentle waves slapping against the jetty filled the silence. Emma swayed to-and-fro, holding the sides of her dress as she did so. His heart soared.

  “Who are you here with?” he asked, surprised at his newfound ability to initiate conversation.

  “Mum and Dad,” she said. “They’re over there. Dad’s drunk, and Mum’s cross with him. Mum’s always cross with him these days.”

  Ben laughed again, but he was fascinated by the dynamic of her family. Her mum angry with her dad. He had only experienced the opposite side of that equation.

  “Emma!”

  They both looked across the beach. Emma’s mother stood on the path leading up to the village, her husband slumped against one of the beach huts.

  “Emma, we’re going, darling!”

  Emma looked disappointed. She made a big sigh and waved at her mum to let her know she was coming.

  “I guess I’ll see you at school,” she said, backing away across the sand.

  Something snapped inside him in that moment.

  No, he didn’t want to just see her at school. He wanted more. He wanted to be around her all the time. Every second of every day . . .

  But she was walking away across the beach, her bare feet – her beautiful dainty bare feet – kicking up little flurries of sand as she went.

  He stood up, his heart pounding in his ears.

  “Emma?”

  She stopped.

  “Emma would you . . . would you like to be my – my friend?”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Your friend? Benjamin, I’m already your friend, aren’t I?”

  “No,” he said. “I mean, would you like to be my boyfriend?”

  She laughed out loud, a chuckle that created a tingle deep down in his soul. “Your boyfriend?”

  “Oh God, I meant girlfriend. I-I . . .”

  She rushed forward, skipping over the sand towards him. Then she stopped, her face inches from his, and planted a kiss on his lips. “I know what you meant,” she said. She smiled before dancing away.

  He felt delirious, as though he might pass out at any second. In just a few short moments his entire world had changed. Everything seemed brighter, not so hopeless anymore. He watched her go, not caring that she didn’t look back. Girls did that sort of thing, didn’t they? But then his bright happy feeling turned sour when he met his mother’s gaze.

  She was still in the arms of the fisherman, but she was looking directly at Ben. Her expression had been strange, filled with malice. Her pupils seemed unnaturally large, like an animal. She made him feel uncomfortable and he looked away. Wanting to hold onto the glorious feeling Emma had left him with, he turned and headed home across the beach.

  Despite his delirium, Ben fell into bed and was quickly asleep. He dreamed of Emma, her face, the taste of her lips. Then his mother’s voice jolted him from his pleasant slumber.

  “Benjamin?”

  He sat up, rubbing at his eyes. “Mum?”

  She stood at the end of his bed, a narrow sliver of darkness amongst the greater shadows.

  “I’m sorry, Benjamin.”

  “Mum, what–”

  Before he could finish, she grabbed his ankles, grabbed them roughly, her nails digging into his flesh. Then she was pulling him off the bed. He tried to grab for her but it was impossible.

  “Mum! What are you doing?”

  “Shut up, Benjamin!”

  His upper body dropped off the end of the bed, his head striking the bare boards. He screamed, pleading for her to stop, but it was as if she was possessed. She refused to even look at him as she dragged him out of his room and across the lounge. He reached for something, anything, to stop his journey, catching a leg of the coffee table, but he only succeeded in pulling the entire thing with him. Out through the lounge door they went, into the kitchen, the coffee table jamming in the doorway. She continued to drag him across the kitchen tiles towards the pantry.

  Oh God, the pantry.

  Horrible intuition told him exactly what she was going to do, and his heart burned with fear. At the end of the pantry was the trapdoor which led down to the cellar.

  The cellar . . . where his father had often locked her away for days on end. He had a sudden clear image of sitting at the breakfast table with his father, his mother’s muffled cries rising up from the cellar below. ‘Don’t worry, son,’ his father had said. ‘Everyone has to learn a lesson now and again. Even your mother.’

  She reached the cellar door and he saw then that it was already open. Ready for him.

  “Mum, please,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “Please, please, I’m sorry. Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry.”

  She looked down at him then, her usually kind eyes now cold and stretched wide open, piercing into his soul. “Whatever I’ve done?” she said, mimicking him. “You don’t even realise, do you? You’re exactly like your father. A little man-whore, that’s what you are. A dirty, filthy little man-whore!”

  She moved closer to the edge of the cellar. Her fingernails had drawn blood where they gripped his ankles.

  “Mum! Don’t put me down there, Mum. I’m begging you!”

  “Shut up!” she screamed at him, spittle flying from her lips. “Just shut up!”

  With one huge effort, she threw him into the open cellar. The drop was perhaps ten feet. He hit the wooden stairs badly, feeling his collar bone crack and an explosion of pain in his right wrist. He landed face down in the earthy floor, mashing his lips. He rolled onto his back and let out a howl filled with pain and horror.

  His mother stood in the square of light above him, one hand on the top of the trapdoor.

  “I’m sorry, Benjamin,” she said, her voice calm now. “One day you’ll realise I did this because I love you. I won’t let you turn out like him. I love you too much.”

  “Mum?” he sobbed. “Mum, I promise I won’t . . .”

  She lowered the trapdoor, her face devoid of emotion.

  “MUM!” he screamed. “MUM! NOOOOOOO!”

  50

  “You did that to me,” Garrett told his mother. “To your own son.”

  “Oh, Benjamin,” Cynthia said, her eyes filled with moisture. “That night on the beach, I saw you with that girl, and . . . I saw so much of your father in you, and I was afraid. I didn’t want you turning out like him.”

  “You didn’t want me turning out like Dad?” he said, his hoarse voice rising to a frightening level. “You tortured me, Mother. You left me down in that hole for weeks, sitting in my own piss and shit, bleeding and passing out from the pain of my broken bones, and I cried out for you over and over but you never came. That night, Mother, what you did to me, that set me down this road. I did those things to those girls because of that night. Because of you! You turned me into a monster, Mother. You.”

  “Oh, Benjamin, I was ill. Don’t you realise that?”

  Lightning flickered across his brow. “You knew what you were doing.”

  Cynthia Garrett’s expression hardened, the light in her eyes dimming t
o a dark fury. “Blame? Is that what you came here for, Benjamin? To blame me for what you did?”

  He said nothing.

  “That makes me very sad, Benjamin. Very sad.” She looked around for a moment and then produced a small red velvet box which had been resting by her pillow. “I kept this for you, Benjamin,” she said. “For when you came to see me. It was going to be my final gift to you.”

  She opened it, and inside was a gleaming silver blade, about three inches long. “Your father’s hunting knife,” she said, lifting it out carefully with her arthritic fingers. “It’s for you.”

  The hurt which had lined her features vanished in a heartbeat, and blind fury rushed to the surface. She held the knife high above her head and lashed out at her son.

  “You are not my son!” she shrieked. “You are not my son! He is a good boy!”

  The blade punctured the dead skin of his cheek and tore downward, ripping open a flap of white flesh which came away from the jaw. His teeth were exposed in the dim light. Ben Garrett barely flinched. He stared at his mother, then reached up and tore the hanging lump of flesh away from his face, letting it fall to the floor. His big hand closed around hers, crushing it until the knife dropped harmlessly to the floor. Her eyes filled with horror. In that moment she understood as much as she could understand anything that this was not really her son, that this was an aberration from beyond the grave.

  “What are you going to do now? Kill me?” she shrieked, panic in her voice. “I’m going to die soon anyway. What use is that?”

  “I know that,” he said, fetid air escaping through his open cheek. “But I want you to die knowing one thing.”

  “What?” she said, her eyes frantically searching the eyes of the monster bearing down on her.

  “I was coming here to make my peace with you, to ask your forgiveness for what I did, for the shame I brought on our family, and to forgive you, too. But not now. I want you to know, Mother, that I hate you. I am your son. I am your boy and I hate you with everything that is in me. Do you understand that? I hate you more than you could ever know.”

  Cynthia’s face crumpled, her eyes growing wet with fresh tears.

  He leaned close to her, forcing her back onto the bed. She must have sensed the stench of death now, because she grimaced and tried to turn her face away. As he leaned over her, a pinkish fluid leaked from the exposed brain and ran down his cheek. The fluid dropped onto her cheek, causing her to whimper. Eventually she found the courage to open her eyes and look into his. He placed his hand around her scrawny, wrinkled throat and began to squeeze. Cynthia Garrett’s eyes bulged and she began to choke.

  “Stop!” Rachel clambered to her feet. “Stop!” she said again, but Garrett seemed not to hear her.

  “Goodbye, Mother,” he said. “I hope you rot in hell.”

  Cynthia Garrett spluttered as the grip tightened, tightened. Rachel rushed over to try and pull him away, but his free hand came up and shoved her back across the room. She clattered into the dresser.

  “Please, stop!” she screamed.

  But it was too late.

  He released his hand and a long, painful gargle escaped from the old woman’s throat. Her hand dropped limply at the side of the bed. Her eyes remained open and staring.

  Then silence. Rachel suddenly remembered the situation she was in. The way to the hall was free now; she should make a run for it, take her chances out in the storm. She didn’t know what this undead monster was going to do next. He had just murdered his own mother, had possibly killed poor Cameron who still lay slumped in the hallway. Would he kill her, too?

  She was just getting ready to run when the man’s arm shot out, blocking the doorway. Rachel took a double step back, fear burning in her chest.

  “You,” he said, looking at her for the first time. “There is a man on this island, a man with one eye. Who is he?”

  “What? I don’t know—”

  Garrett stood up suddenly and slammed his fist against the wall, spraying plaster against the side of her face. She raised her hands protectively.

  “Don’t lie to me. You would know a man with one eye.”

  Despite the panic choking her mind, she remembered the man who had blocked the doorway of the village hall at the meeting. The man who had stared at her with his one good eye. Yes, Ashworth’s gardener and handyman.

  Oh God, what was his name?

  “Tell me!” Garrett growled.

  “I-I think his name is Lawkins.”

  “Lawkins? Where is this Lawkins?”

  “He works at the . . .” She trailed off, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt that she was betraying this man, even though she hardly knew him.

  “Where?” Garrett demanded, pulling his fist back, ready to strike again. Rachel wasn’t sure he would punch the wall this time.

  “The Ashworth estate. He works at the Ashworth estate.”

  “Take me there.”

  “What?” she said. “But I can’t. We can’t. I have no car, and the storm is—”

  He lunged forward, slamming his fist into the wall. She had only a split second to move her head before he struck. More plaster rained down on her. Slowly, she straightened up and faced him. His face was inches from her own and she gagged on the smell of decaying flesh.

  “Take me there,” he said. “Take me there now.”

  51

  This is insane.

  The words kept repeating in Sam’s head as he ran through the lashing rain and wind. Everything was insane. Not only was he out in the worst storm in Hebridean history, but he was chasing a ghost. A ghost which looked very much like his own daughter.

  Had he imagined it? No.

  Was this the effects of drink? He didn't think so.

  Was this the kind of post-traumatic stress people talked about?

  “Sam! Sam, wait!”

  He paused on the brow of the hill and looked back. Father McNamara struggled up the embankment, his old legs slipping on the wet earth.

  Damn it. He wished the old priest had stayed behind. It was bad enough that he was out here risking his life; he really didn't want to be responsible for causing McNamara's untimely demise.

  McNamara reached him, breathless and bedraggled. “Son, you do realise this is completely suicidal?”

  “Yes,” Sam said.

  “Good, as long as we're clear on that.”

  Sam scanned the shallow valley below them, hands raised against the insistent rain, but the entire area was covered in darkness.

  “Did you see where she went?” McNamara asked.

  Sam shook his head.

  “Where was she headed?”

  “Down towards the village, I think,” Sam said.

  Lightning flashed briefly, illuminating the residential area below: the small cluster of houses and shops nearby. There, on the edge of the boundary surrounding the first row of houses, was the tiny figure.

  “There she is!” McNamara said.

  “I know,” Sam said, but something gripped his heart.

  McNamara started down the hill, pausing when Sam remained behind.

  “Sam?” he said. “Sam, what is it?”

  The words came with difficulty. “My house,” he said. “I think she's heading for my house.”

  52

  Rachel felt as though the wet and the cold had somehow seeped through her skin and into her bones. Her sweatshirt and jeans were so heavy with rain that part of her wanted to take them off, to help her walk through this grim night.

  The figure of Ben Garrett lumbered along behind her in silence, occasionally shoving her forcefully between the shoulder blades. She squinted through the slicing rain and saw the gates of the Ashworth House up ahead.

  What was she going to do once they got to the house? What was the monster behind her going to do? Would he kill her once she’d served her purpose? And what did he want with Ashworth’s handyman, anyway?

  “What is your name?” Garrett said.

  “What does it matter?” she
shot back. “You’re going to kill me anyway, aren’t you?”

  There was a long silence before Garrett answered. “I asked your name,” he repeated.

  “Rachel.”

  “Rachel,” he repeated, as if tasting the name on his decaying tongue. “I don’t know why I’ve been brought back. I don’t understand this time I've been given any more than you do. All I know, all I feel, is that there are things which need to be put right.”

  “Like murdering your own mother?” she said before she could stop herself.

  “Do you believe in hell, Rachel?

  She didn’t answer. At that moment, she felt like she was living it.

  “I did,” Garrett said. “I found God in prison, and I realised, because of the things I had done, that I already had one foot in hell. I decided to turn my life around, to try and find redemption here on earth, to try and save my eternal soul. But I had a long way to go. Father Joseph always said the road to redemption is a long and difficult one. Part of that path was coming back to the island to forgive my mother. But someone decided to take that chance from me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What happened on the ferry was no accident. You must know that. Someone set out to kill me . . . and they succeeded.”

  Rachel felt her head spinning. This was all too much . . .

  “My chance at redemption is gone,” Garrett said. “It ended when my life ended out there on the ocean. Someone on this island decided I was a monster and that I didn’t deserve to live, that I didn’t deserve redemption.” He came to a stop on the road. Rachel glanced back and watched Garrett raise his face to the sky, letting the rain splash over his face and into his mouth. Rachel could see the rainwater running from the gaping hole in his cheek. “They wanted a monster,” he said after a while. “Then so be it.”

  “It might not be too late for you,” Rachel said. “Maybe that’s why . . . why you’ve come back.”