Lazarus Island

by Lee Moan

  But in the stillness another voice spoke up, the same voice that had whispered in his ear on the day of the ferry disaster. He saw himself dangling uselessly from the edge of the ferry, clinging onto that rope—clinging onto his own wretched life—before the world, before fate, before whatever forces really controlled the universe decided his fate, and that of his daughter, for him. He remembered that feeling of utter powerlessness in the face of impossible odds, impossible choices being demanded of him. He was the only one who could have saved her, but he couldn’t swim. Why did Becky have to die?

  Why did Becky have to die?

  Now, with flames above him and roiling waves and jagged rocks below, Sam felt that same powerlessness. It was almost as if the choices were being made for him.

  Should he let go now, plummet down into the dark waters and pray to whoever might listen that he didn’t dash his brains out on the rocks for a start, and then pray that somehow Rachel was not dead? Should he let go? Should he?

  He shut his eyes, only for a second, listening for that voice, listening for direction.

  Yes, it said. Jump.

  He opened his eyes, and jumped.

  He expected his life to flash before his eyes as so many people had testified to in human history. He expected the fall to be slow, like in a film in which the falling victim gracefully paws the air. But none of that happened. The fall was quick, graceless, and terrifying.

  When he hit the water, there was a period of oblivion which could have been seconds or minutes to him. When he came out of it, when his eyes opened, he found that he was spinning slowly downwards in the water. His lungs were filled with air, although the impact had knocked some out of him. As he blinked in the underwater world he saw shapes being partially illuminated by the intermittent lightning up above. Wreckage from the house – bricks, mortar, wooden planks, joists – floated in the water around him, slowly tumbling down towards the sea bed.

  Then he saw the seabed itself and a large section of the landing which had come to rest there. He saw a tiny figure struggling beneath it, saw the fan of blonde hair which even in this unearthly alternate world he knew instantly belonged to Rachel. He saw movement besides the flow of her hair, and instantly kicked downwards in that direction.

  Rachel was stuck fast. The heavy section of landing was bigger than a car and on quick examination he saw that her lower left leg was pinned beneath one of the heavy joists. The area was surrounded by a small cloud of red mist. He scrambled over the wooden structure trying to find a hand hold, knowing his breath was not going to last forever, trying not to panic, trying to hold onto his nerve. But then Rachel was touching him, punching his arm, and when he looked at her, when he saw how hopelessly she was pinned, his heart broke. Because he saw it in her eyes, too. His breath would run out long before he was able free her. She knew this and must have made a decision. She pointed past Sam’s shoulder, towards the surface.

  Go, she was telling him. Save yourself.

  And she was right. He should. No point them both dying.

  But he couldn't. He had lost his daughter that way. He couldn't do it again.

  Sam looked back, shook his head vigorously, then continued to heave at the wood with all his might. Rachel hit him again, and he saw the stricken look on her face, and although she couldn’t talk he knew what she was trying to say, that she was insisting the way she always did when he was being pig-headed over something. He didn’t want to listen to her because he knew that her suggestion meant her certain death, and that part of him which had realised minutes earlier just how much he needed her—desperately needed her—to complete his stupid, aimless existence, wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her. Not yet.

  He wanted to stay with her, to be with her as the strength in her body gave out and the water rushed into her lungs, wanted to hold her head as her life came to an end, but he didn’t have the luxury of time. His own lungs were beginning to burn. He estimated he had maybe thirty seconds before he lost the fight and gulped water into his lungs.

  Thirty seconds to save a life.

  Make a choice.

  Sam reached down and grabbed the section of landing holding Rachel in place and heaved with all his might. He felt it give, the heavy section beginning to rise in the water. Rachel struggled to wriggle out of the new gap. Sam gave it some more, but the exertion forced the last of the air from his lungs.

  A long stream of bubbles flew from his mouth. His head felt light, his body numb.

  He had no breath left and when he looked down he saw that Rachel hadn't managed to completely escape her trap. She had slipped her body through the gap but her bleeding leg was still caught.

  He had failed.

  In that frozen moment, his mind filled with rage at the universe, at whatever forces had placed him in this nightmare of impossible choices. It couldn’t be God, any god. Gods could not be this cruel, surely. His lungs were aching now, burning from an internal pressure, the desire to breathe in. He looked up, wondering if he could still make it to the surface . . . But it was such a long way off. So far . . .

  His vision blurred, his head became impossibly light as if it had become intangible on his shoulders. Then he opened his mouth and inhaled and the water invaded his body. He jerked violently against the terrible, alien feeling, and his mind spiked with terror at the certainty of his own death.

  He had only a few more seconds of consciousness before everything faded, his vision dwindling to a perfect black.

  78

  Garrett stood on the bank which sloped down to the water and watched as another section of the Ashworths’ house hit the water with a deafening crash. The churning waves were now thick with wreckage, carnage he had caused with his own bare hands. And the axe, of course.

  He had seen human figures tumbling down through the air when the first section of the house broke away and he had not seen anyone regain the surface. He hoped Ashworth was one of them.

  But what if it was his wife and daughter? a voice offered.

  “What do I care?” he said to himself.

  Really? An innocent woman? An innocent child?

  “Ashworth brought them into this when he ordered my execution. That’s just the price he has to pay.” He paused, a bitter smile on his lips. “And if they didn’t die in the house, I’ll find them and do the job myself.”

  Then the real Benjamin Garrett is truly dead, the voice replied.

  Garrett froze for a moment, trying to understand the pain that voice caused in his heart.

  79

  In the last few moments, before it all turned to a grey haze, Rachel Thorne tried to remember the best of everything. She felt a sadness that threatened to overwhelm her, sadness at having to die alone this way, at having to watch her husband die in front of her, and at not even being able to tell him she loved him or that she was sorry. That surprised her. Until that moment she never believed she had anything to feel sorry about. Sam had strayed, Sam had broken the trust between them, Sam had lied and withheld things that made the breach of trust even bigger, worse even than the transgression itself.

  So what did she feel sorry for?

  She was sorry that she had not forgiven him. Yes, she had been angry, angry enough to want to leave him. But she had never thought for one second that she would be facing death so soon afterward. She did not want to die with Sam thinking he was unforgiven. She had no illusions that beyond this difficult, painful existence lay the heaven she had always imagined, a place of peace and light for those lucky enough to get there. What she couldn’t bear was that her lack of forgiveness would have been the last thing on Sam’s mind, that he went to his death believing that she hated him. Because she didn’t. She loved him, and that fact had been made crystal clear in these last few minutes of madness and chaos and destruction. She loved Sam Thorne. She loved his mind and his soul. He was insecure, sometimes petulant, but often kind and generous and thoughtful. He was a good man, and a brilliant man. He just wasn’t perfect. Nobody was.

 
Her breath was almost exhausted now, and she looked up to the surface far above, wondering—hoping, praying—that Ashworth’s wife and daughter had managed to get out of the house before it collapsed completely. Little Heidi, Becky’s friend. Yes, even if her actions saved her, that was enough. No one should have to lose a child . . .

  In that instant, as her thoughts converged on Becky—beautiful Becky—who had never known the world in any way she would have been able to fully comprehend, she thought she saw something, another dark shape moving through the water above her: small, frail, straggly. She blinked in the gloomy water, squinting into the middle-distance.

  I must be dead, she told herself. I must have died already. Maybe a few seconds ago, maybe as much as a minute.

  Because descending through the water, surrounded by a halo of light from above—maybe lightning, maybe not—was a little girl, maybe six years old, blonde and beautiful, floating down towards her.

  They sent Becky. An angel has come to collect me, and it’s my Becky. Oh, thank you, God. Thank you.

  80

  That woman had left her alone in the car.

  That selfish woman had left her alone in the car!

  The last words Daddy had said to her were ‘Look after Becky’, and she couldn’t even do that. But what did she expect? The woman didn’t care about her. She only cared about Daddy and being with Daddy and taking Daddy away from Mummy.

  So after the woman had left her alone, she had sat in the back seat of the car and waited, watching the big old dark house as the smoke began to rise from the basement. She watched as the house began to collapse, falling away out of sight to the sea below.

  Daddy had been in the house.

  Mummy, too.

  So she had climbed out of the car and headed down the overgrown path at the side of the house to the water’s edge. She had been shocked at the sight of the Ashworths’ house floating on the waves, the debris filling the entire bay. And there she had found the old priest standing in the water up to his knees with an oxygen canister in his hand. Why he was standing there and not doing anything, she didn’t know. Maybe he was trying to find the courage to go into the water. Or maybe he thought it was too late for everyone.

  He turned and started at the sight of her, then relaxed.

  “They’re down there,” he said. His eyes were wet. “I saw them fall. I saw them go into the water but . . . they haven’t come up yet. I think . . .”

  She stepped closer then, and touched the oxygen cylinder with the small breathing mouthpiece attached.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked.

  “Found it in the basement.”

  “Let me have it,” she said.

  “But you can’t—” He stopped himself, as if he was ashamed of what he was going to say. “You don’t need to breathe.”

  “I know,” she said, taking the oxygen cylinder and rushing forward into the noisy surf.

  81

  It was like a dream.

  Once her daughter had given her the scuba tank and she began sucking in good sweet oxygen, she felt as though she was inside a dream. These things do not happen in waking life, she told herself. This is a dream and when you wake up you will be back in the cottage with Sam, sitting in his office making that oh-so-sweet sound of clicking word processor keys, and Becky will be out in the garden attending to her geraniums and begonias and pansies and humming to herself like the sweet contented child she had always been.

  A dream.

  Or was it a nightmare?

  She glanced round and found Sam’s lifeless body in the murky water above her, and she watched as he turned slowly, his eyes open, staring at nothing.

  She tore her gaze away and looked down at Becky as she busied herself moving the wreckage from Rachel’s trapped leg, one small piece at a time. She watched her daughter closely, mesmerised and petrified at the same time. The one thing she wanted more than anything in the world was to see her daughter alive and well again. And yet, this figure before her was not breathing. She was not holding her breath. No bubbles of air escaped from her parted lips.

  If this was her daughter, then what did this mean? Had she come back to life?

  Before she could think about it anymore her leg suddenly sprung free. A length of metal pipe scraped down her shin, drawing more blood. She screamed, emitting a stream of bubbles into the water around her head.

  Control yourself, woman. Control yourself and get to the surface.

  She looked at Becky and saw that she was standing on the wreckage and looking at her with a resigned look.

  Of course, Rachel considered. She can’t go up. She was able to get down here, but without air in her lungs she won’t rise.

  She grabbed her daughter’s freezing cold hand and began to push for the surface. As they neared Sam’s body, she made a conscious decision. She was not leaving him down here. She took one deep lungful of oxygen and let go of the cylinder. With her free hand, she grabbed Sam under the right shoulder and raised her face toward the light.

  82

  They broke the surface together, Rachel collapsing onto the sand and gasping for breath. Sam lay on his back beside her. Mercifully, his eyes were now closed. Her entire body felt numb, except for her lungs, which burned with a searing pain.

  Becky emerged from the water on shaky legs and dropped onto her knees.

  Rachel gave herself a moment to regain her breath before turning to Becky.

  “Are you . . . are you okay?”

  But her little girl was just staring down at her father’s body, her face a mask of misery. “Mummy, save him,” she said. “Please save him.”

  She hesitated. How many minutes had he been underwater? How many minutes had it been since he drowned? Was it even possible?

  “Mummy, please,” Becky sobbed.

  “I don’t think I can, honey,” she said. “It’s too late.”

  Becky shook her head. “No, you have to try.” An arc of blue lightning flickered over her face and down her chest. “You have to try!”

  Rachel nodded. “All right, honey. All right.” She crouched over her husband, desperately trying to recall her first aid training. God, when was the last refresher course? A year ago? Two?

  But to her surprise, she went into auto-pilot and started the process, tilting his head back and opening his airway. Two breaths. Then she began the chest compressions. How many chest compressions?

  Oh, Christ, does it matter? Just do it, woman!

  As she pumped his chest, a trickle of saltwater ran from the corner of his mouth. Oh God, his lungs will be full of water.

  She put her mouth over his again, breathing deep into him, trying to force that water out of him somehow.

  “Come on, Sam,” she said. “Come on. You can do this.”

  She started the chest compressions again, remembering the dream-like feeling when she’d been trapped underwater and wondering if this entire night might have a happy ending. Could she really bring her husband back from the dead? This was the night for it, wasn’t it?

  Two more breaths, more chest compressions.

  “Mummy? Is he coming back?”

  She stopped pumping for a moment and looked down at her husband, studying his pale features for a long moment. There was nothing, no sign of life. The trickle of water running from his mouth had turned a shade of pink. Without warning, a bolt of overwhelming sadness filled her, so powerful it threatened to destroy her.

  Sam Thorne. The only man she had ever loved. The man who had brought meaning into her life way back when. Beautiful, brilliant, flawed Sam.

  And he was gone.

  “Mummy?”

  83

  No.

  Daddy can’t be dead. No. No. No.

  Becky folded her arms on her raised knees and bowed her head. This was not how it was supposed to end. Mummy and Daddy had to be together. It was what made the world all right. Her world, anyway.

  She had saved Mummy so she could save Daddy. Mummy was a nurse. She should
be able to save Daddy! Oh God, why couldn’t she save him?

  She sobbed, but no real tears came. They didn’t work anymore, but the ache in her chest was real. It was the same kind of ache she’d felt when she had been drowning in the sea and Daddy didn’t come to save her.

  Why didn’t he come to save her?

  I tried to help you, sweetheart, I really did. But I can’t swim . . .

  She glanced up at him now, at his body. Mummy was hugging him now, crying uncontrollably. He had died trying to save her. In that moment, the love she felt for her daddy was like a raging fire in her chest.

  “Oh, Daddy,” she whispered.

  How long did she have? She knew this strange after-life had to come to an end for her. She didn’t know much in the grand scheme of things, but she knew that people couldn’t exist without breathing, and they couldn’t exist if their heart had stopped beating.

  She lifted her hand in front of her face and watched as a ball of pale blue lightning ran across her palm. It reached her fingertips and stayed there, fizzing and popping, quite beautiful in the moonlight.

  Then an idea exploded in her mind, an idea which filled her with excitement and hope and terror all at the same time.

  She shifted position in the sand and edged forward on her knees. The lightning continued to dance on her fingertips. When she leaned over her father’s body, she felt a stab of fear at what she was about to do, but she brushed it aside.

  “What are you doing, Becky?” her mother said.

  Becky hesitated, looking down at her father’s pale, lifeless features. “I think . . . I think I can save him, Mummy.”

  Her mother must have worked out her plan, her eyes fixing on Becky’s fingers. “No,” she said, urgency in her tone. “Don’t do that, Becky. Do you hear me? Don’t!”