Raising Lazarus

by Aidan J. Reid

  “Why did you get into it?”

  “It’s got its perks.”

  “Which are?”

  “The money for one. The people for two.”

  “You mean the clients?”

  “I suppose. Some of them.”

  “Are you in it by choice or is it something you have to do to make ends meet?”

  “Nice turn of phrase. You could say I make ends meet to make ends meet.”

  “Can you tell me what it’s like on a typical day on the street?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too boring.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “Sure, it is. It’s just sex. You can use your imagination. I’m sure you can Molly. I’m sure there’s a real freak hidden in there somewhere.”

  The tape recorder clicked off.

  “Listen, I can’t get into a full-blown dialogue with you.”

  “I thought this was an interview? So, interview me.”

  “It is,” she said, “but you’re the one being interviewed. I can’t do the back and forth. Can you tell me how you came to be here, how you started, why you still do it? What you get out of it? Just tell me your backstory.”

  Her hand was hovering over the tape recorder on the table, finger resting on the record button again. He smiled at her, a wistful sad expression on his face.

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Why not?”

  Lazarus turned his head to one side and saw a family gathered at a table nearby, little kids jumping up and down on their prisoner father, hugging his knees tight and refusing to let him go.

  Molly watched them too, the little shrieks from the pigtailed daughter climbing her father’s back; she could already imagine how painful their imminent departure would be. She watched as Lazarus’ head turned back to her and the breath froze in her chest.

  “What is it?” he said, noticing her expression, before the blood trickled onto his lip.

  A tongue darted out to catch it and she watched the eyes flutter into the back of his skull. Without warning, the body in front of her began rocking back and forth, gasping for air, panicked hands clawing at his throat. Those nearest turned around and stared. The panic escalated quickly as he began banging on the table, the children silenced as everyone looked at the source of the confusion, until the guard ran over and unhooked a walkie talkie at his waist. He called for help.

  “Can’t. Breathe.”

  FIVE

  A single spotlight shone on the altar from above, focusing its point on the round stone surface in the centre. The illuminated beam with its sharp edges held the table firmly in its cylinder of light but still provided enough visibility to guide their path along the outer aisles. The priest was leading with the younger man a short step behind, hands folded in front and head lowered with a solemn respect as they walked slowly along the inner walls.

  “These are the Stations of the Cross,” the priest said. “Very important in our religion. They show the struggle of Our Lord leading up to the crucifixion. Look.”

  The student followed the pointed finger of the priest and stared at the painting, reading the printed lettering below before viewing the image.

  “Jesus falls the first time.”

  The image showed a bare-chested man wearing a white tunic draped around his waist. He had fallen onto his hands and a heavy wooden beam had spilled off his back and hit the ground. A Roman guard was the only detailed figure from a blurry multitude of people behind and a whip dangled from his free hand. His countenance was severe and contrasted with that of the fallen man, who had trickles of blood running down his face from a crown of thorns. An anguish touched his face, straining under the effort.

  The pictures were sombre and depressing, not least because they were bathed in semi darkness. The blushing red of the guard’s cape, sharp point of the whip and the blood on the stricken face, marked the image in the gloom.

  The priest took a few more steps forward, using the pews on the right for assistance. He stopped beneath another portrait and pointed.

  “That man is called Simon of Cyrene. He saw the inhumanity and ugliness of what was happening. He was a noble man, kind hearted, and decided to stand up against the persecution and helped Our Lord with his burden.”

  The priest looked into the man’s eyes and smiled. It unnerved the younger man, but he returned it and nodded, before they both looked back at the painting. The younger man noticed that they settled longer on this station than the previous few. The effort seemed to tire the priest and he rested his bones on a pew at the side, shifting along to clear space for the other man to follow.

  “That’s better,” he said and let out a long sigh that rattled in his chest. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to convert you.”

  They both laughed and looked up at the altar, tracing the light source to the roof. It was a modest building, smaller than many of the churches that the priest had served in his long tenure. Solid wooden beams as thick as tree trunks provided the structural support, connecting wall to wall, and propping up the ceiling from which the heavy spotlight was affixed. The walls were painted white, turning cream in the darkened light. A wooden cross, the size of a child, dangled over the altar, held up by two invisible strings on either side. Suspended in mid-air, it was held by the beam like an alien ship pondering whether to make an abduction.

  The floor near the altar was carpeted green and spilled down toward them on two steps to a sudden edge where the wooden floor took over. The younger man’s eyes traced the walls, looked around and saw the shadows lean across the pews like unsteady drunks. The wood of the seats creaked with his movements as he arched around and counted the fourteen framed portraits, seven to each wall which charted the Via Doloroso or Way of Sorrows as the priest had called it.

  “You should see the churches in Rome and Florence. Now they will take your breath away. Ventilation too.” The priest smiled. “But we make do with what we can here.”

  “I think it’s beautiful. There’s something very comforting here. Like a living room.”

  The priest laughed and scratched the back of his hand. He took a hymn book from the little shelf in the seat in front and used it to fan his face.

  “It’s been called a House of God before! I’m not sure about a living room, but I get your point. It’s not often we have people from other faiths step foot inside, let alone express any interest in what we do.”

  “What makes you think I’m of a different faith?”

  “I’ve been around seven decades, and even though only a fraction of that has been here, I know a non-Christian when I see one. Plus, you’ve got a lighter shade. Forgive me if that’s not politically correct. You’re not from Tangier, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Not from Morocco at all?”

  “No.”

  “How did you get here?”

  The young man squirmed in his seat, eyes flicking back to the portraits that lined the wall nearest. The priest nodded and rubbed his hands together, returning the hymn book to its home, the sleeve marked with wet fingertips.

  “It’s OK,” the priest said. “I mean what I said last week. There’s no rush. What’s important is that you’re safe now, OK?”

  When the man’s face had turned back, the priest could see there was a sheen of tears in his eyes that caught the light and the smile wavered at the corners. The man tried to match the priest’s kind look but found the softness and smile which touched his eyes too much for his emotion to support. He mouthed a thank you.

  “How’s your head?”

  Raising a hand to his temple, the man grazed the site of the injury lightly under his fingers. He felt the forehead, cold and clammy which seemed to emphasise the raised scab, its edges teasing to be plucked like a plectrum under his thin fingers.

  “Much better. I don’t know what I would have done without you, Father.”

  “Anyone would have done the same. I’m j
ust glad you showed up when you did.”

  The priest began to wring his hands, breath settling back to normality again. Despite this, he seemed to deliberate for a moment and, bending over at the waist, he stared down at the padded kneel rest between his shoes.

  “I… I’ve seen where you go after.”

  No response from the other man and they continued to sit in silence. The priest nodded and continued.

  “You can’t sleep on the streets. It’s not humane.”

  “You saw that?”

  “I saw enough. Forgive me, but I’ve had Marrouf check up on you this past week. I wanted to make sure you were OK.”

  “I am OK.”

  “You might think you are but... what kind of priest would I be? What kind of human being would I be if I turned a blind eye to someone living on the street?”

  “It is what it is. It’s not ideal, but I get by.”

  The priest continued to listen. Their spoken words seemed swallowed up by the large room, more fit for a congregation than two men in silent conversation. He leaned back and immediately regretted it, a sharp pain in his lower back provoking a spasm which he secretly struggled with, teeth clenched until the paralysing movement slinked away back into the shadows to wait for the next opportune moment.

  “You OK?”

  “Fine,” the priest answered before composure settled on his face again. “Listen, I wanted to offer you something.”

  “Offer me something? But you’ve done so much already. I should be-”

  “Let me finish.”

  The other man turned and saw the fresh anguish on the priest’s face. His eyes were dull and grey, and he rubbed the loose skin on cheeks that hung from bones like wet clothes on a washing line.

  “I’m getting on a bit now,” he said and looking into the man’s eyes found an attentive listener. “A man of my age especially in a parish like this, finds it difficult sometimes. To do the little things. Especially in a foreign country.”

  The priest rubbed his hands together and the sound was like autumn leaves scraping across the pavement.

  “I need help. Just to manage. I don’t want to be a burden. I just need some help from time to time. A Simon of Cyrene that can help me shoulder the burden in my final years. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  “I’m happy to help. Just tell me-”

  “There’s more,” the priest said.

  “Go on.”

  “I can’t pay you. But I can give you a roof and two meals a day, if you work with me.”

  “Father, I’ve only known you a week.”

  “I know,” he said. “But there’s a reason God brought you here, my son. You’ll be helping an old man and I’ll be giving you a home and shelter for as long as you can put up with my preaching!”

  The priest laughed and it made the younger man laugh too, the sound echoing off the walls.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Yes, would be a good start.”

  The man looked at the priest and, returning his smile, looked down at the hand between them. He gripped the hand lightly and shook, until the priest suddenly pulled him closer into a hug. The laughing began with the priest slapping him gently on the back, fresh tears forming on his eyes.

  SIX

  The cold surface of the stethoscope on his chest made him flinch, pulling away from the ice touch and muttering a curse. The doctor tried again and this time the response was more positive, the patient better prepared. The doctor stared into the distance, measuring the heartbeats, gentle nods of his head until satisfied. He removed it from the chest and took out the earbuds and placed them in a bundle on a trolley beside the bed.

  “Absolutely fine,” he said, turning to the two people in the corner who were standing by the door. “67 BPM. Perfectly fine for a lad his age.”

  “Told you,” Lazarus said and started buttoning up his shirt.

  “There’s some bruising around the ribs. Some swelling which-”

  “I do some White-Collar Boxing in my spare time.”

  The patient’s statement seemed to take them all by surprise, not least the governor whose wide eyes hovered above a bemused smile.

  “Can’t be careful enough in my line of work.”

  “Lazarus, you can’t be saying…”

  “I’m only messing with you. Christ.”

  He was lying on the raised bed which was reclined at the head to prop his frame up. White sheets were tucked beneath him, barely used but muddied at the foot with shoe prints which the doctor dusted off before rising.

  “Any underlying issues that we should be worried about, Mitch?” Governor Walker asked, stepping out of the shadowed corner and into the brightness of the room.

  “You mean physical?” the doctor replied.

  There was a derisory snort from the bed. Lazarus, fully buttoned up, swung a leg off the bed and dropped it in a pendulum swing. He was laying back on his elbow, enjoying the sudden comfort and springiness beneath.

  “Yes,” Roy said in a lower voice.

  He had drawn closer to the doctor who was leaning against a table counter, observing the scene.

  “My advice would be to get him to a hospital,” the doctor said in a hushed tone. He raised his hand to stop the governor’s protestation. “But I know that’s not realistic unless it’s an emergency.”

  “My hands are tied. He’s good to go today,” Roy said. “But do you think… is he fit and well enough to be released?”

  The doctor nodded. Roy scrutinised his face and found no trace of indecision. Resident doctor of Lockworth prison for fifteen years, Mitch Brundle was now in his late forties. A chalk dry complexion didn’t inspire confidence in the patients he treated. Eczema found its way on elbows and fingers and had started to spread to his hairline. He could feel it crust behind the ear and had developed a twitch for picking pieces from his scalp without realising. His was a Lego haircut, seemingly carved into his head with scalpel precision. Lined edges and finely swept black fringe were at odds to the haphazard spread of dry rot growth which took residence there.

  Brundle picked behind his ear now, surprised to find a raised edge and began easing the skin away carefully.

  “Well, we’re not a hospital,” Roy said, looking down at the ground. “We can only do what we can to get them ready. Mitch?”

  Brundle had just pulled a tab of skin which he had underestimated in his enthusiasm. It cut a little too deep and it contorted his face into a painful expression which made him shift off the counter as he rubbed his hands dry.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “Sure could do with some action around here though.”

  “The sisters weren’t enough for you?”

  They both laughed and the doctor shook his head. Two feuding women had been held in the prison a year earlier. Initially held in custody overnight, the drunken sisters who were attending a hen party had come to blows at some stage during the night and, for their own protection, were divided and placed in separate cells. The alcohol which had fuelled their aggressive behaviour had receded the next morning, but that didn’t stop their foul-mouthed tirade and provocation of the police officers who they accused of maltreatment. What would have been one night, had become two weeks for the pair in custody. Dr. Brundle had been called into action on several occasions when the women, who despite their isolation, seemed to have a telepathic pact and had soon displayed signs of physical abuse, scratches and neck marks which the prisoners had insisted was due to rough treatment.

  The women had intended to bring a case against Lockworth Prison, suing under Articles 135(a) and 187(b) of the British Prison Regulations 2007 – Unlawful Detainment of a Prisoner; and Illegal Physical and/or Mental Abuse of a Prisoner. Brundle had to weigh in with his expert verdict and could clearly see that many of the scratches were in fact self-inflicted; deeper marks on the left side suggesting the stronger right arm did the damage. The bite marks had matched the women’s dental records and, despite their testimony, the court had q
uickly dismissed their case. After they had been sentenced to a further month in a different penitentiary, the marks mysteriously ceased as the sisters duly accepted their penance, although their legend had grown in the halls of Lockworth nevertheless.

  Roy looked over his shoulder, first to his granddaughter who was standing where he had been and then to Lazarus who she was staring at. He walked over to the bed and waited until the prisoner looked up at him.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ll be feeling a lot better when I get out.”

  “I mean,” Roy said, sitting down on the soft bed, “that… fit that you just had. Is that normal? Has it ever happened you before?”

  Lazarus stopped swinging his leg and sat up straight against the bedframe. He pondered for a moment before shaking his head.

  “Listen. The last thing I want to do is send you out again if you’re not feeling well enough. We can keep you in. Give you the time you need.”

  Lazarus averted his eyes from the man’s face and softly spoken words before they found the woman in the corner staring at him, like an animal in the shadows.

  “No,” he said, shaking off the suggestion, more urgency in his voice. “I said I’d help with her project which I did. A deal’s a deal. You said I’d get out tonight.”

  He rose from the bed and moved to the door. Molly Walker stepped away from it and gave him a wide berth, sliding along the wall towards the doctor who was leaning on the counter top again, scribbling into a clipboard.

  Roy swivelled around on the bed and looked from Lazarus to his granddaughter.

  “Did you get what you needed today, Molly?”

  The woman glanced from Lazarus back to Roy and cleared her throat.

  “Yeah. I got enough.”

  “See?” Lazarus said and smiled. “You gave me your word Roy.”

  “OK. OK.” The man sighed and winced as he rose off the edge of the bed. “Let’s go get your things.”

  SEVEN

  The old woman struggled with the heavy door, using the last vestiges of her waning strength to lever it open. Her arm slithered through first, but stopped at her chest, struggling to find the spring that could propel it from her trapped body. She felt her arm pinned, its weight pressing down hard. Through the door opening, she could see out into the street. Busy pedestrians walked; honking cars bunched up in traffic; no one saw her continued distress to free herself. Her breathing was becoming more difficult and her beady eyes looked through the opening, trying to catch the eye of a passer-by. The motorbikes and cars continued, oblivious to the weight that pressed on her diaphragm.