Raising Lazarus

by Aidan J. Reid

  “You OK?” the priest asked, genuine concern on his face.

  The younger man nodded.

  “Are you sure? We can get closer to the fan. I can ask- “

  “I’ll be OK. Honest.”

  The TV hung on a bracket above their head and they felt the furtive glances from it drop to them. The loudspeaker in the opposite corner was high in the wall above the ventilator, each announcement shooting off in the breeze and puncturing the hot air like a stab.

  After thirty minutes, the priest heard his name being called and they walked to the front desk and turned right into a little corridor, carpeted in a mosaic design and the wallpapered walls were a shade more colourful than the waiting room. The door was open when they arrived, and a man stepped forward from behind his desk and greeted the priest warmly.

  “I want to introduce you to my good friend who is also my helper,” the priest said. “I hope you don’t mind him joining me, Doctor?”

  “Not at all. A friend of yours is a friend of mine, Father.”

  When everyone had shaken hands and the two visitors were seated, the doctor closed the door and returned to his seat. He was in his forties, thick black hair, shaped in a small wave at the front which still maintained its gelled structure despite the heat. His face was cleanly shaven, and the brown eyes were kind and round, crow’s feet at their side which creased with his easy smile.

  “So, what can we do for you today? It’s been a while.”

  The office was small and tidy. A bookshelf wedged in the corner was neatly lined with thick tomes, within easy reach of the doctor. On it was a small fan, switched off, the cord slinking back behind the shelf. A window was opened wide behind the doctor and they could hear the sound of honking cars carried in the gentle breeze. Various framed portraits lined the walls, certificates and pictures of a smiling family and a young daughter. The colours were warm and personal, like someone’s living room.

  “Couple of things to be honest. The first is this.”

  The priest lifted his hand and planted it on the table. The doctor pulled spectacles from his front pocket and opened them onto his broad nose. He took the hand gently in his own and turned it over carefully, like he was turning the pages of an ancient book and read the lines slowly, nodding his head. It was weightless and fragile in the doctor’s hand, hanging from the thin wrist. The veins on the front were raised like a leaf, coloured and varied under the thin spotted skin. An ugly bruise stemmed from one knuckle joint, extended along the finger and spread along the surface like one of the piped veins had sprung a leak. The spectacled man pressed on the contours of the bruise, watching the priest’s face, who remained impassive, feeling underneath for a displaced bone.

  “What happened?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Is it bad?”

  The doctor finished the assessment, lowered the hand to the table and leaned back in his chair. He removed the glasses, pocketed them and sighed.

  “Listen. If those thugs are pestering you again, you’ll have to involve the police. Those kids are nothing-”

  “Alsran, it wasn’t the kids. Honest. It was something else.”

  “Someone else you mean?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters, Father,” he said and leaned forward, eyes wide. “Someone rips your finger up like that isn’t exactly a little, how do you say it, horse play?”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “I can see that. You popping it back into place isn’t exactly what I’d recommend.”

  “So, it’s OK?”

  The doctor shook his head and angled his eyes up the side of the wall, a bemused expression on his face.

  “We’ll need to tape it to your index finger to give it some support as it heals.” He raised his hand up to demonstrate and gave a Vulcan salute. It brought a smile from the priest.

  “It’s no laughing matter, Father. Let it be a warning. No one deserves that. There’s no place for small-minded bigots in this town. It’s not how a real Muslim would act.”

  The doctor’s lips were pursed and the seed of an emotion, which might have been anger, couldn’t find fertile ground on his face. Furrowed lines in his brow soon faded away into calm, before once again a soft smile formed on his lips.

  “Rest up. No bench presses or pullups, OK?”

  “OK,” the priest said and laughed with the doctor.

  “What’s the second thing? Got a broken leg to tell me about? Fractured skull? Plenty of potions down in the market. That would fix it no problem.”

  The priest turned to his companion who had been quiet throughout the exchange. The doctor followed the look.

  “Little bit of a cheeky one from me.”

  “Cheeky? I don’t know this word.”

  “The problem isn’t exactly mine. It’s his.”

  “Go on.”

  The doctor leaned back, staring at the young man. Both sets of eyes were on him which made him more self-conscious, but he cleared his throat and described the incident in the market stall and the sudden fit that accompanied his collapse where he fell to the floor and lost consciousness.

  “Has it happened to you before?”

  “Two times. Both last year.”

  “The same symptoms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Blood from the nose?”

  “And mouth.”

  “Have you ever felt confused, disorientated or had difficulty with simple tasks that would normally be done very easily?”

  “Yes. All of that.”

  The doctor reached down and they heard him slide out a drawer. He pulled out a pink form and presented it to the younger man. He took it and both patients glanced down at it.

  “You’ll need to fill this out. I can’t give advice unless you are registered as a patient. I could lose my license otherwise.”

  The priest shifted in his seat, like he had sat on a pebble. “That could be a problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He doesn’t have any papers or identification.” The doctor’s stare prompted the priest to continue. “Let me explain. I found him on my doorstep a few weeks ago. He’s an asylum seeker and doesn’t have anyone else. Please, if you can do whatever you can, I’d be forever in your debt.”

  The doctor looked back at the face of the younger man whose own silence confirmed the narrative of the priest.

  “OK. I’ll do what I can,” he said. He let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. “Fill out the form as best you can though.”

  The young man received the pen from the doctor. He planted the form on an edge of the desk and began to write.

  “What do you think it could be?” the priest asked.

  “I’ll need to take a blood sample which should provide more information. Are you OK with needles?”

  The younger man looked up from the sheet and nodded. The doctor stood and moved over to a little cupboard behind them in the corner which rested on the floor. He pulled out a box and returned to the desk and opened it. From within, he withdrew a packet and opened it carefully. When he reached the syringe needle, he raised it up to the light of the window, inspecting it between his fingers.

  “What’s the best case?”

  “Best case? I’d say a lack of vitamin A, iron deficiency. Possibly even diabetes. There’s no hiding place in a blood sample, so if it’s any of those things, it’ll show up, as clear as a thumbprint at a crime scene.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “All those things are treatable,” the doctor said and moved across to where the younger man was seated. “Can you roll your sleeve up for me please?”

  “OK.” the priest said, a smile touching his face.

  “But,” the doctor warned, tapping the belly of the forearm of the younger man. “Whether we have all the resources to treat it in this practice is another thing. Let’s hope this election brings us a Government that will take us out of the dark ages and into 2009. You’ve seen the waiting room. We could do with some f
unding that’s for sure.”

  “And what about worst case?”

  They watched as the doctor pressed the needle into a raised vein, and gently slid the plunger back. The syringe started to fill with blood.

  “Well, if for whatever reason this comes back clean, I would suggest sending him to Marrakesh.”

  “Marrakesh? What for?”

  “They have the best facilities in the country to check for brain injuries and tumours.”

  TWELVE

  There was a perfect moment of silence, hollow enough to be felt by those who helped carve it. Molly was oblivious to it, distracted, thoughts far from the classroom, guided to far flung destinations through the passage of time by the passage of text on her mobile phone screen. A search tab was open and had landed on an encyclopaedia website, headed Lazarus of Bethany. She was scrolling the screen up and down by her thumb, clicking down different avenues, routes themselves that dug deeper into the mystery of the Bible miracle – the only account of a person who had risen from the dead. The only person besides the most famous case of all, that is.

  A few twitters of laughter from the side lines failed to nudge her back to reality. It wasn’t until she received a jab in the ribs by a ruler from her neighbour that she jerked up out of the reverie and noticed the lull in noise. She looked around and saw their stares, and then down at the professor who was standing, arms folded, looking at her.

  “Phone. Down.”

  She mouthed a sorry, turned it around and pushed it to the edge of the desk, before sinking deeper into her seat. Most of the other students turned back around, welcoming the distraction but now slumped over their tables and watching the man behind the lectern.

  “Provided there are no more distractions? Good. So, the judicial system came into effect, at least in the form that we recognise, in the early 1800’s. It was used…”

  Molly was watching without listening. Zoned out, staring blankly at the professor and the slideshow presentation against the back wall. He was a pillar of grey. Different contrasts starting with charcoal shoes, to grey slacks, up his thin body to a woollen thundercloud jumper framed under a slate coloured jacket. The projector light caught his face, a thick paintbrush moustache like a Brillo pad tickled his top lip. From their elevated position, they saw the thinning of his hair, rising like wisps of steam under the sharp beam shot from behind.

  When he eventually reached the final slide, he clicked off the projector, aiming the control to the back of the room and dismissed them. They spilled out into the middle aisle, carrying bulging bags and paced down the carpeted steps and through the double doors to the hallway.

  “Quietly!” the professor said above the din of the noise, but no one seemed to notice.

  Molly packed slowly and waited until the buzz had dispersed before leaving.

  “Molly. Can I have a quick word?”

  “Velocity,” she said, smiling and walked over to where he was now seated at the desk.

  “Everything OK?” he said. “You were a bit distant there today.”

  “Ah yeah, just a few things on my mind.”

  “How’s the thesis coming along?”

  She took a deep breath and stood back on one leg, fixing the shoulder strap of her bag around her shoulder.

  “Honestly?” she said and received a nod. “I’ve barely scratched the surface.”

  “Scratched the surface as in, you’ve completed your literature review and have hit a road bump, or…”

  “Or.”

  He gave a little grunt and scratched his upper lip. Molly half expected a little beak to emerge from the nest and chirrup.

  “You really should be past the research stage and interviews at this point,” he said. “It’s been a couple months now. You’re leaving yourself a hell of a lot to do in the second semester.”

  “Yeah, I know. Just need to get my ducks in a row. You know me, I always come good in the end.”

  “Try and get a head start soon if you can. You don’t want to be playing catch-up over Christmas.”

  “Be a lot handier if you allowed us to use our laptops in class, Brian.”

  He smiled, and his eyes twinkled like a flipped silver coin catching the light.

  “I may be old school, but I know about Facebook and chat rooms. We’d get nothing done if everyone was on their computer. Case and point – today.”

  Molly shirked her head and tucked a band of her hair behind her ear. A couple of students were still seated, watching their dialogue and she looked to them and noticed their impatience.

  “I’ll be fine. Anyway, I gotta get going.”

  “Three weeks to Christmas, Molly.”

  “That your way of fishing for a present?”

  He wagged a finger at her and slanted his head, holding the smile at bay that threatened to crease his face, before the next student stepped up onto the platform and approached.

  She exited the small auditorium and walked to the end of the hallway where she entered another room lined on three sides with tall lockers. She stopped at one, halfway down, pulled out a fog of keys and inserted a small one into the lock and opened it. The upper shelf held her laptop and she replaced the books in her bag with it, glad to be unburdened with the weight. Bedding the floor of the main chamber were exam papers from previous years, book sleeves and a T-shirt for fresher’s week which she hadn’t worn in two years, using it sporadically as a mop throughout the year for spills, or wiping dusty screens.

  “Story Molly?”

  “Hiya Neal.”

  A few lockers down, the man opened his own little storage area. The face of the locker was indented in its chest, like an old man sucking for air.

  “Exam stress?” she said and he noticed her staring at the locker face.

  “Yeah,” he said and suddenly warmed his knuckles with the other hand. “Something like that. How’s you?”

  She closed the door and locked up, zipping up the mouth of her bag, pressing the lower edge of it with her foot to ensure it was flush.

  “Ah yeah. You know yourself. Same old.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about, Brian,” he said and stopped rifling through the junk on his top shelf to face her. “They put the fear of God into you. Some of us gotta work though, right?”

  “Tell me about it. Nah, I’ll be fine. Just gotta knuckle down, that’s all.”

  He returned to his locker, bending over at the waist and peering inside. He was wearing a bright orange T-shirt despite the falling temperatures, and three-quarter length slacks that reached to his shin.

  “You heading out next Friday?” the voice said, head hidden behind the door.

  “Hadn’t thought that far ahead. Why, what’s on?”

  “Few of us heading out. Usual crowd, before we break off for Christmas and before they start hiking up the prices.”

  “Yeah, sounds good. If I’m not working that is.”

  “Sweet.”

  “Sure,” Molly said. “I’ll see you later yeah?”

  As she walked back through the corridor, and descended the stairwell the phone in her jean pocket was a hot stone. She fished it out and traced her thumb across its surface again as she walked the perimeter of the building. A body of students walked toward her, curling around like a stick in the river. She never noticed them as she continued scrolling through the web page. She stopped when she reached the bricked building, holding the door for the last few students to spill out into the courtyard. She waited and looked up from the phone and at the sign to her left, reading the inscription on the bronzed plate.

  Department of Philosophy, Theology and Religious Studies.

  THIRTEEN

  The windows along the cabin were all open. It provided little comfort to the passengers except to heighten their annoyance - the chugging sound of the train killing conversation. The locomotive swerved around corners at pace, forcing passengers to widen their stance to hug the floor. The two men were in the centre of the cabin out of arm’s reach of a fixture that would hold
their position easier. The smell swelled and covered them like a trapped blister, thick with sweat and too fat to seep out of the carriage windows. There it hung, sour and cheesy, a toxic cloud congealing into something tangible. It quickly bleached the faces of new arrivals hopping onboard, soon assuming the same expression as those already bathing in the stink - namely slumped and head arrowed down, as if in silent prayer.

  The chugging continued and the bodies swayed with every curve of the rail, feeling the vibration wriggle through the metal body and carried through their own. They came to a sharp stop and the doors spat out a few passengers who were quickly replaced. Two seats appeared on the side of the pair, and the younger man pounced. When he had secured them he called for the man, who threaded through the muffle of people and fell into the seat.

  “Well spotted,” the priest said and pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, dabbing his forehead with it. “Just in time too.”

  The train hadn’t yet moved, and they looked out the window to see a group of people still waiting to get on, carrying baskets of food, bags of produce, babies snugly wrapped and asleep inside front carriers and younger merchants with snacks and drinks. The priest felt his shoulder nudged. Looking up, he noticed passengers who had crowded into the little chamber had suddenly spilled into the aisle. A line of grumbling people edged further back to allow for the growing number holding onto the overhead rack. Sweated pits as far as the eye could see.

  The younger man fiddled with the window above but despite his efforts couldn’t pull it further than two o’clock.

  “Well, at least we’re seated,” he said.

  “Only another hour anyway. You OK?”

  The younger man nodded, but he was looking away from the priest and through the window. The bell of the train rang and they could hear the doors behind shut and a few shouts from those closest to being cleaved in two.