Raising Lazarus

by Aidan J. Reid

  “I’m parked down the way,” Molly said and stretched out an arm which was barely visible in the dark of the night.

  “You’ve got five minutes.”

  When they had gotten into the car, Molly moved to turn on the inside light but the woman stayed her hand. There was just enough light to tell that the woman had changed her hair colour from the last time, a shaggy blonde style now framed her face not unlike Molly’s own hair.

  “Don’t be taking no risks. Stick some heat on, wilye?”

  Molly turned on the heater. She watched the woman hold her palms out toward the floor between spread legs and rub them quickly.

  “So cold out there, I think my clit’s gone back into hibernation.”

  “Lovely.”

  “So, what you want?”

  “What can you tell me about Lazarus?”

  The woman curled back against the seat rest and rolled her eyes. Her face was padded with makeup, big fake eyelashes, globs of eyeliner like a badly made up doll. Molly could see her jaw grinding beneath the clenched teeth.

  “Ol’ Romeo. Listen. Like I toldya. Bit of a space cadet. He’s odd. The customers seem to take a shine to him though. He’s HVC.”

  “HVC?”

  “High Value Cock. Doesn’t have many clients but the ones he does have pay big money.”

  “To do what?”

  She shook her head, and scratched a long painted fingernail against her throat. Her eyes were narrowed ahead, searching in the distance for a flicker of car light or movement in the bushes that would suggest a customer.

  “Well. Boys clubs. Date nights. Gang bangs. Corporate events. Secret society hook-ups.”

  “Secret society…”

  “I dunno. It’s only what I heard. Very hush hush. That ship sailed for me back in the day George Michael was straight,” she said and laughed although it was a hollow one. “He’s a decent looking kid and you don’t get much of a shelf life in this business to make the top dollar. Fair fucks to him.”

  “Any idea where I can find him?”

  The woman turned her face to Molly and held out her hand, snapping the fingers open and shut. Molly took out her purse and opening it dropped a note in the woman’s hand, which she slid somewhere inside her coat.

  “I ain’t seen him since… when were you last here?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Well. Not since then.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “Nah. Some of the girls said he got into some trouble last week at a restaurant. Started punching the head off some guy. It was one of Marcus’s gigs so that didn’t go down too well.”

  “Marcus is the blond gay guy?” Molly asked and received a nod.

  “He’s a big deal. Works in finance. Banking or something. Big money. Wants a little piece of Arab ass to cart around. Make him feel the big man.”

  “Any idea where he is or what happened to Lazarus?”

  The woman’s hand reached out again in reflex, hovering in the air between them. The other hand was propping up her head on the car door, bored and listless as it scanned the insides of the houses, looking at the Christmas decorations and Santa faces hanging on the doors. The windows were closed and blinded, but beyond them she could see the blurred twinkle of trees. When the hand felt the paper, her fingers smoothed the edge. It remained open.

  “Sucking me dry here,” Molly said.

  “I wouldn’t be much of a prostitute if I couldn’t do that now love.”

  A second note on top of the first was weighted sufficiently to appease the woman, who pocketed them and then arched her spine against the seat rest and took a deep breath.

  “No one’s seen him. Not for a week. That’s bad news. You don’t show up a client like that, especially one like Marcus,” she said. “I been in this game a good while. Know Lazarus for about six months, so have a fair idea.”

  “Which is?”

  “He’s legged it. Got scared. They chased him into some hole. Skipped town I bet, at least until things blow over.”

  “Do you have any contact details for him?”

  “What like Insta? Snapchat?” She sniggered.

  “I don’t know. Maybe your… pimp has something?”

  “My pimp?” she said and started laughing, mouth stretching back over grey teeth, fillings sprinkled on the upper layer. “Yeah. I’ll get Huggy Bear to hook you up. It’s not the movies love. That shit don’t fly here. It’s dog eat dog.”

  Molly sat in silence, playing with the zip on her purse. Her passenger seemed to stiffen and leaned forward, eyes narrowed, a predator who had caught a scent. Her tongue peeked out and licked her dry, chapped red lips before tucking back inside its home of grinding plates.

  “Looks like Kitty’s feeding time,” she said, gently unlocking the door and dropping one heel to the ground. The interior car light came on suddenly.

  “Wait,” Molly said. “Can you give me any way to get in touch with him?”

  The woman’s eyes were still focussed ahead, superior sight to Molly’s who couldn’t see anything beyond, except for the rolling banks of mist that drifted in off the canal, curling around the tree posts.

  “Steer clear,” she whispered, eyes squinted, forming shapes from the mist. “You don’t want to dig any deeper. Trust me.”

  As the woman slid her ass around on the seat, her skirt lifted and exposed a thigh. Molly saw the ragged scar that snaked its way from her knee, up the outside of her leg. An ugly tear like a lightning fork, mottled pink against the pale skin.

  The door closed softly behind and Molly watched as the woman slowly crossed the road in front of the car to the gravel along the canal. She stood for a few moments, and Molly watched her straighten her coat and skirt, pull out a cigarette and walk away. In the distance, there were two forms that approached. As they emerged from the fog, they slowed to a stop until the woman reached them. Molly could see they were both very drunk, one propped on the other’s shoulder. She could also see that they were barely out of their teens and the soberest of the pair pulled a wad of notes from his pocket, sending coins flying down the path. He chased after them, stamping on them with his feet. The drunken man, without a support found one in the tree which a gardener had conveniently planted there for him two decades earlier. Molly continued to watch as the young man lurched forward and picked up what coins he could find. Beyond him, the prostitute looked in Molly’s direction. A wide smile on her face like someone who had just won the lottery.

  NINETEEN

  Had retired priest John Penmore been aware that his two recent guests had been storing a dead body in their small apartment, it might have changed his mind. Then again it might not have, considering the peril that they were in.

  The body had been wrapped and bound in bedsheets after the incident, hauled into the storage room in the hallway. They had removed everything from inside first, the ironing board, old moth-eaten bedsheets belonging to previous tenants, a clothes horse, basketball shoes and broken trophies, lying crumbled on the floor. The musty smell and foul air that greeted the removal of all the items had so far been beaten back by the thick wooden door which usually remained locked.

  The younger man had pulled the heavy body, dragging it under the arms until he could no longer reverse further inside. Instead, he had propped it up in a drunken slump against the back wall, legs still exiting the doorway. They had both crowded around the bound body in the doorway, neither able to get a good hold to fold him inside, so the younger man again had taken responsibility and, although the exertion was great, he had managed to bend the corpse in half at the waist as if he was touching his toes, and shifted his knees up which had allowed the door to close.

  Two days after their visit with Penmore, and under the cover of darkness, they removed the body and carried it down the stairwell. Careful not to be seen or heard, they made slow progress before finally reaching the ground floor. A back entrance led to an underground car park. There had been a rubbish skip which, last time the priest had
checked was barely filled. He was relieved that was still the case, it being half-full. They spent an hour, an interminable time for both men, taking rubbish out before depositing the corpse at the bottom and replacing the rubbish. They worked quickly and in silence.

  The next time they spoke was at the breakfast table in the morning.

  “Ready?” the priest asked.

  “Ready.”

  They left the apartment quickly, not meeting anyone in their descent on the stone stairwell and hailed a taxi on the street. The younger man was carrying a small carrier bag which rested in his lap. In it was a couple of shirts bought from the bazaar, light and cheap, and also a sandwich and packet of biscuits. The priest reached into his jacket pocket and gave him a thick envelope.

  “You give this to Balrassari.” The man took it and edged the envelope open wider to look inside. “You don’t need to count it. It’s all there.”

  “OK.”

  “So, tell me again the plan.”

  The younger man folded and slid the envelope into his pocket, took a deep breath and followed the low voice of the priest.

  “Meet Balrassari. He’ll get me the papers and onto one of the boats to Spain. From there, we make our way on truck across the border to France. And then through the tunnel to England.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I meet you there.”

  “No. Then you meet my friend first. I’ll give him plenty of notice and he’ll meet you at the café in Dover. What’s it called?

  “The Grey Goose.”

  “What time and day will you meet?”

  “First week of September. Every day at 12 p.m.”

  “Exactly. Do you have your euros and sterling?”

  The young man patted his trouser pocket to confirm they were safely stowed. They were silent now, looking ahead in the front windscreen of the taxi, which honked and swerved them inside with each passing turn. They could smell the salted scent of the sea through the window before the busy entrance of the port loomed into view. Taxis unloaded passengers with exotic gifts. There were merchants hawking goods, clamouring around the lines of cars that deposited exhausted travellers onto pavement, lumbered with heavy bags.

  “When will I see you?”

  “Soon I promise.”

  “You can’t stay at the apartment. It’s not safe. They could come back. There’s still-”

  “I know, I know,” the priest said and raised his finger to hush the man. “I’ll be making my own plans to get across when you’re safe. Send word if anything doesn’t go to plan, or if you need money.”

  “You’ve given me enough. More than enough, Father. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  The priest smiled but it was a weak one that he wasn’t able to hold. The younger man knew it too and nodded, swallowing back tears of emotion that bobbed in his throat.

  “This will do here,” the priest said, his voice cracked.

  The back of the driver’s head nodded and he pulled to an abrupt stop just shy of the port entrance.

  “Stand by the kiosk. I’ve told him how you’re dressed. We’re a little early, but you won’t be waiting too long.”

  The younger man had been looking away from the priest and outside the window, watching the commotion of travellers come and go. He had tried to stem the tears but had only managed to stifle the sounds as they flowed freely from his face, running long trails down his smooth face. When he turned around, he could see the same struggle on the priest’s face. They hugged in a tight embrace and, despite the raw emotion and imminent departure, found the opportunity to laugh.

  “Go on! Or you will be late!” the priest said and they shared a final hug before the younger man got out and wiped his face with his palm.

  The priest continued watching as the taxi driver pulled off the kerb. He had to swivel around in the back seat to maintain the focus and looked out the window and raised a hand in farewell which the young man didn’t see. He was suddenly alone in the sprawl of people looking around, seemingly lost, a sapling tree buffeted and surrounded by a storm of people, looking for all the world that he didn’t belong there.

  TWENTY

  Strobe lighting pierced the smoky room, green laser beams from an overhead box spun on its axis, showering the dancers and heaving dancefloor. A DJ, sweat dropping onto his decks before his busy hands had a chance to swipe his forehead, stood above the congregation, a conductor of music, a conduit for channelling the revellers’ mood and energy to another place. He took a moment to study the throng. Those nearest looked up and nodded their satisfaction and the others, deeper in the jungle of people, merely expressed their delight by rocking their bodies and hips to the music. He saw it all in an instant, the scene all too familiar.

  Nerdy white men hugged the walls with their backs, bobbing heads the only outlet for their body to suggest any indicator of their mood as their blank faces scanned the horizon for friends that didn’t exist and women that would never notice them. Black men had threaded through the fabric of people on the dancefloor, swaying hips inviting women, wide grins and long arms carving a little bubble out of the group to fully express the range of their movements.

  The women, who could be split fairly into introverts and extroverts, were liberally sprinkled around the venue but never enough for the baying men who were the majority. The introverts had long since staked out a table on the periphery, close enough to be near the action should a handsome crumb fall from the scurry that was on the dancefloor. Those not quick enough to secure a base, flung handbags and coats on a floor space which they encircled and danced around like worshipping a pagan god. The extroverts had made a beeline straight for the dancefloor and stayed there for most of the night. There, they had solicited enough drinks for the night for them and their friends – leaving enough threads open that they could pick and choose which one to tie up later, after they were a little more het up.

  The noise was booming and despite being at the far end of the room on one of the couches shaped like a set of lips, it still made talking difficult, but they persisted because none of them were keen on dancing.

  “Some DJ, eh?”

  “What?”

  “DJ,” the man said and pointed.

  Molly followed Neal’s finger which struck a pillar. Beyond it she could see the crowd of people in a cloudy soup, hands reaching high like they needed to be pulled to the surface. She nodded and said something but knew it hadn’t reached him because she couldn’t hear it in her own ears. A group of four rounded the pillar, giggling and holding onto each other for support. They blocked Molly’s view as they approached, with two of them parking between herself and Neal, and the other two on another couch beside the table.

  Four shots were in one of the man’s hands, which were now a sticky mess, like he had shoved them inside a basted turkey. The contents were only half full as he placed them on the table and licked his fingers up to the wrist.

  “I couldn’t carry more,” he shouted and pointed to two of his accomplices. “These arseholes wouldn’t help!”

  The man and woman on the other couch started laughing hysterically, with the woman rolling over and onto the man’s lap.

  “Here,” he said and started sliding the drinks like draught pieces across the table, “Molly, that’s yours. Neal…”

  “Ah man, I’m on meds. I…”

  The server ignored the man’s complaints and helped lift it into his hand. He slapped him on his shoulder, staring into his face like they were sharing a great truth and nodded.

  “Mick, you bollix.”

  The thin man was wedged between the server and Molly like a popcorn kernel between teeth. He lifted the little plastic shot glass, downed it and slapped it back on the table, all before the server finished his blink.

  “Done mate,” he said and burped an aniseed cloud in the man’s face.

  “Sweet. You two!” he shouted across to the wriggling bodies on the couch that were now locking lips, searching hands teasing buckles, gri
pping terse muscles. “Hey!”

  The flat base of the plastic cup struck the man square on the temple. This brought a middle finger from the man who, despite the accuracy of the shot, continued to suck on the woman’s face.

  “Christ, it’s like watching your parents go at it.”

  The others roared with laughter which seemed to filter through to the pair, a smile on the man’s lips breaking through which made the woman suddenly wonder why she was now kissing teeth. They looked across and saw the stares of the others who let out a cheer. The woman slid off his lap and they sat beside each other, holding hands that the other teased near his upper thigh when the remainder of the group weren’t looking.

  “Right. You can share that shot, you pair of bollocks,” the man said and slid it across to them. “Down the hatch folks.”

  Molly took hers and smelt the Sambuca, a taste that had defined her fresher year. She tipped it and swallowed the sticky contents, dropping the container on the sticky table. Her fingers were oily and she wiped them on the seat.

  “Right. Next round. Fat frogs anyone? Think it’s you next, Molly.”

  “Piss off! Sambuca’s are 2 for 1. I’ll need another student loan for fat frogs.”

  “Here for a good time, not a long time!” the man replied and looked around for support.

  Neal, on his left, was downcast but corrected his mood before the man looked at him, smiling and nodding enthusiastically. On his right, kernels face was ghost white, staring down at a puzzle on the floor, trying to unlock it with his eyes. Molly stepped away and scrambled over the lip-locked lovers who had resumed their peep show, hands sliding underneath tops.

  “Right. Four more shots?”

  They all looked at Kernel who suddenly bent over double. A projectile of vomit escaped from his mouth and nose and struck the carpeted floor, coating his shoes in the process.

  “And a water,” his neighbour said with a wide grin on his face. He leaned over and whispered into the man’s ear, which prompted even further gagging.

  “Here, let me give you a hand, Molly,” Neal said and hopped over the table.