When they had fought their way through the dancefloor, they were on the final of three lines deep in a scramble to the bar counter. They watched as a small drinker who looked under age, peeled off the bar and sliced through the pressing lines. He had exited at their side and shook his head, taking a big breath of air. His winning smile soon dropped off his face. Every available jean pocket that had been filled with a bottle seconds earlier was, much to the man’s dismay pickpocketed on his short route back - the various thieves scuttling off with their prize, hiding the bottle close to their chest.
This opened a path in front and Molly took it, ignoring those who were too ponderous and soon found herself in the second line.
“Nice play,” Neal said into her ear from behind.
She could feel him press against her ass, and she inched a step forward. The distance closed again suddenly, springing against her as if testing the limits to what she would accept.
“Maybe best we split up,” Molly said and nodded her head across to the other end of the bar. “Double our chances.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Keep looking this way. I’ll let you know if I get served before you.”
There was a final, harder press against her, perhaps orchestrated, perhaps a commotion at the back. She couldn’t tell but was grateful when he moved away and watched him trace a line across to the other side to make up a new fourth wave.
The head in front had just finished ordering a drink. Frustratingly a single soft drink. Before she had a chance to consider the logic of that, a big man cut through the pressing wall to her left. She slipped into his shadow and rested her elbows on the wet surface just in time. Along the row of thirsty drinkers, there were many she recognised from college. Some of them were flashing banknotes at the staff and complaining about why they weren’t being served. She couldn’t see Neal from where she was, crowded out by tall men with broad shoulders looking for a gap to wedge a hand down. She remained standing, patient, and tried to catch the eye of the flustered bar attendant who despite the fact he was being rushed off his feet, still managed his Tom Cruise cocktail tricks when the occasion presented itself.
She felt the press against her ass again, hard like before. She pushed herself flush to the bar counter and turned her head to the side to see if there was a commotion. It was packed too tight to fully steer.
“And for yourself?” the barman said. She turned and saw him staring at her.
“Four Sambuca and a pint of water,” she shouted.
The music exploded into a dance track, the squeals from the floor behind her. She pushed back from the counter to pull out her purse, and found herself wedged there, finding resistance against the person behind. He pushed back, almost pinning her against the bar, pressing tight.
“Hey, what the f-”
She was half turned and was about to strike the offender, when she saw the smiling face of Lazarus.
“I hear you were asking for me?”
TWENTY-ONE
Linkton Transport had a fleet of seventeen models of transport ranging from standard white vans, designed for smaller and primarily local carries, to large haulage lorries, arteries that connected their UK business to Europe.
A family business operating for some 45 years, it was established by David Linkton who, upon deciding to take early retirement, had passed the reins onto his son a decade earlier. Matthew, who didn’t have the foresight of his father, and despite the contacts and network that had taken a generation to build, was ambitious and had made drastic plans to overhaul the transport network, switching their core business to focus on the rapidly growing international market. It was an ill-advised move. Their business was aggressively squeezed out by larger companies who already had secured many of the more lucrative contracts.
In their final death throes, an agreement was reached with a rapidly growing company based outside of London. Charm Pet Foods had ties to the third biggest supermarket chain in France, and independent stockists in several parts of Southern Spain. The contract win was a major coup for Linkton and helped to get their brand moving again, as pallets of the various bird seed, nuts, dog bone and meal bags were transported across Europe. Exhausted men and women at the wheel, drove all day and through the night to meet a hard deadline, spurred by growling stomachs that sloshed with energy drinks.
The only lorry not parked outside of the offices of Linkton was in full flight along the empty tarmac road. The driver had teetered on the speed limit for the best part of sixteen hours with the radio turned up and the window at his side screwed down, gusting cold night air against his weary face. He began singing along with the song on the radio although he didn’t speak any French, but he tried if only to rouse himself. About two feet behind him and in the main container of the lorry, leaning against the hard metal wall were two figures cloaked in darkness, swaying with the slight alterations in the driver’s navigation. The driver cursed at his own drowsiness as, on occasion, his tyres struck the lane of cat’s eyes.
They were both seated on the floor and on opposite corners at the far wall from the door, thin shoulders wedged tight against a plastic wooden pallet and the wall. There was enough room for both to stretch out their legs however, and each had made a bed from empty plastic bags.
“Another one?”
The woman’s voice was whispered despite knowing that they couldn’t be heard. She fished from a hole in the pallet at her side and removed another bag and ripped it open with her teeth before tucking in.
“Yeah.”
She threw a bag over which landed on his lap. He thanked her and despite their dryness and the oil that rubbed his fingers, he started to pop them like pills. He folded the small rucksack, rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. His legs fidgeted beneath and, trying a few different positions, he couldn’t find one that didn’t grind against the hard surface.
“Tell me about it,” the woman said. “Could be worse. You could be pregnant.”
“You’re pregnant?”
“Yeah. Why do you think I’m escaping?”
“I didn’t know. Here,” the man said, “take a couple of my shirts. They’re dirty but you can wrap them up and support your back.”
He was already shifting around within the small corridor of space to reach behind and pull the rag ball away, but she told him that she was OK. He hadn’t seen her face clearly yet, despite sharing the journey in almost total darkness. Her hands were clasped around her belly, and throughout the journey she had gently patted it which now made sense.
“Where are you from?”
“Libya.”
“You speak English very well.”
“Thanks. I was an interpreter before.”
The final word was said with sadness as if the realisation of that former life was now a distant memory, a past life where she could only look at with a certain fondness from the uncertainty that now faced them.
“How far along are you?”
“Five months,” she said, and he could see what he thought was a smile on her face but couldn’t be certain. “I had to get out before I started showing.”
“And the father?”
“I was stupid. I got involved with a married man. A government official and he would have had me killed before admitting infidelity to his wife. There was no future for us.”
“Couldn’t your family help?”
The woman gave a little mocking laugh and pushed back closer to the wall and straightened.
“They would have stoned me to death if they knew I was carrying a bastard child.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. The air around them had grown warm and stale, flavoured with the nut oil and the smell of their sweat. The man had made a small tear at either side in the fabric hours earlier which helped breathe fresh air into the chamber, but it was slow to refill, and they had taken long draws of it like a thirsty man from a faucet. The gentle sound of the wheels on the tarmac continued, a constant roll.
&
nbsp; “Did you ever think of… you know?”
“Never. Not for a second. I would do whatever it takes to get out of that country alive with my baby.”
There was a fierce determination in her voice and he thought he saw her eyes glint in the darkness for a second.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I have a brain tumour.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is it serious?”
The younger man released a heavy sigh and, having finished the bag of bird nuts, crumpled it and tucked it inside the thickly wrapped pocket of the plastic binding the pallet.
“They give me six months,” he said. “I’m on my way to see a doctor who thinks he can help.”
“Looks like we have the weight of the world on our shoulders,” she said, and he nodded.
The lorry started to decelerate suddenly, and for a moment they feared that the room of tall pillars would suddenly slide forward and pin them against the wall. They wobbled but held tight, loads glued to their surface, as they both breathed a sigh of relief. The vehicle slowed, and their trajectory remained the same which made them both look at each other with a panic, unsure of the other person’s reaction but sensing the danger around.
The woman curled up into a small ball, making herself appear like some trapped little creature hidden in the shadow. Fearing his own discovery, the man repeated the movement, burrowing deep inside the enclosure, wrapping his body around the pallet as he lay. He reached up for a couple of the loose boxes above and toppled them over and onto his body, their sharp angles striking his shoulder and legs.
The vehicle pulled to a stop. They could hear voices outside speaking in French. There was an answer returned in English as the driver turned off the ignition. Footsteps from the driver’s door were followed by another set as the young man noticed the beam of a flashlight shine against the cloth side of the lorry. His heartbeat was beating from his chest as he lay frozen to the spot, breath shallow and silent; eyes shut tight despite the searching beam which he could feel crawl against the back of his head.
The doors of the lorry opened suddenly. Footsteps on the hard surface. In the opposite corner, he could hear a faint trembling from where the woman was seated and pictured her there, stroking her belly and shaking. He ignored it, shutting out all senses, deathly quiet. He waited.
The person who had stepped onto the platform remained still. Seconds which stretched across lifetimes flashed by for the stowaways. Shoes slapped against the polished surface, moving further inside. He felt them grow stronger, a tuning fork that resonated with his own terror. The pallets were packed tight, and the steps weaved around the boxes, closer to his side, assisted by a hungry spotlight which scanned around their horizon, eager to pounce on any noise or detection of movement.
A pause in the searcher’s movement. Had they found something? The hiding man gulped and immediately regretted it, the dry, cracked movement in his parched throat where the water had drained. The blood from his face soon followed. There was a squeak of plastic as the searcher slipped past the pallet, the one that he was curled around. He could hear breathing now. Could feel it cool on his perspiring face. The hands above, stretching and straining to reach over and pull the boxes from his half-obscured body. He made himself as small as possible, lungs shrinking in on themselves and waited for the inevitable bright orange glow of the torch against his shut eyelids. And with it, the shout that would announce their discovery. His discovery. The end of the journey.
TWENTY-TWO
The area outside was busy with smokers, music sensitive ears, couples escalating their intentions and drunkards hoping for a slap of cold air across their face. It broke into two sections either side of the main door, where there was still a line of eager revellers queuing to get in. The one-in-one-out policy came from management, enforced minutes earlier to prevent a stampede. In their eagerness the younger clubbers had arrived virtually when doors had first opened and with the heaving club atmosphere, it inevitably had led to some skin on skin action, loose hands trailing behind them grazing gyrating asses, elbows tucked up to catch the glancing blow off a breast.
Taxis and other cars slowed their journey as they passed the building, drawn to the garish spotlights shining against its stone face. Male drivers gawked at the stilted legs of the women in the line, who despite the chill of the winter night persevered with their choice of clothing regardless of the season. Flappy white blouse tops. Belts for skirts barely protecting their modesty. Tottering jet-black heels, sharpened to a point that prompted them to hold on tight to friends for support. The women, some who had moments earlier trotted from the line to round a corner and crouch down behind a refuse bin to water the weeds, were accelerated to the front of the line, ahead of groups of males, ethnic minorities and anyone who fell outside the parameters of the targeted age range for the club which was 18 – 25.
“She’s got a full bottle in her handbag,” Lazarus said and nodded his head at a woman at the head of the line.
The bouncer, an upstanding rhino who wore his black top like a second skin asked a couple of questions to the woman and she opened the lip of her handbag. His search extended as far as a glance at the top layer of contents in the bag, before waving her onwards. The woman gave a little yelp and pulled her friends through by the hand.
Molly and Lazarus had found a corner in the smoking section, huddled on the edge of a bench. A big overhead heater above was tanning their foreheads and burning their hair. Molly leaned over, and picked up the drink between her feet and took a sip.
“Your friends will be wondering where their drinks are.”
“Neal’ll get them. I’ll get the next round.”
“Neal?”
“One of the lads from uni. We’re out tonight as a group.”
“Ah right. Well don’t let me interrupt your night,” Lazarus said and moved to get up, but she held his forearm and stopped him.
“No, it’s fine. They’re all fairly hammered anyway. Speaking of which,” she said and nodded to the full glass in his hand.
“When you’ve been around as long as I have, you tend to build up a bit of a tolerance.”
He took a swallow of the dark liquid, gritted his teeth and let out a fiery breath. They were hemmed in on all sides by standing men and women, tall trees making them feel like little mushrooms in a forest, cloaked in darkness, hidden from view.
“How did you know to find me here?” Molly asked.
“Wind your neck back in! Who said I was looking for you?”
She blushed deeply, avoiding his look. There was a little silence emphasised by the chatter and laughter around them.
“It’s much quieter-” Lazarus started.
“Thanks,” she interrupted.
“For what?”
“That prick.”
“Oh right,” he said and touched the glass to his lips again.
“Why did you run off? I didn’t get a chance to thank you.”
Lazarus gave a little shrug of his shoulder. Molly turned to look at him, seeing his eyes drop to the glass and watching the sad expression break on his face. He circled the glass between his fingers, the rum swirling around in a hand that matched its colour. Molly placed her hand on his knee and he stopped the motion and looked at her.
“Thank you.”
Lazarus smiled and snapped his eyes away from her. His little polished teeth shone bright in the shadow, pearls on an ocean bed.
“Those men…”
“Listen we don’t need to talk about it. Not tonight.”
Lazarus rose, struggling against the standing bodies who turned and were surprised to see their sudden emergence. He held out his hand which Molly took and pulled herself off the bench. He led her through the clouds of smoke and burning overhead heaters into a little nook where they had more elbow room and stood.
“What you told me a couple of weeks back...” she started.
“When?”
“In the pub.” She groped for the right phrase
, but the alcohol made her passage to find it a little trickier. “Are you… mental?”
“What?” he said and began laughing, his face widening into a beam of teeth.
“Well,” she started, “you know how crazy it sounds?”
“I don’t understand.”
“That you’re…the… Lazarus,” she said and whispered the name as if the very mention was a curse in baby’s ears.
“Which part is hardest for you to believe?”
Molly shook her head and shrugged.
“That a prophet from Nazareth – Jesus Christ, no less - brought me back from the dead after three days, cursed me with eternal life and I’ve lived the last 2000 years on Earth?” he said.
“That part. Yeah.”
Lazarus’ eyes were melted caramels when they met hers again. There was a sad smile on his face which made her dampen her own laugh. A fresh wave of people entered the smoking area and expanded out to the last little pocket of space which they occupied; Molly found herself gently edged closer to him. A thought flashed across her mind in the short silence and he saw it there, a spark behind her eyes which she drowned with the last swallow of her own drink, before propping it on a table ledge. She was conscious of her hands now, unsure where to hang them as the space between them closed. No drink to hold onto. No bag strap to strum on. His eyes never left her face and watched as she chewed on her bottom lip, buttoning it lest words escaped that would reveal a truth she didn’t want to slip.
“God, I’ve had too many drinks,” she said and smiled, running her fingers through her golden mane. “Fuck it. I don’t know you from a hole in the wall but…”
She smiled and drew closer, looking for an answer or prompt in his face that would save her from expressing her sentiment fully. Instead, Lazarus continued to look at her, a faint smile on his lips. She dropped her head to her chest and shook her head. She saw the half glass in his hands rise and when it came back down it was empty. A finger below her chin raised her head and she saw the wide grin on his face.
Raising Lazarus Page 10