“Prick!” she said and beat his chest with a fist, lightly but with enough force for him to grab her hand and pull her in close for a hug.
“Come on you! I got some dance moves from the 13th century I want you to see.”
She felt the soft stroke of his palm on the back of her head, and pulled her cheek off his chest. Lazarus took her hand and weaved around the bodies to the entrance again. They flashed the back of their hands to show the stamp and Lazarus held the door open for Molly to enter. When he followed, the arm of Rhino barred his path in the doorway.
“Nah mate. Not tonight,” the man said and clicked a button on a speaker that was clipped to his front pocket.
“I was just in there!”
“What’s the problem?” Molly asked.
“He’s had too much. Can’t let him in.”
“Bullshit!” she said and tried to break under Rhino’s thick arm, but he closed the door and held it with his foot to prevent it widening.
Lazarus stood and held his open palm out to Molly to suggest he would deal with it and began talking to the bouncer, who ignored his pleas, slanting his mouth to talk into the little intercom. Molly looked around for staff but found none. She signalled to Lazarus with a point to the side entrance and he nodded before she turned back and entered the club, following the signs for the emergency exit.
When she heaved the doors open, she spilled out onto a grimy little side street. A couple startled at her presence, the woman hopping up and the man scrambling around his knees to structure the pool of trousers at his feet. Molly sprinted around an overflowing refuse bin, the uneven holed path made easier with her flats. At the end of the corridor of darkness, the street lamps beyond illuminated her way, taxis and staggering punters filing in each direction. She emerged and looked to her right and saw the queue of people snaked around the smoking entrance and strode toward the front entrance, anger setting in her hard jaw, the alcohol evaporating from the mist in her brain to give focus to the words she was about to shoot at the bouncer. Some of those she skipped in the line complained as she approached, and when the door was in her sights she stopped suddenly and scanned the faces. The bouncer glanced at her before turning toward the nearest group at the front of the queue, asking for IDs.
She stepped out onto the pavement again and looked back at the direction she came. Shrieking girls with impossibly thin legs, carried bags bigger than their skirts. Men hugged lampposts for dear life, emblazoning them with their vomit; much to the delight of others who passed by. Looking to her right, she saw a taxi rank and lone wolves with their catch for the night thumbing the driver to confirm their availability. One group seemed worse for wear. Two big men struggled with their load. A small man sandwiched between them wriggled, pulling and clawing from their grasp. But the bigger men were firm. There was no escaping their solid grips. Suddenly, the back door of a black taxi opened and as they muscled the man into the seat, she saw his face. The doors were already closed and as she chased after it, the taxi had already shot out of sight.
TWENTY-THREE
“Here,” the man said. “Take this.”
The woman was sobbing and stroking her belly gently. The man was nibbling on the last cookie, one that he had purposefully saved in the eventuality that they would make it past customs. He broke half of it and offered it to her and the woman accepted it and thanking him, returned to her corner.
It was the first words that they had spoken to each other in hours. It would also be among their last. Both were too traumatised and emotional, initially offering silent prayers and thanks for their escape until practical realities began to replace the joy that threatened to spill over from their heart’s cup. The man began to run through the dialogue with the priest in his mind, and hadn’t anticipated that he would get this far. He began combing over the latter details that they had agreed and, with much of the unpredictability of the journey behind, could start to focus on specifics instead of speculation.
What had been their prison for two days now felt like their safe haven; the longer the lorry was in motion, the closer they were closer to the U.K. There had been a few stops en route, but the driver had stayed in the vehicle and conversed with the officials in English.
Sleep must have taken him at some point, for when he awoke, the chamber had lightened, the blue-grey dawn filtering through, adding contours to the container and colour to the shapes. The woman had fallen asleep too and he could see she was barely older than he, in her mid-twenties, her dark face a shade lighter than his own. Her hands still cupped her belly, she was wearing black trousers and a navy turtle neck jumper that covered her neck. Her head rocked freely from the wall to the pallet as the lorry steered a wide curve and came to a stop.
The man peered out the little stab point in the fabric and could see a petrol pump at his side. The driver stepped out and whistled a tune and he could hear the man’s footsteps recede. The whooshing doors of a service station entrance ended the sound and the stowaway quickly got up, raced across and shook the woman’s shoulder.
“We’re across! Go now!”
She awoke with a fright and, seeing his expression, her panicked face feared the worst. He repeated himself then turned away and leaned over the hole of light, covering it with his slight frame. There was a cutting noise and tearing of fabric, and by the time she had gotten to her feet she could see the flag of material hanging loose like a cow’s tongue on the inside surface. It was about thirty centimetres wide and she watched as he pushed his head through, looking one way and then the other, before popping it back inside.
“It’s clear!”
He tucked the knife back inside the little bag and threw it out. His head followed, and he wriggled against the opening like a birthing calf until his shoulders and hands were free for him to flop out onto the concrete floor. The woman quickly followed, passing her little bundle of rags through first and he helped her slide through and propped her onto her legs.
They stood and looked around. Green fields were on their left. A motorway was on their right, cars oblivious to their arrival racing past. In front of them was the service station. There were no other cars around and they scanned the horizon with eyes adjusting to the orange sun, an egg yolk in the sky slowly climbing, searching like the spotlight in the lorry.
“Good luck,” the woman said and sprinted off.
He didn’t have a chance to wish her the same and, despite the urgency to move, he watched as she rounded the building, hopped over a fence and into a field, disappearing from view from behind the hedgerows.
“What the hell you fink you’re doing?”
The sliding doors had now shut behind the driver as he approached the stowaway who, despite being sleep deprived and oxygen depleted, bolted from the spot. The driver shouted at him and made a little show of pretending to chase, but his bulky frame looked like his running days had long since expired. The stowaway was gone, bag looped through his arms and around his shoulders, locked in a sprint until he had followed a similar trail to the woman, leaping over the fence.
Instead of continuing onward, he hid under the thicket of bushes and watched from afar as the irate driver cursed at the discovery of the ripped side of the lorry. The busy traffic on the side swallowed up the few choice curse words, as he kicked the tyres of the lorry. He pulled out a mobile phone, pacing up and down and scratching his head all the while. When the man had received orders to return to base, and the lorry had pulled out of the shop driveway, the young man waited for another twenty minutes before he crept out from his hiding place and entered the shop.
“Hi, do you have a bathroom?”
“Customers only,” the young blonde woman said, looking him up and down. “You need to buy something first.”
The man looked around, searching for something familiar, feeling her stare on him until he saw the fridge by the side of the wall. Pulling out a bottle of water, he gave her a £50 note which she shook her head at before slapping his change down on the counter.
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br /> “Back corner. Punch in the code. 4364.”
“Thanks. One other thing. Do you know a coffee shop called the Grey Goose?”
She took a deep breath and seemed put out by the question, releasing it through a clenched jaw. Her eyes were arrowed upward and away from him, either to trigger that neural pathway in her brain or expressing boredom. He suspected the latter. Either way he didn’t care as long as he got an answer.
“Twenty-five mile. Follow the motorway. Part of the omniplex. Can’t miss it.”
The words seemed heavy to carry and it was with effort that she released them, several at a time, like she was dealing cards. The young man thanked her, and she turned her attention to the next customer.
As he approached the rest room, he looked at his watch. He had already adjusted it to UK time and read that it was 8 a.m. He didn’t have much time to make the café in time for midday. But if not today, then tomorrow. He had come this far and, if the priest was right, he was within touching distance of an encounter that would change his life forever.
TWENTY-FOUR
The first thing that woke her was the ringing. The second was the cool pool of slobber that bathed her pillow. Combined, it wasn’t the nicest way to greet a morning. She rolled up, swiped the phone off the window ledge and croaked a greeting into the phone.
“Morning, hope I didn’t wake you up?”
“No. God no,” she said, pulling the phone off her slobbered face and wiped it with a dry palm.
The phone display told her it was shortly after 9 a.m. and the woodchopper in her brain was only just polishing his axe.
“OK, that’s good.”
“What is it, Granda? Everything alright?”
“Yeah. All good. Just wanted to see how you were getting on with that thesis of yours?”
The first chop was brutal, and she felt it numb her senses. At the mention of the word, her rasping throat let out a little pained cry.
“That bad, eh?” Roy said. His laughter seemed to compel the chopper to quicken his beat.
She smacked her dry lips and wiped the crusted sleep from her eyes. Against the bright light on the blinds she jumped on its beam and her bedroom floor for anything remotely passable as liquid. There was a dented can of coke beside a half-eaten burrito, wrapped in a silver coat on the floor. She rotated around, sat up on the bed and bent to reach for the can. Snapping its tab, she glugged it down, feeling it fizz over a tongue which was a beach flip-flop before the trail lubricated a parched throat.
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Better?”
Despite her hangover, she managed a little laugh and apologised, parking the can back beside the exploded burrito, whose rice entrails sprayed across the floor.
“Anyway, I just wanted to check in and see if you wanted any help. We also picked up our friend again last night.”
“You have Lazarus?” she said and jumped to her feet, almost kicking the can over.
“’Fraid so. Been up to his old tricks again ‘cept this time was fairly drunk when we found him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Stinking of booze. Not seen him in that shape before. Didn’t even know he was a big drinker. Don’t surprise me though, I ‘spose. Probably comes with the territory.”
“Is he under arrest?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. We just picked him up for his own safety. Found him wandering the streets. Gave him a bed for the night. More for his own safety.”
“Is he OK?”
“He’s his normal charming self,” the man said and laughed. “Ain’t said much. Just gone back into his shell like normal.”
Molly thought for a moment, brain beginning to click into gear.
“Do you mind if I come in? I mean, to speak with him?”
“Yeah, sure. That’s why I called you before we let him out. Thought you might get something from it. See you in-?”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” Molly said as she tore off the clothes she was still dressed in from the night before and raced to the shower.
TWENTY-FIVE
They were strangers but it didn’t stop him from hugging the man or stemming the tears that accompanied their embrace.
“You OK?” he said, mildly embarrassed and aware of the curious faces turned away from their coffee cups, staring at them.
“I wasn’t sure you were even real. I didn’t know what to expect. I just hoped and-”
“You’re fine. You’re in safe hands now. Welcome to England,” the man said and patted his back.
The younger man held onto him as if he were a buoy. He slumped forward, and was quickly ushered into a seat.
“He’s OK,” the man said to others who were watching the scene. “Long time.”
A barista approached and looked at the younger man who was sloped in his seat, propped up against the circular table. She turned to his neighbour who smiled back and requested a couple of coffees to go, before retreating to the kitchen.
“Father Docherty told me all about you. It’s great to finally meet his young protégé.”
The younger man seemed to have gained some energy from the padded leather seats and his breath had returned to normal. He had enough energy to look up and see the man smile.
“I only live about forty-five minutes away. A short drive after what you’ve been through I’m sure.”
The younger man smiled and nodded slowly. His eyelids drooped and he struggled to keep them open, despite the earlier adrenaline which had flushed through his body.
“That would be great,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough, Doctor Lewin.”
“Please, call me Scott.”
Lewin had a neat cut, chestnut brown, combed off a wide forehead that looked like a spade face. He wore rimmed blue glasses. Big brown eyes like wet stones shone through the lenses, and a goatee board, neatly clipped and dense like magnetized metal filings, crowded around his chin and upper lip.
Their coffees arrived and Lewin encouraged the man to take a few sips before getting up. The piping liquid seemed to restore some colour to his cheeks. After a few minutes, they left the coffee shop and entered the car park. Lewin pulled a key fob from his pocket and a Landover a few paces ahead winked at them. He opened the door for the passenger and safely closed it before getting into the driver seat and buckling up.
The creamy dashboard was spotless with a teak polish, bright and marbled. The seats were also white, luxurious and regal. Lewin started the ignition and the car purred, before he pulled it slowly around the aisle of cars and out onto the motorway, where the sleek animal stretched its limbs and shifted up through the gears. Soon, they were weaving around the traffic, which seemed to hover below them from their raised view.
“How is Father Docherty? When will he be here? Is he OK?”
“Well,” Lewin said and smiled, “why don’t you call and find out for yourself?”
Lewin picked up the phone in the glove compartment hollow of the car and pressed a button in its centre. He passed it to the passenger who looked at him and received a nod, before pressing it to his ear.
There was a silence for several seconds and he was going to say something to the driver but soon heard the click and dial. Suddenly there was a familiar voice on the other end, hurried and desperate.
“Scott? Please tell me he made it.”
“I made it,” the man said and could hear the crying on the other end of the phone.
TWENTY-SIX
The governor tipped the tray, sending coins sliding to the corner nearest where his hand caught them. He reached it over to the other man who offered thanks and deposited the shrapnel in a trouser pocket, a sea of coins for his thin wallet to float in.
“Now Lazarus…”
“I know, I know Roy. Save it. I’m as sick of hearing it as you are of saying it.”
“Makes no odds. I got a duty of care to tell you.” Roy stepped forward and clapped two hands down square on his shoulders and stared into his face. “Please,
look after yourself.”
The younger man offered a smile which failed to unlock the man’s hands.
“I mean it.”
“Sure. You ready?” Lazarus said and turned to Molly who was watching, and she nodded.
“OK,” he said and tapped the ribcage of the governor who pulled his arms back.
“Molly?” the governor said and signalled with a head nod for her to stay.
Molly looked at her grandfather and then at Lazarus who was in the doorway.
“I’ll catch you up. Just be a minute.”
Lazarus shrugged and then slipped out the door. The governor waited until the door had closed back on itself.
“I know what you’re going to say grandad,” Molly said. “You don’t need to worry. I’m just going to give him a lift. It’ll give me another chance to ask a few more questions for my project.”
“You’re sure about that?” he asked and gave a I-wasn’t-born-yesterday expression.
She glanced away nervously before offering a smile.
“Honest. I’ll just take him into town. Thanks for everything.”
When she exited through the prison door, she saw Lazarus leaning with his back against the wall. His eyes were closed, face tilted up in the direction of the sun. It was cool, and for a second she watched him, his breath misting in front. He seemed to sense her stare and when they locked onto her eyes, she quickened her step and joined him.
“He really cares for you, you know?” Molly said, shooting past.
Lazarus kept pace with her, looking straight ahead. When they rounded the corner of the high white walls of the prison, he was momentarily blinded, holding up a palm to screen his face. The winter sun above was cold but bright. Molly fished out a jangling set of keys and aimed it at a parked car propped up on two wheels on the kerb.
“What? You’re just not going to say anything?” she said and got into the driver seat.
Raising Lazarus Page 11