Raising Lazarus

by Aidan J. Reid

  Panicking, he looked around, wincing despite the pain in his eyes. Reaching out for objects that were too far away, he groped with freezing hands that no longer felt like his own. Blinking the lids shut, he felt the air begin to seep out the side of his mouth. When he opened his eyes, it had already gotten darker. The chatter of his mind drifted slowly, abandoning him. The silence almost welcoming. The sounds above had died. There was a peaceful ambiance in the depths that calmed him, his initial fears dissipating. In the murky haze, there was a movement ahead. He watched the shapes swim. From their dance, he thought he saw a face form from the cloud of fish. Smiling but sad. Tears in a man’s eyes. His chest trembled as he continued to sink further. A movement brushed his arm and he turned slowly. The last breath of air escaped his mouth as he was shaken from his dream. Arms and legs spasming in one final act of defiance before the icy grip reached his heart. Beside him, a child stared back with lifeless eyes.

  By this stage, some younger men had reached the hole, those hardy enough to risk their own mortality. Some had stripped off and were arguing among each other about jumping in when suddenly a head emerged from below and cracked through the fractured ice surface. His face was blue and gasped for air. There was a bundle in his arms and the men pulled it onto the surface. Two of them began administering CPR. Lazarus didn’t have the strength to keep afloat and found himself falling back through the ice again. A pair of hands caught him before he plummeted, sliding him up and over onto his side.

  There was a spluttering from the side as the boy choked up the ice water from his lungs. The little girl began crying and calling his name. Somewhere in the distance, Lazarus’ thought he could hear an ambulance siren wailing and tried to steady his staggering breath. One of the boys was bent over, hugging him and rubbing his bare shivering shoulder. His warm breath and tears were pin pricks on his cold skin. The heat helped to breathe new life into Lazarus, who reached out with a trembling hand and slid his bundle of clothes across. The bright sun above was blinding, and the boy helped put the jumper back on the diver. He was still too weak to stand and crawled toward the child who was laying on his side, breathing hard.

  “Hey, you’re OK,” Lazarus said and rubbed heat into his back with his palm.

  His face was very pale but seemed to slowly leech colour from the air. Eyes managed to flutter back into his skull under heavy lids. Flashing lights entered the park, and the group turned to it.

  “We need to get him off the lake.”

  Two of the older teens volunteered, and with Lazarus’ prompt pulled the little body off the ice and carried him off to the edge. The rim of the lake was lined with people watching the scene, nervous glances at the little boy and then at the teens carrying him to judge the severity of his condition. Two of the medics greeted them as they crossed onto the grass bank and took the bundle from their arms. They ran to the back of the vehicle and, propping him on a bed, tied an oxygen mask around his face. The two teens looked at one another, blowing out a large breath before the crowd circled them, offering congratulatory handshakes and clapping them on the back. A warm applause broke out spontaneously. A third medic exited the driver’s door and approached, the crowd parting for the man.

  “Lads, you should stick these on,” he said and handed them silver foil sheets.

  “No, we’re grand,” the older one said, a rough around the edges rugby type, all nose and puffed muscle.

  A couple of girls in the crowd had edged forward to get a closer look, nervous glances cast up at them.

  “What condition are the others in?” the medic asked.

  The crowd looked around and saw the line of four slowly walking back, the little girl on the end eager to do her bit, pulling the diver up straight to his feet.

  Lazarus was shivering violently. Teeth chattered in a locked jaw. His eyes squinted against the painful overhead sun rays. His feet shuffled, cold bricks on wobbling legs. But despite the immediate pain, he found a reason to smile as a crying Molly Walker broke through the little pack and held her arms out to hug him.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The young man and the priest had arms locked around each other’s shoulders at the kitchen table. Smiles that erupted on meeting were hard to shift and still played on their faces thirty minutes later. Dr. Scott Lewin was sitting opposite them and cradling a ceramic cup of coffee as big as a soup bowl. The frothy cream caught the tips of his moustache which he hoovered off with a fat bottom lip.

  The kitchen counter lights were turned on, illuminating the room but not too brightly and they sat at a table strewn with empty takeaway foil trays. Soy sauce flavoured the air, but only just. The last wisps floated through the open window and into the dark sky behind Lewin. He stood suddenly, began picking up the plastic trays and deposited them into a big cardboard bag that had been ripped in their haste to release the food. The priest unhooked himself from the young man and offered to help, but Lewin shooed him away, dumping the rubbish in a small flip bin underneath the sink, before sitting back down.

  “Just what the doctor ordered,” the priest said. “No pun intended.”

  They laughed and slid back in their chairs, swollen full bellies overlapping belts that had to be gently eked out to accommodate their food babies.

  “How you feeling?” Lewin asked.

  “Me? Tired. Good though. Happy to be back.”

  “Yeah. Long ol’ stint. Well, I’ve made up a bed for you. It’s on the floor so you’ll have to toss a coin to see who gets the upper deck and who gets the floor bed.”

  “I’ll take the floor. No problem.”

  The priest made a mock protest but was beaten down by the younger man who insisted.

  “Let me just go and prepare it,” he said, receiving a pat on the shoulder from the priest as he left the room.

  When he entered the bedroom, he made quick work of beating the pillows into shape and replacing the current sheets with a fresh set from the cupboard. The door was open and when he had finished ruffling them and tying the corners over the mattress, he could hear the voices of the priest and doctor.

  Slipping out from the doorway, he crept along the hall, sliding along the wall until the whispers were strong enough to reach his ears.

  “There’s no way you can go back then?” It was the voice of Dr. Lewin.

  “I can’t. It’s only a matter of time. Whether they can trace it to me is another matter. I leave that in God’s good grace.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “We moved it to an underground car park.”

  “Jesus, Father.”

  “I know. I know.”

  They stopped talking. The younger man edging closer to the door.

  “Well,” Lewin said. “It is what it is. Didn’t sound like you had much of an option. So how do you want to approach the treatment? How do you want to tell him?”

  “I think honesty is the best policy. He needs to know what he’s getting himself into.”

  “OK. So, when do we start?”

  “Is it ready?”

  “As ready as it’ll ever be.”

  “In that case, no point in waiting. Start tomorrow.”

  The sounds became muffled, and the younger man strained to hear. He pulled closer to the door, beginning to think that they had somehow detected his soundless soft steps on the landing. It was the priest’s heavy sigh that he recognised.

  “Tell me again, it’s safe?”

  “It’s safe. My trials had a 100% success rate.”

  “But what about the other times? Scott, as your friend, you know I have your back. The others have said- “

  “I know what they’ve said. They’re wrong!” Lewin answered. “They have no idea how it works. They’ll come around eventually. This time it’s going to be different.”

  “Without support- “

  “I have everything I need here. Listen. I understand your concerns. Mistakes were made before, but the process is still the same. It’s the same biology. I’ll need more juice to mainta
in the temperature, and, well…”

  “Well what?”

  “Well, we don’t know yet how long you want him to be under.”

  “Lord help us. There are too many things that could go wrong,” said the priest, the earlier cheer in his voice was now racked with emotion. “I made a mistake coming here. I didn’t realise it would be like this.”

  “Listen, Father,” Lewin implored. “You came here for a reason. That there might be hope. I won’t lie to you, but what have you got to lose?”

  “What have we got to lose? A young man’s life is what we’ve got to lose!” The priest’s voice was raised now and Lewin shushed him back down.

  “OK. Calm down. So, what do you want to do?”

  “We talk it through with him. I talk it through with him. Leave the decision in his hands.”

  “And if he doesn’t go for it?”

  “Then God help us all.”

  THIRTY

  The prison warden had her feet up on the table, leaning back in her chair. A TV was high up in the wall on mute, and flicking through the channels she gave a big yawn. She reached across the table, popped a sweet in her mouth and washed it down with a slug of coffee. The flicker in her hand continued to scan through the options until it stumbled on one of the local channels. She sat up in her chair and read the text banner at the bottom.

  “Roy,” she shouted and got a mumble from the room next door. “I think you should see this.”

  She heard the creak of his seat as he rose, the slow steps coming to rest as he stood beside her chair.

  “What is it?”

  “Look,” she answered, flicking her head.

  A TV reporter was on the screen, auburn hair, a red lipstick matching her coat as she spoke into a microphone. She was smiling, bright and polished teeth, a little cold breath escaping as she paused and nodded to an earpiece, sounds from a more comfortable studio setting which the cameras panned to. The suited men and women asked questions with the little alternative camera banked in the upper corner showing her nod.

  “Turn it up.”

  She raised the clicker and they watched the bars leap across the screen as the volume increased.

  “…where today there was a dramatic rescue of a young boy who had fallen into the frozen lake. With me now we have the hero at the scene.”

  “Well, I’ll be-”

  “Shush,” he said and stepped closer to the TV.

  The reporter was back on full screen and the camera panned back as the woman turned to her right. In the frame now was a man covered in a foil sheet, looking sheepish, still shivering and not sure where to look.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lazarus.”

  “Can you tell me what happened out there? What you were feeling when the little boy went under?”

  The interviewee shrugged his shoulders, turned to someone out of sight and nodded, before bending toward the microphone which looked like a bloated match stick.

  “I did what anyone would do. There was a kid in danger, and I didn’t think twice.”

  “You risked life and limb to run across a lake which was thawing to save a drowning child,” the news reporter fawned. “What was going through your mind when you saw him struggling?”

  “Nothing. It was just instinct. Like I said, I didn’t have time to think.”

  “Instinct,” the reporter said into the mic and waved it back in his face.

  Lazarus nodded and looked around. There was a wall of people behind them and some cheered for the interviewee who was shrinking with the attention, abashed and not sure where to turn his gaze.

  “Can you tell our viewers how you managed to find the strength and energy to dive into the ice-cold water? In fact, how cold was it down there?”

  “It was cold,” he said and received a roar of laughter from behind. “I knew it wouldn’t hurt me and that I would be fine.”

  “Well, with a biblical name like Lazarus, your faith must be strong.”

  “I…” Lazarus started but there was a voice to his side, barely audible that distracted them.

  The camera panned back further, bringing his neighbour into focus. Her body was turned toward him and they were holding hands.

  “Is that-?” the prison warden asked, looking up at Roy who was so close to the screen he could nearly touch noses with his granddaughter. He stood in front of the TV open mouthed and didn’t respond.

  The head of a little blonde girl in pig tails, hopped into the screen at the bottom of the shot. She balanced a red bucket on her head which jangled with coins until one of the group managed to hook her off the screen. The camera zoomed in on the face of the couple.

  Addressing the woman on his side, the reporter asked, “How brave is this man? He seems to be taking it really well considering he was moments from death. I’m sure you must have been absolutely terrified when you saw him plunge into the water?”

  “He’s a tough cookie. I can’t imagine what he must have been going through down there,” she said and received vigorous head nods from the reporter. “We’re just grateful that no one was badly hurt, though our prayers and thoughts are still with the young boy.”

  The reporter turned to the camera and it panned back again as she addressed the studio.

  “On that,” she said and looked down to her card which was out of shot, “Latest news from Claremont Hospital is that little Dean Bricknell is recovering well. Doctors are hopeful that not only will he make a full recovery, but he’ll also be released in time for Christmas.”

  There was a spontaneous cheer behind her as the group reacted to the news. The reporter smiled, pressing her ear piece until she had silence again and curled around the microphone.

  “Well, with only three months until Pope Francis arrives, there will be more questions than answers around the safety and security of our park as the venue for his arrival. Those are questions which will need to be put forward to Mayor Rooney to assure not only the public’s safety at such a gathering, but that we have the resources capable of hosting such an international event that is sure to attract people in their tens of thousands. The debate will continue, but for now from me – Kay Thompson, a very humble hero and his relieved girlfriend, we go back to you in the studio. Ken.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  After a breakfast of warm pancakes layered with thick honey paste, Lewin cleared the dishes to the sink. Returning to the table, he turned to the priest, offered a little nod of his head, before leaving the room and closing the door gently behind.

  Father Docherty had almost finished his cup of coffee by the time the younger man had taken his first sip. The priest’s smile was weak and although their sleep was long and soundless, his age was showing now. Hands with a tiny imperceptible tremble. Heavy, darkened bags under his eyes packed with a lifetime of worry. White, ash hair that before looked strong like fishing line, now looked like the puff of a dandelion head. There was a smattering of colour around the cheeks, no longer a rosy blush but instead a constellation of broken blood vessels, purple and devoid of life, a dead star on the stretch of grey sky that was his face.

  “Makes a good coffee does Scott.”

  “I heard you talking last night.”

  The priest straightened suddenly, and all semblance of a smile left his face. He rotated the cup around in his hand and stared into the bottom of it where the froth had formed at the edges like old spider web in an attic space.

  “I thought you were a bit quiet,” the priest said and sighed.

  “I want you to know that I trust you. You brought me this far.”

  “We’re not out of the woods yet. There’s still a big risk in what we’re planning.”

  “What about the risks that you were facing back in Marrakesh? Those men will still be out there.”

  “Listen. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll never go back there. My life is here now.”

  The younger man nodded, took a sip of his coffee, leaned back in his seat and waited for the priest to cont
inue. He took a few moments, weighing up the words carefully, biting on his lip before launching in.

  “This treatment,” he said. “The technology that Scott uses. It’s not… how would you say? Widely accepted.” The priest received a confused look from the younger man which prompted him to reword his description. “You could call it cutting edge – pioneering – whatever. The fact is that it’s pretty new and there aren’t many practitioners that use it or even advise it.”

  “How many?”

  “Well… just Scott, in fact.”

  The younger man took a deep intake of breath and looked out the window. The sky outside was stitched together in a grey quilt of clouds that matched his mood. There was an electrical charge in the air which he could feel in the room as if it could storm at any moment. A few squawks from birds twittered nearby, shrieking as if in warning at the impending break that would shatter the peaceful picture card setting beyond, green fields and tall conifers framing the long garden of the household.

  “Do you trust him, Father?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve known him long enough.”

  “Then I trust you.”

  “There’s more,” the priest said and received a nod to continue. “You remember what the doctor said about your tumours?”

  “He said one was at the frontal lobe, and there was a second near the… what do you call it? Pineal gland?”