“Oh, he knows,” Lewin replied. “At least, if he has any recall before he went into the chamber, he’ll already know he’s on borrowed time. Has he spoken to you about Morocco or Father Docherty at all?”
“No,” Molly replied. “He’s either forgotten or is hiding it.”
“Well,” Lewin said, “if he’s adopted this new persona, his real memories may be buried. Probably for the best.”
Molly saw something move behind the eyes of Lewin but decided not to follow up. Her thoughts went to Lazarus and, if what the doctor was saying was true, what it would be like being trapped in a box for seven years. It was bound to have a huge psychological impact on someone.
“You know,” Lewin added, “I think Father Docherty called him Lazarus because he was hoping that he would raise from the dead like the scripture. A second coming, so that when he did come back to reality, there would be a cure for his tumour.”
“Which there isn’t.”
“The doctors said that?”
Molly nodded and got a, “Damn,” from the man opposite. Suddenly on their right, a figure appeared and they looked up at the same time.
“Here you are.”
“Doctor Garner.”
“Thought you’d left. I hope you’re feeling better, Molly?”
“I am, thanks,” she said, rising from her seat. “This is Dr-”
“Lewin. Scott Lewin,” he said and rose quickly, pumping the woman’s hand.
“Another doctor, what do you-”
“Listen, it was nice to meet you both,” Lewin interrupted and patted Molly on the shoulder as he went. “I’m late for an appointment but I’ll check in again with you soon.”
They watched him pull the door and rush outside.
“How is it?” Garner said and looked down to the coffee cup in her hand.
Molly gave a shiver and stuck out her tongue.
“I wouldn’t wash my shoes with it either.” Garner said and handed Molly a knife. “Almost forgot about your pie. Come on, let’s go tell Lazarus together.”
THIRTY-NINE
Her desk space was crowded, an open laptop buoyed above a sea of books and sheets. The cursor point on the blank page winked back. Molly looked at the lower corner and found the battery almost depleted and shut the screen down, slipping the laptop into a case at her feet. With more space to orienteer, she shuffled some of the pages together like playing cards and parked them in the corner. She unscrewed the bottle top of a soft drink and glugged it back.
The library was quiet, soft sounds of turning pages and the occasional crack of a seat as its occupant stretched back. She sat up and looked across the long row of tables, each like her own, circular pies cut into four quadrants. As far as she could see, all the chairs were filled – the students on the opposite table, back turned to her, scribbling away. Further beyond, some of the heads raised above the parapet, peering around before ducking down, whack-a-moles on an arcade machine.
Bookshelves ran along the length of the room. Flat dominoes, spots picked clean by students. Not finding a seat, some sat cross-legged against the columns, computers on laps, tech Buddha’s for the modern age. Others turned back on their tail, shaking their head and left through the main door again.
Molly watched an older man enter, smile and mutter something to the library assistant at the front desk. He followed their finger point and walked past the tables, offering a nod here, a smile there as he passed the students. His eyes scanned the faces closest to Molly, beginning to slow his walk until finally he found the target of his search.
“There you are,” he said and crouched down beside her.
The man had shaggy grey hair that used to be as blond as his short beard. It curved back off the front of his head in a wave, opening up two tunnels on either side of a receding hairline. His woollen turtle neck jumper connected with a stubbly neck. Arcing his head up to her, an Adam’s apple, which looked more like a hairy testicle, danced up and down his throat, running for the cover of the top when she spotted it. Just looking at the neck made her want to itch her own.
“I found that book I promised,” he whispered.
Molly accepted it and looked at the front cover. It was without a sleeve, chocolate brown and she had to turn it around to look at the spine to read its title.
“’Characters of the Bible.’ Thanks Joel,” she said and drummed it lightly on her hand.
“Sorry I couldn’t get it to you sooner. It’s been a busy few weeks over in our department.”
“I can only imagine. Busiest time of year for you, I’m sure?”
“You guessed it. Glad it’s over to be honest,” he said and smiled. “Had to do a few talks over the holidays about the origins of Christianity. I’ll be happy to just sit down and correct some student papers now.”
“Thanks for this,” Molly said and placed the book on her table top.
“I hope it’s still useful?”
“Yeah. Not as much, but I’ll give it a gander anyway.”
“No problem,” the man said and rose on stiff knees that popped like pulled crackers. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“Joel?”
“Yep?”
The man leaned over a folded arm across the table top and peered down at her. The testicle in his throat had climbed from its hiding place and was watching.
“Hypothetical question.”
“Go ahead,” he said, which brought her closer.
“Let’s say you were Lazarus of the Bible. Imagine you were raised from the dead but instead of living a normal life, you were made immortal.”
“You mean like cursed with eternal life?”
Molly shifted in her seat, a little embarrassed with the thread of conversation she had opened, but was reassured by the man’s serious expression which could easily have been laughter.
“Yeah, something like that. How do you think someone would react like that, two thousand years on?”
“Well,” the man said and moved his fingers through his scalp, “I’d be pissed as hell. Watching friends and families die many times over. You wouldn’t want to get close to anyone. I’d curse the day that Jesus had ever laid hands on me and get vengeance one way or another.”
Molly processed this statement and watched the man’s eyes take him to a different place. He quickly shook himself from that state and looked down at her again.
“Just my opinion. What’s yours?”
“Something similar,” she said.
“How’s the thesis coming along?”
She held her face in her hands and pretended to cry. It brought a smile from the man who hooked his body off the table.
“I’ll let you get back to it,” he said and she watched him walk away, slipping out the door.
She released a heavy sigh and looked down at her table top. The thick tome was the centrepiece; she flipped open its hard cover and browsed the contents section. Her finger traced down the page and stopped at a chapter entitled ‘Lazarus – Separating Fact from Fiction’. She flicked to the accompanying section and was greeted by a passage from John’s Gospel, where Lazarus appeared. After reading it, she skimmed through other subheadings which spoke of the town of Bethany at the time of Christ, customs and traditions in the region, black and white photographs of obscure buildings on streets described as modern day.
The laptop bag between her feet shifted and she bent down and leaned it against the little table alcove. She shut the book and searched her table top for inspiration but found none so decided to take out her mobile phone. A piece of paper dropped out with it which she caught and deposited on the table. She flicked the phone’s power on, opened a browser and typed in two words that had been pressing on her mind since their last meeting.
Scott Lewin.
Google threw up links to an obscure artist in the USA, a professional networking page for said artist, a footballer in the UK for a conference league side…
She inserted his title and placed quotation marks
around the article, narrowing searches to the local directory. The artist had somehow evaded her net and still ranked highest but as she scrolled further down there were articles associated with the doctor.
Hampstead Heath Doctor struck off for gross negligence. Dr. Scott Lewin investigated for embezzlement. Doctor fired for suggesting whack new therapy.
“Jesus.”
Molly clicked on one of the higher ranked articles, a newspaper piece dated eight years earlier. The photo of the doctor was unmistakeable. Other subsequent photos showed a man hiding under a suit jacket, leaving a court room, photographers scrambling to take a photo.
Today passed the motion in the High Court that his medical license would be revoked…after hours of testimony from former patients who spoke of a web of lies and deceit…many having lost substantial funds…remained unbowed, despite the ruling and gave a statement to press this morning.
Molly scrolled further down past the photos of Lewin. Archive photos of patients appeared, some young and appearing disgruntled, arms crossed and staring into the camera. Others were pensioners at various events, older photos where they were smiling, surrounded by family at a birthday or wedding. When she had reached a blue box of text Molly swallowed and read Dr. Scott Lewin’s Statement in full, slowly.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. I stand here before you today, beaten but not broken. Many here among you have been performing a witch hunt against me and my alternative therapies for a considerable time now. The ruling which has been passed today, has unfairly handicapped and deprived me of a vocation I love. My ability to mete out and offer a service to those who are in greatest need of it is the ultimate loser in this debacle that we call justice.
“The spurious lies and slandering of my name will not dissuade me from continuing my crusade in some form or another. To my patients throughout the years. Know this - I had your best interest at heart. To my detractors – you will not silence me forever. Big pharma will not silence me forever. There is a growing movement of doctors who will no longer be bullied, made the scapegoat for pioneering new technologies which can pull our antiquated health system into the modern age. Know this my fellow brothers and sisters – you are not alone. The truth will always find a way.
“God Bless you all.”
FORTY
Lazarus tucked the gown under his seated legs, mindful of the wheelchair wheels and spokes which could easily remove his modesty in a heartbeat. Their pace was slow however, and he was certain that the nurses and patients had seen worse things in their lives than his nakedness.
“In here?” came the voice over his shoulder.
“Yep,” he said and motioned to the right with his hand to alleviate any doubt.
When Molly steered him around the corner, a group of faces looked toward the doorway, some smiling, others narrowing their eyes to get a better look, eventually giving up and returning their attention to a newspaper or the TV in front.
“Anywhere?”
“Just up to the table there,” Lazarus said and pointed to a spot. “No, a bit further along, there.”
“You can walk yourself, you lazy bugger!”
“You heard the doctor,” he replied. “No unnecessary movements and plenty of bed rest.”
Molly took a soft chair beside him. On her side of the room, the longest, she occupied one of four chairs pulled back against the wall. On the wall facing the entrance was a long couch where three women were seated. A TV was nearby doing its best to create an ambiance in the common area. There was a gameshow on television and she could tell instantly that it was a rerun, the host having died in the late 90s. Nevertheless, those closest to the TV continued to be riveted, eyes locked on the spinning wheel of fortune and the incomplete word puzzle on the board. From their sour faces, jam jar glasses and tilted heads they appeared to be of the same family – three generations.
The eldest on the far right was draped in a lilac blue robe held tight by a silk cord. Folded arms collected the spill from her chest, that in a former life had once been breasts. The robe ended at the middle of her shin, giving a tantalising glance of the first strands of a webbed network of purple and blue veins beneath.
In the middle, and no more pleasant, a similar sour puss, with a blot of red hair versus her mother’s white. The same posture applied except that she was wearing a skirt that had rode up to her knees and in her seated position unintentionally welcomed visitors to the room with a flash of her undercarriage. Oblivious, she continued to shift around, sticky white knees clapping together to suckle some of the cool air.
The youngest, and what might have been considered the more pleasing-to-the-eye, was anything but, plumbing new depths which her mother and grandmother had been unable to do. The woman, appeared to be in her twenties although it was hard to put a figure on her figure, given that any wrinkle or crease was ironed out under fat creases. They bulged her face and made her eyes look buggy under the thick lenses. Her crossed arms were popped balloons, wet and watery as they shifted under a colossal bosom. The flower shirt struggled with buttons that looked fit to pop and shatter a glass or blind a person if they got close enough. The trouser legs were stuffed like sausages, joined together as if it were one great creased mermaid tail. The comparisons to a creature of beauty ended there as Molly laughed gently under her hand at Lazarus’ reaction.
He mouthed an ‘oh-my-god’ and she scolded him, slapping his forearm. He removed it just in time and she caught the arm of the wheelchair instead.
“Good to see your reactions are getting better!”
“Damn right.”
“Are youse in the hospital for long?” a man said in a seat on Molly’s left.
She turned, surprised to see a relatively young man, somewhere in his thirties. He was watching them and smiling, bright blue eyes flicking between their faces. He had a skateboard ramp for a fringe, was clean shaven with little lips bruised red like he had been kissing all morning.
“It’s been, what?” Molly said and looked to Lazarus. “Three weeks or so?”
“Oh,” the man said and arched his eyebrows. “That’s a fairly long ol’ stint.”
“Ah yeah. Hoping to build up the strength again, you know?”
Molly reached for Lazarus’ hand and found it back on the armrest; she held it. The man nodded slowly, eyes lowered as if she had spoken sage words.
“You in here for long yourself?”
“No, no!” the man said and wiggled around on his seat before sitting up. “Just here to see a friend of mine. An oul’ mucker I used tay go to school with, ye know.”
“Scottish?”
“No,” he said and smiled. “From Northern Ireland.”
Molly grimaced and held up a hand in apology.
“Don’t worry. I’ve been called worse!”
There was a movement in the doorway behind them and Molly and Lazarus turned to see him enter.
“Good afternoon everyone. How are we all today?”
“Hello Father,” came a couple of grumbled replies.
The priest was whip thin, in his fifties and moved with an energy of someone much younger. The type of person likely to polarise his audience – those that enjoy and feed off the energy, and others that are exhausted in his presence and do their best to avoid them at all costs. His face carried a wide smile, eyes chasing the room to find some people more receptive than others.
“Looks like we have a full house today!” he said and he reached down behind Molly’s chair and pulled out a stool.
He propped it in front of the TV, ignoring the couch of potatoes who tried without success, to bend their vision around him.
“And how are the Ilfords today?”
The man’s voice was not designed for close confession, speaking loud enough so that he could be heard by all; even above the gameshow host whipping an audience, probably long since dead, into a frenzy. It was also the kind of voice where those around it had no other option but to park their own private conversations until a later date.
The matriarch of the Ilford clan gave the slightest of nods in the priest’s direction. Her daughter repeated it, before the youngest repeated the move, although it was harder to see with a dollop of cream for a chin that dipped downward into a swell where a neck would typically be located.
“Excellent! Well, I want you to know, Marjorie,” the priest said, leaning forward on the stool. He reached out and prised her folded arms apart and held a hand in his own. “God’s with you always and He blesses you now.”
The woman’s face remained expressionless and looked through the priest. Molly watched their linked hands, saw the man rub the back of her hands with circling thumbs, and nodded as if trying to peck a nail with his head. Suddenly the woman took her hand away and wiped a tear from her cheek.
“That’s it. Good woman.”
The middle woman swivelled around on her seat to comfort her mother. Her legs carried with her, flashing in the priest’s field of vision. He leapt from his seat, staggered back a little and toppled the TV on its stand before reaching out a hand to steady it.
“Good. That’s fine then,” he said and, moving away, fell into a soft seat beside the man from Northern Ireland.
They stared at each other for a few seconds in silence, the priest with a curious expression on his face. The other man looked away and back at Molly, his face a cry for help and a little embarrassed.
“You don’t look sick,” the priest said.
“No. I’m just here visiting a mate of mine.”
“Oh, I love Irish accents,” he said and broke into a smile. “Don’t tell me… Antrim? It’s Antrim, right?”
The man shook his head. The priest buried his head in his hands and seemed to be mumbling through the counties of Ireland until he latched onto one and lifted his face again, a wide smile on it like he had just been visited by the Virgin Mary.
“Tyrone.”
“You got it.”
The priest gave a little squeal of delight and punched the air before holding out his hand.
Raising Lazarus Page 17