Raising Lazarus

by Aidan J. Reid

  “You know them?” she asked.

  “Know their type. I’ll see them again, maybe not this year or the year after. But some year, when they’ll be married to their heifer of a wife who gives them a blowie every time a snowball melts in hell. How’s Lazarus?”

  Molly nodded and smiled, which brought a groan from the other woman who shook her head and looked away from her.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got the bug. Golden rule number one – don’t ever fall for a pro. It’s not like Pretty Woman.”

  “I know that. He’s different,” she said. It brought an instant eye roll from the woman.

  Molly felt the heat rising on her cheeks, looking at the knowing smile of the prostitute who was all wise and a sage for the age.

  “He’s also sick.”

  “We’re all sick. Depends on your perspective. What’s he got? HIV?”

  “What?” Molly said. The thought caused her stomach to knot. “No. Doctors say he has a brain tumour. They say it’s terminal.”

  The prostitute took a slug of her coffee. Her face expressed a lack of interest. Molly began to doubt if there was a chord of humanity still left inside the woman.

  “Anyway. He’s not doing that other stuff anymore. We talked it through. He’s done with it.”

  “He might tell you that,” the prostitute said, “but it reels you back in. Especially now when business is picking up.”

  “What do you mean,” Molly asked, keen to get away from discussion about Lazarus.

  “Well you know that rich billionaire that lives in a house of gold and preaches to the world about poverty and helping his fellow man?”

  “Yeah,” Molly said and couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

  “Turns out he’s good for biz. Got religious nuts, priests, vicars and all sorts flooding our fine city. Quacks that haven’t jacked off since they routed through their mammy’s knicker drawer. Talk about pent up. No wonder they turn to altar boys, the dirty buggers.”

  The woman drained the rest of her coffee and wiped her mouth on a coat sleeve. She stood and Molly with her as they walked to the door together. Molly reached into her pocket to search for coins but was beaten to it by the other woman. She placed one of the bills down on the counter. The droopy faced woman returned her change. Molly thanked the prostitute and opened the door, following her out onto the street.

  “Let me know if you need any help with that project. Business is better, but I can’t say no to a bit of extra on the side.”

  “I noticed. Thanks again for your help.”

  “Whatever. Look after Lazarus, yeah? He’s a fighter. Tough kid. Bit weird but maybe, just maybe. Nah, who am I kidding?” She smirked. “You can do better. Hell, I could doll you up nice and good and take you out on the circuit.”

  Molly had already turned away, looking for an opportune moment to cross. The woman started dusting off Molly’s arms, flicking her hair and walking around her, admiring her like some piece of art.

  “This could work. Stuff a couple of fillets down there,” she said, padding Molly’s chest. “Bit of lippy, we could be a tag team. We’d corner the market. Under 35s, you. Over 35s, me. Like the X-Factor. We’d call it the Sex-Factor. Bring our show on the roads. Split the profits. What do you think?”

  Molly was already walking across the street having spotted a break in the line of cars. The woman watched as Molly reached the front door, pulling out a key for the complex.

  “Tell your boy there’s money to be made,” the prostitute shouted above the noise of speeding cars. “Tell him yeah? Big money!”

  Molly opened the door. She raised a hand to wave goodbye and let the door fall back on itself. Inside, she shook her head and pressed the button for the lift, tired but with a smile on her face.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The governor walked the C Wing of the prison, led by a night duty prison officer – tall, young and well-built but a little green around the gills, a new addition to the team. The man had ears that sprouted from his head, pink flaps that shone bright as they had ascended the steps, the light fixture above beaming down at them. Roy imagined what the officer might have experienced as a kid. Name-calling would soon pale into comparison with what was to come. Prisoners had mercilessly teased him about his own advanced years and they would pounce on any sign of weakness, a way to entertain themselves and others. When they had stepped onto the grille walkway, they moved to the far end of the corridor where Roy made a signal.

  The officer pulled out a stack of keys that hung on a circular loop, attached to a belt buckle and looked through the keys. Roy took the opportunity to look around the interior of the structure, white walled freshly painted, spotless clean with scrubbed floors and landings. It brought a satisfactory smile to his face. The young man was still fumbling around, looking up at the governor and apologising.

  “It’s OK, son. Takes a while to get used to which does what. Try the small thick one. No, not that. The other one. Yes.”

  The governor smiled encouragingly and patted his shoulder, hearing the door unlock. Roy knocked, got a grumble from the other side of the door which he took for a welcome and stepped inside.

  “Hope you don’t mind me barging in like this?”

  The man was seated at his desk, back to the door. Roy looked around the small room and saw everything was as it should be. The small bed was bolted down at the legs in the corner, sheets on its surface ruffled. The bulb above was turned off with the only light coming from a small lamp on the desk beside the bed. It shone, although the wide span of the man crouched over the table meant that the light didn’t travel far. He had removed his top, had a wingspan of two men, big arms splayed out on the table. Roy looked to the side and saw the young officer gulp. They both stared at the tattoos on his back, a tapestry of faces inked and bound together. Some he recognised as former footballers which was confirmed by the appearance on the man’s spine of the Chelsea teams emblem of a blue lion holding a staff.

  “Just mind the door,” Roy instructed the guard and, stepping inside, sat on the edge of the bed.

  The big man remained seated, eyes shooting to the side of his face and he saw the governor in his peripheral vision. He continued writing on the sheet of paper, pencil moving over the words. The silence disturbed him so he turned to face the man on his bed.

  “Shame about Mourinho,” Roy said. “I think he still had a lot to give the club.”

  The man curled his lip up, swivelled back around, and shook his head gently. Roy felt a bite on his line and continued.

  “It’s the fans I feel sorry for. Already charged an arm and a leg to see their team. Just missing the hunger. Player power. Manager gets the axe.”

  The man grunted and Roy asked him to repeat so he cleared his voice again and spoke.

  “No leaders in the team,” he said. “No direction.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. They’re missing a Captain Marvel. Remember the likes of Desailly and Blanc? They wouldn’t put up with that kind of performance.”

  He saw the big man nod on a thick neck. The veins along his temple were thick bungee cords. Watching the heavy-set man, with rounded shoulders leaning over the small table flashed a memory in his mind. Almost two decades earlier, a Christmas with Molly where he sat at her table for a tea party. Everything was miniature sized, with little plates and saucers, beakers that were thimbles in his own hands.

  “Do you go to many of the games, Stephen?”

  “Ste,” he replied. “Every home game.”

  “Do you have a season ticket? Can’t be cheap.”

  He turned around, smiled a jigsaw of teeth forms and nodded with enthusiasm.

  “Very lucky,” Roy said and the man turned away pleased, and found the pencil moving again in his hand.

  “Yeah, I done good. We get treated well.”

  “You mean, you and Gaz?”

  Ste turned around and the smile fell from his face, and Roy knew he had yanked the line too hard too soon and s
pooled out some more line.

  “I haven’t been to a match in donkey’s years. Can’t find the time. Then again, I wouldn’t fancy seeing my lot play, even if you paid me.”

  “Who you support?” Ste asked and Roy watched the writing hand pause, waiting for an answer.

  “The Shakers.”

  The big man turned around again and gave a confused look, which made Roy lean back on the bed and laugh.

  “Bury.”

  Ste shook his head, turned back around and laughed. “Don’t blame you. What are they? Conference or somefin’?”

  “League One now, thank you very much. We don’t have billions to spend like some, but we do have heart and that counts for something.”

  He watched the big man nod his head. The young warden was still looking on from the doorway, feeling redundant and careful not to make a step to interrupt the men’s conversation, lest he be plunged into action.

  “What are you writing?”

  “Ah,” the man winced. “Just a workout program. Free weights.”

  “We have a gym here, you know,” Roy said. “You have access to it.”

  “That’s only two hours a day. Doesn’t give me enough time. I need to work out three times a day.”

  “Three times? Seriously?” Roy let out a whistle, leaning forward on the bed edge again.

  He was leaning on his forearms and rubbing his hands together and waiting for an awkward silence to settle and when it did he spoke softly.

  “You know, Ste? You can make things easier for yourself if you cooperate with the police.”

  He watched the man stiffen in his seat, look up from his paper and straight ahead at the wall.

  “Listen, we know you didn’t go to that apartment just for shits and giggles like Gaz said. That doesn’t make sense. If someone put you up to it, you should let us know.”

  The man took a heavy breath and exhaled gently, slumping forward with eyes dropping shut. The pencil dropped from his finger and Roy heard it land on the table.

  “You’ve only been here, what, a week? I can see it so that your sentence is reduced.”

  “What ‘bout Gaz…?”

  “Take it from me, son. I’ve been in this game half a century and the best way forward for people in a spot like yours is to take the chance when it’s offered to you. All we need is a nod in the right direction – a name or address and we can have you out in time for the next home game. Liverpool, isn’t it?”

  Ste smiled, shook his head to displace it but found it wasn’t possible. He stretched back on the small chair and raised his arms to the ceiling, pulling an imaginary barbell from the sky. When he was composed again, he turned to Roy who was on the edge of the bed, an old heart that had seen a lot but still beat fast with the thrill of getting a disclosure.

  “What do you say?”

  The big man looked down at the pensioner’s weak hand; a hand he could crush to a thousand bone fragments in his vice grip. Yet there was a power behind it that didn’t speak of raw strength. It was a conviction of character, ruled by a sensitivity and sincerity in the man’s eyes. Decades of wisdom and decency. Years of experience dealing with many men like him and treating them like men. Ste reached out and shook the hand.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  “So, remind me again what we’re looking at?”

  The female officer turned to her male counterpart in the passenger seat. He was ten years her senior, but what he had in experience he lost in patience, drumming his fingers anxiously on the dashboard.

  “What was his name, Roy?” she asked over her shoulder.

  Roy Walker cleared his throat and leaned forward from the backseat. It was dark in the car but he could just make out the officer’s face, dim light projected off a door light to their right.

  “Marcus Gunn?”

  “No, the big ugly brute banged up.”

  “Ste, or Stephen.”

  “That’s it,” she said and looked at the passenger. “He gave us some info. Says that his boss, some sort of crime mafia don if you want to call him that, pulls up here same time every Saturday night.”

  “And I suppose you trust him?” the man replied.

  The woman turned away, looking in the side mirror for a movement. Her passenger gave a little laugh and reclined his seat back. Roy slid across to the other end to give himself more leg room.

  “Look around you, Chris. Not like they’d be ambushing us. It’s a housing estate, not a Costa Rican jungle.”

  “A Costa Rican…” the man started, a tone of bafflement in his voice.

  “It was a bargain plea. The guy is looking for a sweetener to cut his sentence and if it leads to something, great. If it doesn’t, then at least you got a nice evening out of the precinct. Breathe in some clean canal air.”

  “That ain’t air worth breathing. Toxic sludge, used condoms and beer cans are the only smells you’ll get here. Trust me. We been down here before. This ain’t no picnic park I tell you. Gonna be an absolute tip tomorrow.”

  All three were staring out the windscreen, the light breeze catching some of the trees nearest. The gravel pathway had remained untouched since their stakeout began an hour earlier. It was dark and even the wandering drunks seemed wise to their presence, taking more circuitous routes to boarded up dwellings, quiet side streets and abandoned houses. The male officer lowered his window a crack and pulled out a cigarette, offering one to his colleague and then to Roy. Both declined and shifted in their seats, Roy rubbed his face while the driver bunched over the wheel, stretching her upper back.

  “Do we know much about this Marcus guy?” Roy asked.

  He watched the back of her head shake slowly before deciding to fall back into her seat and offer a fuller answer.

  “Seems to be in the property game. Well connected. Got his finger in a few pies. Got a fair few bob. Living out in Halifax.”

  “Any prior convictions?” Chris asked and took a draw on his cigarette, blowing the smoke against the window pane where it crept outside.

  “No. Clean as a whistle,” she replied.

  “Use your brain Linda. Couldn’t be that clean if he’s visiting pro sites,” Chris said. “Did your boy tell you anything else Roy?”

  “No,” he said. “I mean, we were both there, right?”

  She nodded, leaned against the door so she could easily snap between the faces of the other officer and the governor.

  “This guy married? Kids?”

  “Neither as far as we know,” she said. “All signs point to him being gay. At least that’s the impression I got from Ste. What do you think, Roy?”

  “I reckon you’re right. Seems like he really has it in for Lazarus.”

  “Lazarus?” Chris asked.

  “That’s the person that Ste and the other one paid a visit too. On Marcus’ orders. I reckon it wasn’t the first time either. He’s been beat up pretty bad in the past. Never admitted who did it though.”

  “What do we know about this Lazarus?”

  “He was in my prison,” Roy said, “a bit of a serial offender. I wouldn’t be surprised if something happened between him and this Marcus. I’m sure there’s history there. I’m guessing they would have met when he was on the street.”

  “He was a prostitute?” Linda asked.

  “Wasn’t that the name of the guy that pulled the kid from the lake a couple months back?” Chris chipped in.

  “Yes on both counts. Same guy,” Roy said and could see the cogs in the woman’s mind already turning and quickly jumped in to grind them to a halt. “Won’t say a word though. You’d get more from one of those trees down there.”

  “Gotta hand it to you Roy,” Chris said. “You go above and beyond the call of duty. Do you look out for all your prisoners the same way when they leave your place?”

  “I’m not doing it for Lazarus,” Roy said and received a confused look from the female officer. “He’s getting closer to my granddaughter. She was with him when Marcus’ guys showed up. Thank god you got there in
time.”

  She turned back around and they followed her gaze out onto the gravel path, shadows under the trees waving back and forth. They could hear the little ripples of the river, an ever-present background noise, not altogether disquieting as each person sunk back into their own thoughts.

  “If trees could talk, these ones would have a story or two I’m sure,” Chris said and dropped his fag through the window gap.

  He screwed the window down a few more inches, the cool air energising as it filled the car. It seemed to remind each of them of their own contrasting degrees of tiredness; a yawn started from Chris and passed around until soon they all found themselves at it.

  “Thanks again for letting me tag along,” Roy said.

  “Happy to have the company,” Linda replied.

  “Something wrong with my company?”

  Linda looked across at Chris and Roy watched the exchange on their faces, Chris hard and severe whereas the woman had a lower lip that picked words off the floor, trying to find the right one. The man laughed and pushed her shoulder with an upturned elbow. She shook her head and smiled back.

  “Is that a light?”

  They stopped and stared ahead to where Roy was pointing. A few seconds passed before Roy pulled his hand back.

  “It’s gone. Thought I saw a spark. Cigarette lighter or something.”

  They continued to stare in silence, scanning between the line of trees, across to the other side of the canal. Linda leaned forward, made binoculars of her hands shielding them from the soft light on their right. Chris propped his seat back up, fixing his attention on a specific box on the windscreen, keeping his keen eyes trained on it.