“Oh Christ,” Molly said. “Oh God. What have I done?”
Lazarus offered no response or comfort, sitting in the passenger side hands open on his lap. Molly saw another road block ahead and pulled down a side street which spat them out onto traffic again. It was a steady flow and she slotted into the line as it crawled forward. They stopped at lights, Molly cursing and feeling the phone in her pocket vibrate again. Traffic lights halted their progress and she leaned an elbow against the wheel and rubbed the rain off her face.
“Fuck Fuck Fuck!” she shouted and punched on the steering wheel. “Where the hell were you?”
Her anger turned to Lazarus, looking at him. There were tears running down his face which instantly cooled her fury. A car behind honked and she looked up, saw the green light and sped off.
“Jesus. What’s this they’re saying about you being dangerous and a threat?”
The hood of the top had fallen back against his neck. His chin was dropped to his chest. The tears continued to streak down his face. He shook his head slowly, eyes closed and sunken in his seat.
There was a blue light in her rear-view mirror, dull in the rain spatter. The car was a little further back and she had no doubt who their target was.
“Shit,” she said. “Lazarus, help me! What do I do?”
He rubbed his face, wetting an already soaked sleeve and looking in the side mirror he saw what she saw. Senses seemed to return as he looked around for directions and, with a sign appearing on the right, made a quick calculation in his mind.
“Get into the right lane,” he said. “For the Durham bypass.”
“It’s the bloody police,” she argued. “We can just explain it was a big misunderstanding. I’m sure they’ll understand. It was that bastard Marcus. I’m sure of it.”
She veered out onto the right lane, angering drivers who honked. The siren was louder now and some of the other cars stopped to let it cut through their lanes. Molly pulled up through the gears and followed the signs carefully, focusing on one thing at a time until she was clear of the traffic. The police car was in her rear-view mirror and she could see it clearly. It inched forward in the mirror, growing larger, and she found her foot pushing down on the accelerator.
“Lazarus! Talk to me!” she shouted, unable to look across, veering around sharp bends and straining to keep the wheel under her control.
Molly found the bypass and with it more cars to weave around. Her head was swirling, breath hurried, trying to coax it and a heartbeat into safer territory. Ahead was the arched structure of the bridge, black against the grey clouds. She looked down at the speedometer and saw they were pushing 100 mph, a speed she had never travelled on dry terrain, let alone wet. Spray hit them from the car in front and she felt the tyres barely grip the road as she swerved out and narrowly missed the vehicle.
In her side mirror she saw a motorbike. It moved up alongside her and she felt it edge her toward a place she didn’t want to go.
“Jesus! God please! Lazarus help me!”
“Keep going,” he said. “Aim for the bridge.”
“And then what? Christ,” Molly said and could barely control herself, looking between the road, and the mirrors, with a frantic face. “What were you planning to do? God almighty!”
“Finish this,” he replied.
“Finish what?”
Molly felt the car aquaplane, steering wheel useless in her hands. It finally caught drier terrain and she slowed and corrected course. The arches of the bridge loomed high above, thick wrought iron which cut the bridge arches in triangles. It soon passed their windshield as her speed continued to climb.
“I’m tired,” he said and took a long breath. “I’ve been here for so long now, it’s hard to have hope.”
He reached out a hand and stroked her leg. She was too focussed on the mirror reflection to notice. A second police car had appeared from nowhere, a widening net beginning to assemble to throw over the vigilantes. At the far end of the bridge, there was a twinkling like sun on a diamond. Molly leaned forward, squinting against the wet pane, trying to make sense.
“Honey, your nose.”
Lazarus used a finger to wipe the trail of blood that curled onto his lip and wiped it on his leg. He sucked back the flow and swallowed it in his throat.
“The only hope I had was to do something so drastic. Spit in the face of He who cursed me so that this ‘gift’ would be taken from me.”
When she looked in the rear-mirror, she noticed that the cars and motorbikes in chase had slowed their pursuit.
“I think we might be clear.”
“But you had to interfere.”
As Molly slowed the car, she watched the mirror reflections get smaller. The fear which had almost swallowed her was abating and she began to breathe easier again. His hand was still on her leg, gently caressing it.
“Granda must have called them off,” she said and allowed herself to smile. “I knew he’d speak some sense to them.”
She looked at Lazarus who didn’t share in her joy. His face was turned away, looking out the window. His jaw was locked tight and she could see the plates grinding beneath.
“This was my best chance and you took it from me.”
“What are you talking about?” she said and when his face turned to meet hers, she saw it relax.
Lazarus lifted up his top. The jumble of parts were fastened tight around his front, taped down. Molly’s reaction almost skidded her off the wet tarmac, before she successfully gripped the road.
“What the hell is that?”
“They were right,” he said, a measure of calm back in his voice. “I was going to do something.”
A smile returned to his face. The teeth were smeared with some of his blood. He reached out a hand to her face and stroked the cheek as she flicked eyes between the road and him.
“Someone put you up to this,” she said and took a hand from the wheel, holding it out for him to hold. “We’ll explain it to the police. It’ll be OK.”
He looked at her hand and then back to her face. His hand stroked her cheek and she moved her lips toward it, kissing his palm. Finally, it dropped from her face and in one swift movement he grabbed the wheel and yanked it hard to the right, against the wall of the bridge. The car burst through and plummeted into the river far below.
Epilogue
Tim Lawson was having one of those days where a fart was a shit and puddles were pools. When he entered the bar, he made a beeline for the bathroom, to wipe dry one end and wipe clean the other. Anticipating strict procedure would apply, namely that toilets were for customer use only, he widened his trajectory, passing a solitary seated drinker at the counter and within earshot of the barman, ordered a cider. The man looked bored, drying a glass in his hand and looked away from the TV, nodding as Lawson opened the door of the gent’s toilets.
When he emerged, pink palmed and fresh faced, he was pleased to find his pint ready and waiting for him at the bar counter and he took a stool beside the other drinker. He relieved his pockets of enough loose change to meld together a train set which the barman took, pinging open the cash register and slotting them inside.
“Some day for it,” Lawson said.
“Fierce altogether,” the barman replied and looked back up at the TV images.
Lawson took a moment to look around the pub, not typically a fan of the idiot box, especially in a place where alcohol was served. There was no one else around, and spying the arcade machine in the corner saw it was poker. He made a mental note to rid himself of the remaining coins there before he left.
“Ah, there’s a man with the right idea,” he said nodding over to the other figure at his side. “A wee whiskey is the best shot you could ask for to cure the chills.”
The other man remained impassive. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the top still placed over his head. Tilting his face sideways, the man gave a little imperceptible nod which was enough for Lawson to acknowledge that he wasn’t the chatty type.
Running low on options, he looked back to the barman again whose attention was still on the screen, turning the volume up.
‘With record crowds in attendance. Numbers were estimated to be in excess of 150,000. Those lucky enough to be there for the momentous day braved torrential weather…’
“There’d be a few wet bodies out there I’d say,” Lawson said and took a sip of his cider. “Be a while before people get back for their supper.”
“Ah yeah,” the barman replied. “Glad we’re away from there. Far too many people. “
“Did you hear that?” Lawson said, looking to the man beside him for a reaction. “A business that doesn’t want more customers! That’s a nice problem to have.”
The man ignored him, lifted the glass to his lips and sank back the dirty brown liquid until the ice cubes clinked back.
‘Beginning with a two-hour Mass, where Christians gathered at the park and further afield to witness events on a day that will live long in the memory…’
The images on the screen showed the pontiff at various stages throughout the day. Arriving on a grey morning he was flanked by worried clergy who were looking skyward for divine intervention from the weather. Lawson could see the lapse of the day without the need for audio confirmation, umbrellas sprouted like pulled grey hairs on the park with a panoramic sweep. Despite the soaking hair, wet socks, smeared face paint and ruined cardboard posters meticulously created at home, the shots on TV still showed smiling close-ups, grown-ups singing, hugging one another, tears welling in their eyes showing their adoration and emotion of being lucky enough to share in this lifetime moment.
‘As Pope Francis did his usual tour, despite conditions where flooding had made parts of the route almost unnavigable…’
“Unnavigable? Is that a word?” Lawson said and laughed.
He took another swallow of the cider and felt it warm his belly. The man beside him shifted in his seat, circling the tumbler of ice now and swigged back some of the cubes. Lawson looked beyond and saw the sun’s rays on the coloured glass panes of the bar, and realised that it seemed to have stopped raining.
“Hey,” he said. “The…”
“Shush,” the barman said, cutting him off and raised the volume further.
‘Not without drama however, as a security alert prompted police to cut short the pontiff’s circuit before it had really begun. The high-speed car chase eventually ending when the driver lost control of the vehicle and plunged into the Hewson river…’
“Christ,” Lawson said and leaned forward on the bar counter, looking at the images on screen.
Both men watched as the images flashed back, a railing of the bridge torn asunder with police cordoning off the hole, directing traffic in a single lane past.
‘We are receiving news that the woman has been recovered by divers and is currently in intensive care at Westbrook Hospital….’
The news reporter was doing the paper shuffle to lengthen the time before her teleprompt fed her additional information. When she looked back up, a snippet had been added which she read slowly.
‘Confirmed as Molly Walker, a 21-year-old student at Lionsdale University.’
An image flashed on the screen of a blonde woman, with a tagline reference below it to reveal it was sourced from Facebook. She was sitting on a kerb and looking up into the camera, wide smile and hand screening the sun from her face above.
“Isn’t that the same girl that was on the news a few months back?” Lawson said.
The barman shrugged, picked up the empty glass on the counter and placed it in the sink.
“The one in the lake,” Lawson persevered, trying to scan through his memory. “I’ll be damned if it wasn’t. Was all over town at the time.”
“Wait,” the barman said. “You talking about when the kid nearly drowned?”
“Yeah!” he said, eyes wide and pointing. “That’s the one! There was that kid that pulled him from the lake, remember?”
‘His whereabouts remain uncertain with divers extending their perimeter. Witnesses state that the man, who is middle eastern in appearance, was wearing a green hoodie with a university emblem on its front…’
“I remember that,” the barman said. “Biblical soundin’ name. Something like Abraham or Jacob or something old.”
“No, it was with an L,” Lawson said.
‘Police are hopeful of finding the man’s body but has urged the public to exercise caution. They will release a photo-fit later today for the man who is described as 5 ft. 8, of slim build, with an olive complexion and goes by the name…’
“Lazarus.”
They said it at the same time as the news anchor and the realisation suddenly dawned as they both looked at the spinning, empty bar stool. Their eyes lifted toward the door as it swung shut.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
You made it!
My sincerest thanks for taking the time to read RAISING LAZARUS.
The inspiration for this book came from watching ‘The Green Mile’ (for probably the fiftieth time). Mr. Jingles, the mouse and the real hero of the story was restored to life by big John Coffey, who, in many ways, had Christ-like qualities - misunderstood, kind-hearted, a healer, but was ultimately sentenced to death for a crime he didn’t commit.
Late in the movie it is revealed that Mr. Jingles, who had been stomped on by a prison guard, is still alive decades later. I considered whether this ‘gift’ of being raised from the dead was really a blessing or a curse.
RAISING LAZARUS is my third novel and it is self-published. I’ve done my best to ensure that what you read is as high quality as possible, and I hope that you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
If you did, don’t forget to leave a review. They really are crucial for independent authors like myself to reach more people.
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Thanks once again and I’ll see you in another story.
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