Raising Lazarus

By Aidan J. Reid

A man cursed with eternal life?

Or a dangerous psychopath?

As part of her University thesis, Molly Walker meets a mysterious man incarcerated on a prostitution charge.

He believes a wandering prophet raised him from the dead two thousand years earlier. Sceptical, Molly digs deeper and she begins to expose the dark underbelly of the city.

As the man's past comes to light, she realises that not only will her life be changed forever, but his actions will send shockwaves around the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aidan J. Reid
• Release date: Jan 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370897223

Aidan J. Reid

AIDAN J. REID is a writer originally from Cloughmills, Northern Ireland.He has written four novels:PATHFINDERS - (sci-fi)The Tom Regan thrillers, SIGIL and YAGERAISING LAZARUS - (suspense)He has also written several short stories and is most proud of the ROT collection, which tells the story of a rogue tooth fairy who pulls teeth out of the mouths of kids for a tidy profit.You can find out more on aidanjreid.com, follow him @aidanjreid or get a bunch of free goodies by following his newsletter - http://eepurl.com/c7ffO9

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Also by Aidan J. Reid

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STANDALONE NOVELS

Pathfinders

Raising Lazarus

THE TOM REGAN THRILLERS

Sigil

Yage (TBR Summer ’18)

THE ROT COLLECTION

For Millie, Sean, Dara, Eoin and Quin

Prologue

When Mary came to where Jesus was and saw him, she fell at his feet and said to him, Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.

When Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who had come with her weeping, he became perturbed and deeply troubled, and said, Where have you laid him?

They said to him, Sir, come and see. And Jesus wept. So the Jews said, See how he loved him. But some of them said, Could not the one who opened the eyes of the blind man have done something so that this man would not have died?

So Jesus, perturbed again, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone lay across it.

Jesus said, Take away the stone.

Martha, the dead man’s sister, said to him, Lord, by now there will be a stench; he has been dead for four days.

Jesus said to her, Did I not tell you that if you believe you will see the glory of God? So they took away the stone. And Jesus raised his eyes and said, Father, I thank you for hearing me. I know that you always hear me; but because of the crowd here I have said this, that they may believe that you sent me. And when he had said this, he cried out in a loud voice, Lazarus, come out!

The dead man came out, tied hand and foot with burial bands, and his face was wrapped in a cloth. So Jesus said to them, Untie him and let him go.

John 11:32-44

ONE

His eyes opened to the ceiling, a ventilator fan above wobbling on its base like a fat airplane propeller. Despite the thick air in the room, the blunt blades carved through and a gentle breeze blew on his face; folds of chopped air like cold butter cooling his forehead. There was a dark stain on the face of the fan. His eyes narrowed on the patch, tracing its outer edge, trying to shape it into a figure that he might recognise.

Tilting his head to one side, he saw the ceiling creep into four dirty yellow corners, where the cream colour had soured. As he propped on one elbow, other senses woke from their slumber. The smell was the first that struck him – the air seemed to sweat, heavy and saturated and he could feel the pull around him like a charged thunderstorm. His movements dragged in the thickness of it, swimming in a pool of the stench. The odour wafted up his nostrils and tickled a stomach, which despite its emptiness still found something to eject. He reacted fast and bent over the bedside, puking up strands of vomit - long acid strings that stretched to the ground.

He stared into the small puddle that began soaking into the red carpet and felt his stomach yawn with the effort. His body felt hollowed out. Scraped dry.

He felt something press into his thigh. Reaching into a jean pocket, he pulled out a thick card which had been folded over. It was a Christmas card. A troupe of reindeers led at the front by one with a red nose, driven by Santa Claus from the sled. A speech bubble from Santa wished a Merry Christmas. He opened it and read the short, scrawled message aloud.

My Boy,

I write this with a heavy heart. When you read it, I will no longer be of this earth. What words can I say to give voice to the many joys you gave this old man? You are a gift from God and you gave me a purpose again.

I wish I was able to see you awaken, but unlike you, my time is finite, my story is written. Yours is not.

Please remember all we spoke of. Keep me in your thoughts, as you occupy mine until my final dying breath. You will always be my rock, my inspiration - my Lazarus.

F.D.

There was a small wooden desk in the corner. A wooden foldup chair was pushed flush to it. A little window beside the desk, framed a grey sky beyond. The dim light seemed to be the only source of light in the room, as his eyes climbed the wall and ceiling for a lightbulb.

The man lifted an edge of the thin duvet underneath him and wiped his mouth with it.

The solitary entrance of the room, a wooden door, was splintered around the handle. A long crack ran down it from the top, splitting near its centre. A yellow sliver of light pressed from behind, glowing the crack like a lightning bolt against the wood surface.

Feeling the hard springs of the bed against a shoulder, the man sat up and was immediately greeted with a pounding headache at the movement. He bent over and held his face in his hands, waiting out the throbbing pain, feeling his own light headedness abate. Through the splayed fingers he noticed for the first time that he was fully dressed, denim jeans hugging his thin legs down to a pair of clean runners. He lifted a foot up onto one knee and ripped off the price label which marked their red sole, and tossed the rolled-up sticker into a corner.

He took a deep breath and rose to his feet. Too fast. His unsteady legs buckled beneath him and he fell back onto the bed. Shaking his head, he stared back up into the fan again, watching it rock back and forth. The smell had evaporated. Either that or he had gotten used to it. In any case, he seemed to draw energy from the cooling breeze that licked his face and his muscles, in turn, tensed their readiness and he sat up and tried again.

With considerable effort, he remained standing, a sweaty palm pressing its print against the cream surface of the wall. He shuffled to the door, one step at a time, imploring feet to follow his mind. Reaching it, he stood and leaned against the wall, looking around. The bed was made, and the covers remained relatively unmoved by his presence. It was small, and the sheets and duvet were beige, probably a foresight by their owner to hide a multitude of spilled fluids.

The man’s eyes turned away and settled on the desktop where he saw in the dim light a little mound. He walked slowly, pausing at the bed for a breather before taking the few steps to the chair back, which he gripped.

He separated the items with a finger. The first was a little plastic casing the size of a fat thumb. It was thin between his fingers. On its face was a side profile picture of an old man with grey hair. He was wearing a yellow robe, an intricate design on its front, gold embroidery that gave way to the man’s arm raised upward. In his hand was a little white disc. On the reverse side was a passage, on the bottom of which a tiny square of fabric was attached. The heading at the top of the words said, ‘Padre Pio, Pray for Us’.

He tucked it into his jean pocket and looked at the other item.

It was a bundle of notes, fastened by an elastic band. He picked it up and flicked through them like a deck of cards. He counted £300.

Finding that he was now able to stand without assistance, he walked slowly to the door and pulled on the brass handle which nearly fell from the door joint.

The light from the corridor staggered him backwards, but he managed to remain standing, hugging the door frame for support. Several winged critters cut away from their dance in a bulb light to arrow towards him, but he beat them off with a palm. The air felt cleaner in the corridor, cooler. The headache was left behind in the room; his emergence from the pit and thick fog seemed to clear his thoughts as his stomach cried for attention.

He walked along the corridor, passing several closed doors on the way. There was a turn at the end of the hallway, and he approached the light from the bulb was beginning to stretch the limits of its own reach. Hearing the creak of a seat, he approached with caution.

When the seated man came into view, he seemed unsurprised to see him.

Gotta charge you an extra night for the room mate. Checkout time was six hours ago.

The man was in his forties, thick black hair that lapped on his forehead like a dog’s tongue. The lamp highlighted his white skin, appearing translucent; heavy bags under his eyes were marked with veins.

I…

Your friend said you might be a bit wasted when you wake up.

My friend?

Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you pay for the room.

Ah…yeah. OK.

You’ll be checkin’ out soon.

OK.

The seated man opened a hardback book on the desk. He flicked it over to the middle pages and tapped it with his finger. He took a pen, popped its top and scrawled an entry at the bottom of a list. A supersized calculator was on his desk and he plugged a few numbers into it, and entered the number in the journal.

£20 quid for both nights.

Two nights?

Yeah. Sunday and Monday.

So, today is Tuesday?

Stone me, the hotel owner said. Want me to teach you to count to twenty as well?

Reaching into his jean pocket, the man slipped out one of the notes from the band, careful to keep the bundle safely tucked within the pocket and handed it across.

What date is it?

Christ. You musta been out for a while. February 6th. That’ll be 2017 too if you’re wondering.

The hotel owner took a security box from the desk drawer and placed it on the table surface. He unlocked it and slipped the money inside before closing and returning it to the drawer again.

You alright? he said, looking up at the guest. You look a bit peaky bruv.

F-Fine. My friend… did they say anything?

Not really. Seemed pretty happy to get rid. Didn’t stick ‘round long.

Do you know where they went?

I don’t run a bloody meet and greet in this hotel mate, the seated man said. Your business is your business. My business is my business.

OK. I’ll just get my things.

Doubt that mate. Looked like you was travelling light.

I… didn’t come here with any bags?

Nope. Come to mention it, your mate did say one thing. He told me to tell you to check your back pocket.

The men looked at each other, then the hotel owner shrugged and snapped the logbook shut.

Reaching into one back pocket and then another, his hand found a pressed piece of paper and he lifted it out and read it.

Well? the hotel owner asked, reclining back in his chair. What’s it say?

It says ‘I’m sorry.’

TWO

Lockworth Prison was a correctional facility governed by Roy Walker, a man who despite being in his twilight years and assuming the appearance of a librarian, still managed to command the respect and authority of those he presided over. His approach, firm but fair, had established early boundaries, consistent with every inmate who filtered through their prison doors. They could be the dregs of society, people fallen on hard times, first time offenders - smaller misdemeanours that would have otherwise been brushed away by a kinder police officer. His job was to rehabilitate them back into a society which had, in many cases, already marked their cards.

Sixty-eight prisoners were resident in Lockworth, held on a variety of charges – the strongest being attempted murder. At times Lockworth operated as a temporary holding cell when overcrowded neighbouring prisons spilled over, taking on perpetrators while they awaited trial for their crime. They had no official murderers on their grounds, a fact corroborated by Roy Walker and his five decades of experience. His gut reaction served him well.

That same instinct told him to accept his granddaughter’s request. He was sitting at a small desk in a room barely bigger than a storage cupboard, lining the edges of books when he heard the knock at the door.

She’s here, the woman said, head appearing around the door.

Great. Thanks Sheila. Send her in.

A young woman walked into the room, smiled and took the two steps needed to cross to the side where Roy was standing at his desk.

Molly! Great to see you, he said and greeted her in a warm embrace.

Thanks for letting me come, Grandad, she replied. You’re probably up to your ears.

Roy looked around his desk as if checking for incriminating evidence, but found none and threw his hands up and smiled. His grey hair was thin on top. Little brown eyes still had a sparkle on a face despite his advanced years. Thin lips curled back to reveal lollypop stick teeth, so uneven that they had to be his own.

Not at all. Happy to make time for my favourite granddaughter.

Your only granddaughter.

That’s true too! he said, and they shared a laugh. Come on now. Take a seat.

Molly sat down and Roy followed. The head popped around the door again and asked if they needed something to drink; they made their coffee orders.

How’s work? How’s your parents?

Work? Not so great. Don’t ask, she said and rolled her eyes. But Mum and Dad are doing good. Busy with the renovations. Never a dull moment.

Their chitchat continued until the head returned, complete with body this time and rested the two cups on the table. They were piping hot to hold and Molly pushed herself closer to the desk where she could park it, watching the steam wisp skyward.

So, Roy said, eyes dancing in his head. Tell me about this project of yours.

Molly leaned back; her smile was lopsided. She smoothed a band of her blonde hair away from her eyes. Roy studied her expression. Where his face had been cushioned by pale puffy fat in his twenties - administration and clerical work depriving him of exercise and the chance to melt it off, hers had sharper edges, shadows under the cheekbones, small thin lips twitchy like they were used to biting biro tops. Her resting face was one that adopted a natural frown, one that prompted friends and sometimes strangers to approach and ask if she was OK, and she would smile back bemused, wondering what it was they had seen on her face that had suggested otherwise.

Well, it’s my thesis for university. Kind of a big deal, she said, dropping each word an octave lower from a great height.

Final year, is that right?

Yep, she said and stretched her lips wide under clenched teeth. No pressure.

You’ll be fine, I’m sure. Roy smiled and batted the comment across the room with his open palm. What can I do to help?

Well, she said and tucked her hands underneath her legs. The title of the thesis is ‘Debilitation and Rehabilitation: An insight into the UK Prison System.’

Wow, he said. He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of the coffee. The plastic blind behind shimmered like a wave when he caught it with the top of his chair and he pulled the legs back down to Earth. A nice light topic.

I know. She laughed. I’m just starting it, but I wanted to kind of give you a heads up, seeing as how you run the show.

Well, he said. I’m not so sure about that. The place pretty much runs itself.

Well, yeah. But, she said, crunching her face up like a sweetie wrapper. I can’t really get an insight without your help, Granda, you know?

No, no. Of course not. I’ll help any way I can. If I can. What do you need?

An interview.

OK. You got it, he said and straightened up in his chair. We can start now if you want?

I mean, she said, clearing her throat, with one of the prisoners.

A hook caught the governor’s cheek and pulled his smile to one side. He freed it, but the smile was still tight.

That’s not too common, Molly. Not something that I can easily allow.

I know, I know, she said quickly. I don’t need to speak to anyone in the hole, or even the dangerous ones.

Roy laughed gently and shook his head despite his concern.

It’s not like the movies. We don’t have a hole.

OK, she said, unflustered. Just someone fairly tame.

The governor drained the last of his coffee and smacked his lips. He was looking beyond her now and around the walls. A calendar was there, highlighted with the year’s birthdays and milestones. A bookshelf, which might as well have been decorative, was tucked into the corner; many of the titles that filled its shelves were out of print and read years before. They were obscured by the computer monitor on his desk.

OK, but I choose who you speak with. No Hannibal Lecter’s. Deal?

You don’t… Molly started. She saw the smile break on her grandfather’s face. OK. Deal.

And another thing, he said, turning from the monitor. He looked at her with a flat expression, trying to find the words, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

You don’t have to worry, Molly pre-empted. I’m not going to publish a bad review or anything incriminating. Any witness and source will remain nameless. This prison will only frame part of the overall project.

Satisfied with her answer, Roy smiled and pulled the edge of the screen an inch toward him.

Is there any specific type you’re looking for?

Well, she said and took a deep sigh, sending a current of waves across her forehead. Someone that is a serial offender. Not someone that got unlucky once.

OK…

Roy typed on the keyboard, narrowed his eyes and moved closer to the screen. After a minute he shook his head, pulled a pair of spectacles from his top pocket, and propped them on his face. Molly watched the bars of light from the monitor reflect off the panes.

Any specific age?

My age if you can. I think I’ll be able to relate better to them. Don’t you think?

A few more buttons were clicked, and the governor began rubbing an invisible goatee beard around his mouth between forefinger and thumb. Molly took a moment while he was distracted in the task to look at the desk. There were a few notebooks upside down, papers inserted inside. She looked up from them and, for the first time, noticed a photograph pinned to a corkboard. She leaned forward, elbow on the desk and stared at it, seeing her grandad dressed as he was now, in navy slacks and blue shirt and tie. Roy was standing in the centre, with various men and women on either side, smiling at the camera. The bars of the prison were behind them.

Just some friends down the years, Roy said, noticing the focus of her attention.

He turned, untacked a pin from it and handed it to her. It was in black and white and the familiar smile greeted her from two generations ago. There was a young black man by his side in a half hug, half shaking hand embrace and they were both laughing; the photographer capturing a spontaneous moment. Behind them was a white wall, an open door to their right.

Leroy Jones, he said.

Who’s he?

He, Roy said, taking the photo from her and tacking it back to the wall, is no longer with us.

What happened?

It was the sixties. He came in for a petty crime. Turns out he was just trying to get away from gang life in London. The kindest, gentlest soul. But he had nowhere else to turn.

Roy’s face was sad now and when the photo found its place in the centre of the wall he stroked its face with his long thin fingers and nodded.

So, what did he do?

The gang reeled him back in. Made threats to his family. His pregnant wife. Said he hadn’t pulled his weight and still owed them for one last gig. Got him involved in some nasty stuff. He ended up being killed in a hit and run.

Jeez. Did they know who did it?

Roy shook his head, the smile on his face a distance memory. He seemed to age in front of her, slumped shoulders and bowed head like a little boy in penance.

Impossible to pin it to someone specific when it’s gang related. Or so they told me.

There was a heavy silence in the air and the governor was still stoking the memory when they heard a beep from the computer, like a GPS tracker springing to life from the hidden depths of the ocean. They both turned to its source and Roy pulled his chair away from the wall to investigate.

Well, he said and switched the monitor off and faced her. Just as I expected. I could have told you that myself. Don’t need this fancy technology for that.

What is it?

There are two that spring to mind. Both your age.

OK, sounds promising, Molly said.

The first has been in half a dozen times in the past eighteen months. Male. White. Twenty-three. Drug offences. Public intoxication. Had a tough life. Doesn’t make it easy on himself it has to be said. Married twice over. Self-abuser.

Molly had crossed her jeaned leg and held it in both hands at the knee, nodding at the description and imagining the man in her mind’s eye, using the jigsaw pieces her grandad gave to complete the picture.

And the other?

She watched something animate the governor’s face and found herself perk up automatically when he cleared his throat and started.

A young man. Around twenty. Eastern European descent, we think. Papers were falsified so he looks like a refugee.

OK. What’s he in for?

Solicitation. Prostitution. We’ve lifted him from the streets three times in the last six months. Can’t hold him for that for more than a day or two at a time. Give him a slap on wrists, but we can’t afford to keep people like that banged up. We don’t have the space for it.

So, you have to let him go?

Roy nodded his head and sighed.

I try to speak some sense into him, but it falls on deaf ears. God only knows what would make a person turn to that.

Does he have any relatives?

No. Don’t think so. Just the clique that he would work with. We’ve tried to break that down but none of them talk. They don’t tell us who their pimp is, so we’re left sucking our thumbs.

Molly was listening and found the second picture incomplete in her mind. Roy noticed her silence and was trying to read her puzzled expression.

Listen, maybe it’s best you go with the first one. If anything, he could do with a bit of common sense, which you might be able to give him. He’s a real saunter too. He’ll talk your ear off if you let him. You’ll hit that word count in no time with his interview. What do you think?

When