The Wall

by William Sutcliffe

  I made sure to splash him a lot, and to be as irritating as possible within the bounds of what I could pass off as playfulness, but nothing riled him. I could tell I was getting on his nerves, and that he didn’t find chlorinated water in the eyes even one-tenth as amusing as he pretended to, but he took it all with annoyingly good humour.

  Eventually I resorted to asking him if he liked diving. We were at the pool with the high boards, and straight away he was suspicious.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he replied, smiling warily, his eyes flicking towards Mum to see if she was listening.

  I drew closer to her. ‘Let’s do some. Will you teach me?’ I said.

  He shrugged a reluctant yes, so I swam to the edge of the pool, checked that he was following, then went ahead to the diving tower and waited for him at the bottom step. I could see Mum at the far end of the pool, watching. I gave her a wave, and as soon as Liev was near, began to climb.

  Up I went, past the low board, then past the medium board, hearing the metallic echo of Liev’s footsteps behind me, feeling his weight judder the frame of the ladder. I didn’t stop or look down until I’d made it all the way to the ten-metre platform. I’d never been up to this level before. A glance between my legs showed the swimmers looking miniature and foreshortened, their screams and yelps blending into a continuous shrill drone. The drop had always looked high from the pool, but it seemed enormous when viewed from above. The idea of walking to the end and throwing yourself off was sickening. I shuffled from the top of the ladder to the railing that ran along the edge of the platform, my knees feeling loose and unreliable as I lurched for the metal bar, which I gripped with all my strength while I waited for Liev.

  I knew he was on a mission to prove himself to Mum, so he wouldn’t be able to dive from a lower board or turn back. It was a long time before he appeared at the top, and when he did his face was pale, his lips puckered into a hard white ring. The saggy muscles of his arms juddered as he hauled himself up.

  Trying to hide my smirk, I turned back to Mum, picking her out far below and giving her an enthusiastic wave with my right hand while holding on tight with my left. I couldn’t make out her expression as she waved back.

  Liev clambered on to the platform, clumsily heaving himself from his knees to his feet, then inching towards the railing, which he clutched with knuckle-whitening force. For a while, he stood with his head bowed, catching his breath.

  When he looked up, every scrap of friendliness had vanished from his eyes. ‘I know what you’re doing,’ he said, his voice cold and flat.

  ‘Did I go too high?’ I replied, all innocence and smiles.

  ‘I know exactly what you’re doing.’

  ‘My dad was a really good diver,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t afraid of anything.’

  He held my gaze, breathing slowly through his nostrils, as he lifted his index finger and gave me a sharp jab in the ribs, just below my heart. ‘Do you think you’re smarter than me?’ he asked.

  I tightened my grip on the railing, feeling suddenly vulnerable, higher up than was safe, more naked than I wanted to be. It struck me that I’d never been alone with him before, out of earshot of my mother. His body was positioned to conceal me from her view.

  ‘Don’t play me,’ he said. ‘Don’t ever think you can play me. You won’t win.’

  He reached out, and with one finger raised my chin, forcing me to look at him. His mouth was stretched into an affectionate a friendly smile that was somehow also the opposite.

  ‘So are we going to be friends?’ he said.

  I shrugged, staring at a single droplet that was clinging to the tip of his beard.

  ‘Friends?’

  I still didn’t answer, but he carried on as if I had.

  ‘Then let’s shake on it,’ he said, as if we were now, at this moment, meeting for the first time, on a high diving board. In a way, we were. This, I realised, was the real Liev.

  There was nothing to do but raise my limp, soggy hand and shake. His fingers were puffy, soft and warm. He pumped my forearm up and down, as if I was a lever-operated machine. This gesture seemed to satisfy him, and he took a single contented breath.

  ‘Good boy,’ he said, ‘good boy,’ repeating it twice with a sing-song intonation, like a trainer rewarding an obedient dog.

  With that, he tilted his head back and rolled his neck through one slow circle, then turned and walked towards the end of the diving board. He tried to appear confident, but his walk was hunched and uncertain, his knees never quite straightening, his hand hovering, ready to grab the railing. No one had been up here for a while: other than his footsteps, the surface was dry. Soon, there was no concrete ahead of him, only air.

  He curled his toes over the lip of the platform, spread his arms, and stood there, swaying slightly. The gusset of his trunks had sagged away from his body, releasing droplets of water which splashed between his ankles.

  With his chin raised, he slowly bent his knees and leapt forwards, flying through the air with his back arched, a perfect, graceful swallow dive. For half a second, it was beautiful. Then, as his head speared towards the water, the flaw in his technique became apparent. With several more metres to fall, he was still rotating. His legs and arms began to flail in a futile attempt to correct his trajectory, before the skin of his back hit the water with the sound of a whipcrack. A circular wave spread out from his point of impact, causing concentric rings of swimmers to bob in the water. A ripple of laughter echoed upwards as the sound of the splash faded.

  He resurfaced and swam towards my mother. I couldn’t make out the expression on either of their faces, but I could see that before he said a word, he kissed her on the lips. It was the first time I ever saw him touch her. The sight of that kiss stabbed into my chest like another poke. That was the moment when I knew he’d beaten me.

  I climbed down the ladder, struggling on the slippery rungs, my body heavy with foreboding. Liev had taken charge. I didn’t know where he’d lead us, but I sensed that everything was going to change, and I was powerless to stop it.

  ‘Too high for you?’ he said, as I swam into earshot.

  ‘Is your back OK?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Must be sore.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Nothing to see,’ he said, splashing me playfully-but-not-playfully in the face.

  Not until we were in the changing rooms did I get a look at his injured skin. A livid rash spread across his back as if someone had strapped him to a table and sandpapered him, the redness interrupted only by a thin white line, like a streak of lightning, that divided the wound. You could see the whole area would be hot to the touch. It seemed amazing that he hadn’t wept, hadn’t given away even a hint of discomfort. A slight flinch as he put on his shirt was the only sign he was in any pain.

  On the way home, he clutched the steering wheel with both hands, holding his body upright so his back didn’t touch the seat. He told me my swimming needed work and offered to take me back to the pool, just the two of us, ‘for a few lessons’.

  Mum swivelled in her seat and smiled at me. ‘Isn’t that kind?’ she said.

  I didn’t answer.

  Within two months they were married, and Liev had moved us out here, to the Occupied Zone, into a brand new house at the edge of Amarias.

  ‘Are you OK?’ says Mum, leaning towards me and stroking my cheek.

  I lean back, out of reach, and stare down at the untouched chicken on my plate. Liev is already halfway through his portion. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just tired.’

  ‘You had a big fright.’

  ‘I’m just tired,’ I snap.

  ‘OK,’ she says, raising her hands in a fake mini-surrender. ‘You’re just tired.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ says Liev, squeezing out his sarcasm through a mouthful of rice. ‘Falling asleep over his schoolwork. You think that’s how to get good grades?’

  ‘He’s doing fine,’ says Mum.
<
br />   ‘I know he is. Fine is fine, but fine isn’t good. Fine isn’t excellent.’

  ‘Let him eat,’ says Mum.

  ‘Am I stopping him? Am I?’

  Mum shrugs.

  ‘He’s thirteen years old. You can’t tiptoe round him all the time.’

  I put my head down and try to make a start on my meal, wondering how long the two of them will be capable of carrying on this conversation without any input from me. Except that I can’t eat. The chicken on my fork looks succulent, dripping with a thick, glistening sauce, but in my mouth it tastes stringy and dry. I chew and chew, wishing there was some way to spit it out, but those four eyes are on me more attentively than ever, so I keep going and make myself swallow.

  I can feel my hungry stomach crying out for sustenance, but the idea of actual food entering my body feels nauseating and strange.

  Silence fills the room as I force down five or six mouthfuls, before cutting and mixing the rest into a careful array designed to conceal how much food I’m leaving.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Mum asks.

  I nod.

  ‘You want some dessert?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Ice cream? We’ve got some lemon sorbet.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  She reaches out to put a hand on my forehead. I let her slender fingers rest, warm and gentle, against my brow.

  ‘You don’t feel hot,’ she says.

  ‘I’m just tired. I said already.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘Can I go to bed?’

  Mum and Liev exchange anxious looks. She tries to help me up from my chair, but I shrug her off and walk away, muttering that I’ll be fine in the morning.

  I stand in the middle of my room for a while, not getting undressed, not even really thinking anything, just standing there. I only notice I’m doing it when Mum walks in, closing the door in her special, quiet way, not lifting the handle until the door is fully shut.

  She sits me down on the bed and squeezes herself next to me, up close so our thighs are pressed together.

  ‘Has something happened?’ she says. ‘Something else.’

  Her face is so close, I have to blink to focus. It’s the face I know best in the world. Every wrinkle and freckle, every blemish, every expression is familiar to me. Even when she seems far away, lost in her mysterious, private struggle to make sense of what has happened to her, she also feels like part of me, like the only person in the world I actually know.

  I want to tell her about the tunnel. For a moment it seems as if I have to tell her about the tunnel, as if what I’ve done and where I’ve been is a toxin, bottled up inside me, that will leak into my bloodstream and poison me if I don’t find a way to get it out.

  With her sitting next to me on the bed, concerned and attentive, waiting for me to speak, I sense I might never get a better opportunity to explain what I did, where I went, how I escaped, and who saved me. I know I have to find a way to share the burden of the feeling which is throttling me, a sense that I owe my life to someone I have wronged.

  I take a deep breath and look up, ahead of me, at the wardrobe. Behind which is hidden the scarf. Belonging to the girl. Who lives in that small, dark, cramped room. Impossibly distant, yet not far away at all. All she asked for was something to eat, but I gave her nothing and walked away, stealing her scarf and her brother’s footwear.

  Why was she hungry? No one goes hungry on this side of The Wall. My portion of roast chicken, still warm, would now be in our kitchen bin, slowly cooling, slithering downwards amongst a mass of uneaten, discarded food.

  I feel a hand on my back, rubbing from one shoulder blade to the other, across my spine. My mother’s soft, low voice rises up. ‘You can tell me. Whatever it is, you can tell me.’ Her top lip is red, her bottom lip pale.

  Something yields in my chest, and I sense a reservoir of tears begin to fill, somewhere behind the bridge of my nose.

  ‘We can help you,’ she says.

  We. Anything I say to her, she will pass on to Liev. If I tell her the truth, a chain of events will begin that will move immediately out of my control. Liev will tell the police, the police will tell the army, the army will go over The Wall and get to work. There will be an investigation, cross-examinations, imprisonments. An angry, vengeful machine is primed to leap into action, just as soon as I open my mouth. If I don’t want to start up that machine, I can’t say anything to anyone.

  I sit up straight and breathe in sharply. ‘It’s nothing,’ I say.

  She lowers her chin and gives me a jokey-angry stare, with an attempt at a comedy frown. She’s trying different tactics. Giving humour a go.

  I stand up, turning away from her.

  ‘You’re sitting on my pyjamas,’ I say.

  ‘If you . . . if it’s something . . .’

  ‘What?’

  She looks up at me, her hands folded neatly in her lap. ‘I just mean . . . I can keep a secret.’

  ‘From who?’ I want to hear her say it: from Liev.

  ‘From . . . anyone. Everyone.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I want to know what’s wrong. What’s happened to you.’

  ‘I’ve told you what’s wrong.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just now.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s that you’re sitting on my pyjamas. And I want to go to bed.’

  She flinches. I concentrate on keeping my facial muscles as still as I can, while Mum stares at me. Her dark eyes look sadder and tireder and more disappointed them ever. She presses her hands into her knees, and raises herself heavily, then steps back and watches me retrieve the T-shirt I sleep in.

  Without saying anything more, or looking back, she slips out of the room and closes the door.

  I stop playing football at lunchtime. Instead, I go to the library to do my homework, or, at least, to pretend to do my homework. That’s what I lay out in front of me, but I usually just sit there, thinking, daydreaming, drawing.

  I never let myself draw the tunnel, in case anyone sees and asks awkward questions, but I do draw the buildings and people I saw on the other side. I want to help myself remember. Or forget. Or perhaps a mixture of the two. I don’t honestly know why I keep on drawing these things, but it’s what always seems to come out of my pen – the ragged streets, the puddles, the water tanks on every roof, the wires everywhere, a few faces. And that girl. Again and again. Her thin, serious features; her stick-like arms; her blazing eyes.

  Just how thin was she? I draw and draw, but I can’t get it right. I’m not sure I remember her correctly. The more versions I produce, the less accurate they seem. The harder I struggle to grasp it, the more elusive her image becomes.

  One day after school, I realise my feet aren’t walking me home. They are leading me in the other direction, out of town, along a road I’ve never before taken alone, and never on foot. I don’t know why it happens, but on a quite ordinary Wednesday afternoon, I find myself walking to the checkpoint.

  The town stops abruptly. The last house, which is the same as mine, right down to the pale stone driveway spotted with engine oil and neat rectangle of lawn, sits next to an expanse of rocky emptiness. The road carries on as before, a wide stretch of smooth, fresh tarmac, with a crisply painted white line down the centre; just the same through the neat, polite little streets as now, beyond this invisible border into barren scrubland dotted with low, thorny bushes and the occasional cactus. A few plots are laid out alongside the road with string pulled taut across metal pegs, but no building work seems to have started. I can’t tell if these are just speculative markings, or if the land has been bought and a house is on the way. Buildings appear fast here. Nothing happens for long stretches of time, then you find yourself walking down a street of houses you’ve never seen before, filled with families you’ve never met.

  I walk on, squinting in the harsh sunlight. There’s no shade anywhere, and my shirt is soon soaked with swea
t. The sun seems to bounce up off the tarmac, attacking my face from above and below. The horizon bubbles in the heat haze, as if the land itself is close to boiling point.

  A round concrete building, like a squat, armoured air traffic control tower, is the first part of the checkpoint to come into view. Of course I’ve seen it hundreds of times before, but only while passing through by car, never like this, on foot, with time to notice how tall it is, how forbidding. I can’t see any soldiers looking down, but the angle of the concrete parapet looks as if it would conceal whatever or whoever is up there.

  Under the tower is a tangled thatch of razor wire, trailing over the whole area where The Wall expands out into a zone of warehouse-like corrugated-iron huts, metal fencing, steel gates, and dense, seemingly random scatterings of concrete roadblocks.

  As I get closer, I see the road where cars from my side cross The Wall. One bored-looking soldier is waving everyone through unimpeded. Just the colour of your number plate is enough to get you through with only a brief pause. Everyone in Amarias has yellow number plates, and if you are yellow, you can get through any checkpoint or roadblock without being held up. Number plates of cars from the other side are white with green text, and those are pulled over and searched. I can see one family seated silently on a rock beside their car, whose doors, boot and bonnet are open, while a pair of soldiers – young-looking guys, eighteen or nineteen – examine the upholstery and the engine.

  Through a separate gateway, I see the traffic moving in the other direction, a trickle of vehicles, mainly lorries and old cars, one at a time, like drops leaking from a tap. A fenced pedestrian pathway emerges next to this gate, carrying a steady stream of people. Most of them seem to have similar expressions on their faces – distant, weary – as they hurry out and walk towards a concourse where swarms of minibuses gather and leave, rapidly and efficiently sweeping people away from the looming wall. All the buses seem to start in this one place; none come through the checkpoint.

  I know from maps how The Wall follows a looping, circuitous route that makes no apparent sense. I’d heard rumours that people from the other side often had to cross over just to get from place to place within their own territory. It certainly looks that way from the movements I see here, with everyone who comes through seeming immediately to set off elsewhere. No one walks up the road where I am standing, towards Amarias.