I turn on my heel and bend my knees, poised to jump down to the street. My toe is pressed against the lip of the top step to launch me off, but before I’m airborne something bites down hard on my forearm. It feels like a machine, an iron clamp fixing me in place, but it’s the man’s hand. Darts of pain shoot up my arm. I try to break free – I wriggle, twist and pull – but it’s pointless. His fingers are as strong as handcuffs.
Before I can speak, the man yanks me inside and slams the door.
With its broken tiles and threadbare, greying rug, the hall of the house is instantly familiar. I am at least in the right home. But as the man continues to shout, anger gurgling in his throat, this seems like no guarantee of safety. I sense from the set of his jaw and a slight quiver in his arm that if I continue to give no answer, within a matter of seconds, he’ll hit me.
He pulls my cap off and tosses it on the ground. A jolt seems to rip through his body as he realises who I am, as he notices, only now, that I’m from the other side.
I know this will probably be the trigger for a beating, and I flinch under his grip, but he doesn’t move. Cautiously examining his face, I see that his expression has shifted, as if his anger is now tempered by confusion and even a hint of fear.
‘I’m a friend,’ I stutter.
He seems to understand me, but it’s a while before he speaks.
‘Are you from the other side?’ he says, speaking my language now, fast and fluently, with a thick accent. Even though we’re inside the house, his grip still hasn’t loosened on my arm.
‘Yes,’ I say. There’s no point attempting to deny it.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m a friend.’
‘Who are you working for?’
‘No one.’
‘Who are you working for?’ He shakes me, jolting my shoulder so hard I can feel the bone shift in its socket.
‘No one. I came on my own.’
‘Who sent you?’
‘I came on my own. No one knows I’m here.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Nobody.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m a friend.’
‘A friend of who?’
‘Your daughter.’
‘My daughter!?’ His eyes, the whites zigzagged with tiny jags of red lightning, bulge in their sockets. ‘How do you know my daughter?’
‘She helped me. I was outside your house, and I was lost, and some boys were chasing me, and your daughter hid me.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. She helped me get home. I came back to thank her.’
‘Thank her?’
‘To return the scarf she lent me, and to bring her a gift. Look on the step outside.’
The man at last lets go of my arm and looks through the front door. He reaches out and brings the bags into the house, glancing inside each one.
‘You brought these?’
‘She asked for food but I didn’t have any.’
He looks again at the bags, still suspicious, as if they are some kind of trick. A man in his late teens walks in. He is tall and thin, with gelled hair and an angular face. He’s wearing jeans which are slightly too short for him, ironed into immaculate creases. They begin a long conversation in hushed voices, both of them staring nervously at me as they speak.
‘You met my daughter?’ says the man, switching back to my language.
‘Yes.’
‘What is her name?’
I have no idea. I know nothing about her. If she isn’t in the house, there’s no way of proving my story.
‘Er . . . I don’t know. But I can tell you how she looks. And she lent me that.’ I point at the scarf that’s stuck halfway through the letterbox, dangling like the tongue of an exhausted dog. ‘If you bring her here, she’ll tell you I’m not lying.’
The two men have another discussion, and the teenager leaves. The older man locks the front door with a key, which he removes and puts in his pocket. He then walks to the kitchen and returns with a glass of water. I think for a moment it might be for me, and reach out my hand just at the moment he begins to sip.
‘Are you thirsty?’ he says.
I nod.
‘Are you nervous? Frightened?’
I nod again. I can’t tell if he’s being friendly or is trying to trick me.
‘Why are you here? What do you want?’ he says.
‘I told you already.’
‘Who are you working for?’
‘No one. I’m just a boy. I’m not working for anyone.’
‘Anyone can work for anyone. You think I’m an idiot?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Huh! Of course you don’t.’
‘I don’t!’
‘Who sent you?’
‘No one.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘There’s a tunnel.’
‘You came through a tunnel?’
‘Yes.’
‘What tunnel?’
‘A tunnel. I found a tunnel.’
‘Where?’
‘In a building site.’
‘Which building site?’
‘It looks like a building site but it’s not. It’s a demolished house. It comes out in an alleyway near a bakery. The one with the flying cake.’
‘How did you find it?’
‘I just found it. I was looking for a football.’
‘Who knows about it?’
‘No one.’
‘Did you tell anyone?’
‘No.’
‘Does anyone else know it’s there?’
‘No.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I mean I haven’t told anyone.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s a secret.’
‘Why?’
‘Because . . . I don’t know . . . I just didn’t tell anyone.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘Because it’s true.’ I hold out my hands, showing him the soil under my fingernails. I point to my mud-stained knees. ‘I crawled through. Twice. Your daughter saved my life. She said she was hungry.’
‘She’s not hungry.’
‘I didn’t want to come back, but it felt wrong. The more I thought about it, the worse it felt, living so close but giving her nothing in return.’
‘That’s why you came?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who gave you this story?’
‘No one!’
‘Do you think we are idiots?’
‘I’m not lying!’ I feel tears of helplessness begin to prick at my eyeballs. ‘I’m not lying!’
The door gives a rattle. Barely taking his eyes off me, the man steps backwards and opens it with his key. The gel-haired teenager bursts in, dragging his sister behind him. It’s the girl. Her face is streaked with tears. She shoots me a quick, angry look as the man begins to shout again, harshly interrogating her. I can tell by her gestures and tone of voice that she’s backing up my story. For a moment I think he might be about to slap her. I can’t understand why he’s so angry.
The father has forgotten to relock the door, and it occurs to me in a flash that while their focus is on the girl, I might be able to make a run for it. But that brother is taller and older than me. He’d catch me in an instant. Instead, I lift the bags from the doorway and carry them to the dining table. On the pale wood, I lay out two bags of rice, two packets of pasta, bags of lentils, chickpeas, walnuts, hazelnuts and pine nuts, a packet of ginger biscuits, two bars of chocolate, three tins of soup, two of chopped tomatoes, two of tuna, two of sardines, one bag of flour and half a bag of sugar, split down the middle.
By the time I’ve finished, the table is covered with food, and the room is quiet. They have stopped shouting at the girl.
‘Some of it is sticky,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. There was a jar of honey but it smashed.’
No one speaks. A woman in a black shawl, the girl’s mother, has now
appeared. All four of them stare at the table, like mourners transfixed by a corpse.
‘It’s as much as I could carry,’ I say, just to fill the silence.
The woman shuffles forwards and looks at each item, one by one, without picking anything up. She mutters something to her husband in a low voice.
‘Where did you get it?’ he asks.
‘I brought it for you,’ I reply, dodging the question. ‘All of you. I wanted to say sorry.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I mean thank you. For saving me.’ I turn to the girl. ‘You said you were hungry.’
Her eyes are moist, glinting in the dim light. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, her head moving slowly from side to side, almost a nod, almost a headshake, but not quite either.
Her father has a softer expression on his face now, but it doesn’t last. With his eyes darting between his daughter and me, he says, ‘I don’t know who is more stupid, you or her. You know who those boys are? The ones who chased you?’
‘No.’
‘They are very dangerous. You don’t lie to them. You don’t speak to them. You want to be safe, you stay out of their way. You hope they don’t notice you.’
‘But they’d already noticed me. They were chasing me.’
‘That’s your problem. Now go. I don’t want to see you here again. And we don’t need your food. We’re not hungry.’
‘But –’
‘We don’t want your charity.’
‘It’s not charity. Your daughter helped me.’
‘Take it away.’
‘I can’t. It’s too heavy.’
‘You shouldn’t have brought it.’
‘I wanted to help.’
‘Did you ask him for food?’ he says, looming over the girl.
‘No! I just . . . I thought he might have something in his pockets. Some sweets.’
He turns back to me.
‘Why did you do this?’
‘She helped me. I wanted to help her.’
‘If you get caught here, it’s no help. No help at all. It’s very dangerous for all of us.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘If you are hurt, by those boys or anyone else, it’s a big problem for the whole town.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Just go. And be careful.’
A few moments ago I would have settled for this. All I wanted was to get out of this house unharmed. But now I can’t move. I can’t walk back out there. Not yet. I need to gather my strength, have a think, plan my route to the tunnel. The thread that was supposed to lead me to the high street has snapped. I don’t know my way home.
I look across at the girl for support, but her eyes are cast down to the floor, her cheeks flushed with what looks like either anger or shame.
‘No one knows you’re here?’ says the man.
I shake my head.
‘What if something happens to you?’
I shrug.
‘What would your father say if he knew what you’ve done?’ he barks.
‘He’d be proud. And I don’t have a father.’
The man’s eyebrows pucker together, pinched by a flicker of confusion.
‘You don’t have a father but he’d be proud?’
I look up and hold his gaze. ‘Yes. He’s dead. He was killed.’
I don’t let my stare waver, and for a while we seem to be caught in some kind of contest, then he blinks and looks across at his daughter. Walking in perfect silence on her bare feet, the girl hurries out of the hallway, returning a few moments later with a glass of water, which she hands to me without speaking. I down it in one gulp.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’ll go.’
I turn to leave, but a hand on my shoulder stops me. It’s the father. The skin on his fingers is tough and ridged, like bark. ‘How will you get back?’ he says. ‘Through the checkpoint?’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘You people can get through. It’s us that can’t.’
‘Not on foot. Not from this side, just me, on my own. They’d ask me a thousand questions and they’d contact my home, and they’d want to know how I got here, and if my stepfather finds out that I crossed The Wall, he’ll . . . he just can’t know.’
‘Why?’
‘He’d go crazy.’
‘So how are you going to get home?’ he says.
‘Through the tunnel.’
‘Go, then. Go. And watch out. If those boys are near the tunnel, don’t let them see you.’
‘OK.’
‘And thank you. For the food. You are brave.’ He reaches out to shake my hand. As we shake, he says, ‘But brave is the best friend of stupid, and you are also stupid.’
I nod, my lips curling into a reluctant smile as I step towards the door. Before I can leave, the girl lunges forwards and blocks my path. She begins to speak in her own language, furiously gesturing at me, at her mother, at the food, at the scarf, addressing the whole fountain of words to her father, who listens with his head bowed, at first not catching her eye.
Eventually he looks up, reeled in by her fervour, and quietens her with a raised hand, like a man trying to stop an oncoming car. ‘OK, OK, OK,’ he says, turning towards me. ‘I’ll take you back to the tunnel. She doesn’t want you to get hurt.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. I know I ought to tell him it isn’t necessary, but the idea of going back out there on my own fills me with dread. Without help, I might not find my way home.
‘But I want something in return,’ he says, turning and scrawling on a scrap of paper.
His son watches him closely. I can feel the girl’s eyes on me. I turn my head and sneak her a nervous smile. She casts her eyes down to the floor, but I can see she’s smiling, too.
‘You shouldn’t have come back,’ she says, her voice so quiet I can barely hear it.
‘I had to,’ I say. ‘You saved me.’
She shrugs. The desire to reach out and touch her soft, serious face is so strong, it seems for a moment as if I won’t be able to resist, but I still haven’t moved when the father turns round and hands me a piece of paper.
He’s drawn a basic map of the area, with The Wall a thick black line down the centre, and just two streets sketchily drawn on my side. It’s only the three hills which encircle the town, all clearly marked and correctly oriented, that make it obvious what the map is supposed to represent. There’s a single dark cross outside Amarias, on my side of The Wall, etched so hard in ink it has dented the paper and made a tiny tear.
He points at the X. ‘You know where that is?’
‘I don’t know the place, but I can understand where it is.’
‘I want you to go there, once a week.’
‘Once a week?’
‘It’s my olive grove. It was my father’s and his father’s, and I’m looking after it for my sons, but since The Wall was built I can’t get there. I have a pass for the first Friday of each month, but no more. Just one visit a month, and sometimes even with a pass they still don’t let me through. The olives are OK, but there are three terraces of lemons, and half the trees have died. At this time of year, they need water. I want you to go every week. There’s a pool in the corner, which fills from a spring. There’s a bucket. I want you to do every tree with one bucket. I want you to check the spring is filling the pool. Can you do that?’
‘I think so.’
‘You will?’
‘Yes.’
‘You promise? Promise and I will take you to the tunnel, safe.’
‘I promise.’
‘What is your address?’
‘Why do you want my address? I’ve promised.’
‘This is a separate thing. You make this promise, you are my friend, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you are my friend, I should have your address and your name.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we are friends.’
‘But why?’
‘You don’t trust me? If you don’t tru
st me, why should I trust you? Why should I believe your promise?’
‘But why do you need my address?’
‘Because you never know what will happen. On this side of The Wall, anything can happen. The worst thing you can think of, something you can hardly imagine, suddenly it can happen.’
‘What does that have to do with my address?’
‘Because one friend on the other side of The Wall can help.’
‘How?’
‘Because you are free. You can get things when you need them. You can go where you want to go. No one blocks your streets or closes your shops or comes to get you in the night.’
He hands me his pen and a fresh piece of paper. I press it against a corner of the food-laden table. My hand trembles over the white sheet. I’m not sure what to do. I have no idea why he wants my address, and what he intends to do with it. I know I could make one up, but I sense that he might know, and that it’s unwise to risk angering him again. I still need his help to find the tunnel.
The girl’s voice rises up through the thick silence. ‘We won’t hurt you,’ she says. ‘I promise. Just one day we might need help from the other side. If we are attacked.’
‘Attacked?’
‘Yes.’
‘By who?’
The four of them exchange a look, as if I’ve said something stupid. No one speaks or looks at me, and in their silence, I understand. None of them wants to say it, but two words are hovering unspoken in the air: by you.
‘There’s something coming,’ says the man. ‘It’s like a thunderstorm. Before it arrives, you can feel it in the air.’
I press the pen on to the paper and write my name and address in capital letters. The father takes it out of my hands, holds it long-sightedly at arm’s length while he reads it, then folds the paper twice and places it in a drawer.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘Now we’ll go.’
I want to say something more to the girl, I want at least to touch her hand, but no words come, and I find myself walking towards the door, away from her, looking backwards as I go.
The Wall Page 10