‘I’m not,’ I reply. The response falls from my mouth without any hesitation or doubt, without me even realising I’d made the decision to continue my escape. It’s a new day. My determination has returned.
His eyes register a fleeting panic, as if he thinks I want to stay with his family for ever.
‘I’m running away,’ I say. ‘Back to where I was born.’
This is the first time I’ve said it aloud. It feels good to hear the words, the simplicity of the explanation making the project seem less fantastical.
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. I just have to get away from my stepfather.’
‘The only way out is through the checkpoint.’
‘Isn’t there another way? A route to the bypass?’
‘Only through the checkpoint. Every other road out of town is blocked.’
‘But if I get through the checkpoint, there are buses?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘To the city?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then from there, to anywhere?’
‘Probably. But . . .’ His voice trails away, and he casts his eyes down to his hands. I notice that everyone in the room is rigidly still.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘There’s something I have to say.’
‘Yes?’
He raises his head and looks at me with sad, heavy eyes. ‘I’m grateful for what you’ve done,’ he says, ‘but the longer you stay . . .’ He seems to lose his thread for a moment, then swallows and goes on. ‘If anyone saw you come in here, you are putting us in terrible danger.’
‘Oh,’ I say, unsure how to respond. A memory of the shocking, bitter tang of freshly picked olive flashes into my mind as I realise that despite what I’ve brought him, he wants me to leave.
‘They will be looking for you,’ he says. ‘Your stepfather saw my identity papers. If they found you here . . .’
His voice trails away. He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. ‘You’re right,’ I say, standing up from my chair. ‘I have to go.’
‘We’d all be punished. They’d accuse us of kidnapping you.’
‘I’ll go. I understand.’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s not safe. They could tear down the house. They can do anything.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ he says, taking my hand, inviting me to help him up. His skin feels dry and brittle, like the flesh of a leaf. Eye to eye, still gripping my fingers, he repeats, ‘Don’t apologise. Leila will take you to the checkpoint.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I can find it. I don’t want to put her in danger.’
‘You’ll wear this,’ he says, handing me the headscarf Leila lent me on my first visit. ‘This time you must keep it. No more coming back.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the scarf, ‘but I’ll find my own way. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.’
‘And we don’t want you to get hurt,’ says Leila. ‘It’s not close and there are no signs. You won’t find it on your own.’
‘If I find The Wall I can find the checkpoint, and I can’t miss The Wall.’
‘It’s not so easy,’ says Leila’s father. ‘Some parts are unsafe. You need a guide.’
‘I don’t want to risk it,’ I say.
‘I’m coming with you,’ Leila insists. ‘It’s because of me you are here. I have to help you leave.’
‘But –’
‘I’m coming. Even if you say no, I’m coming. Now have a drink and let’s go.’
She hands me a glass and holds my gaze as I drink.
‘He will go ahead, he will go behind,’ she says, pointing to two of her brothers. ‘Early warning system.’ The two brothers nod at me, then the elder of them turns and leaves, muttering something I don’t understand to Leila before slipping out through the front door.
‘Two minutes,’ says Leila.
Her father reaches out a hand, and I extend mine, thinking he’s going to shake it, but instead he grips my palm between his cold, desiccated fingers and rotates it, placing his other hand gently over my knuckles. ‘Thank you,’ he says, staring into my eyes, squeezing my one hand within his two.
‘Thank you,’ I reply.
‘Now go,’ he says, releasing me from his grip.
Leila arranges the scarf over my head, then leads me swiftly out of the house. In the doorway I smile and nod at her family. They each give me a small wave, but no one speaks.
The low sun casts elongated shadows across the street, but is already giving off intense heat and a dazzling glare. Leila sets a fast pace, wordlessly indicating that I should keep up without staying too close. She seems to want me a pace or two behind her, no more, no less.
We walk on, through a succession of unpaved streets, all of them puddled with stagnant water and criss-crossed by dangling loops of electric cable and laundry. The Wall occasionally comes into view, but we seem to veer away from it as often as towards it, our route never straight for more than a minute at a time. As far as we walk, the density of rough concrete structures never seems to diminish, with every square foot of land inhabited, buildings bulging and twisting to cram themselves into each available nook of land.
Leila doesn’t look at me or speak for the entire walk, until we arrive at a flat area of empty bulldozed land. She stops, glances at me, and with a flick of her chin indicates a rubble-strewn field, as big as a football pitch, beyond which is the checkpoint, sealed by concrete slabs and reels of razor wire. Behind the roadblock are rows of metal cages leading into the corrugated-iron structure that is up against The Wall. A narrow strip of tarmac, empty for a short distance, leads towards a line of waiting people.
A dozen or so boys run across the field, shouting and throwing stones at an army jeep that is driving towards a shelter in front of the checkpoint. A few stones ping off the metal of the jeep, but the soldiers don’t seem to care, and the boys aren’t noticeably excited when they score a hit. Something about the confrontation has the feel of a weary ritual.
By the time I look back at Leila, she’s already walking away. It seems impossible that this view of the back of her head might be the last I’ll ever see of her, that she won’t even say goodbye, but I know this must have been what she was told to do, and that to go after her would put her at risk. There’s no way of knowing who’s watching. No one could be allowed to see she was with me.
I stare at her slender form receding down the stark, bright street. At a junction just ahead, the two brothers are waiting for her. Neither of them appears to speak as she rejoins them, and they walk away immediately, disappearing from view. Leila’s step falters. Instead of following her brothers, she stands there, in the middle of the road, motionless. In one quick movement, her head swivels to face mine. She blinks twice, but doesn’t smile, or move, until, after a long stare, her index finger comes up to her lips, and she gives her fingertip a kiss. Without releasing me from her stare, she turns her finger towards me, pointing it skywards, and presses the fingertip subtly in my direction. Before I can respond, she turns with a quick scuffle of feet, raising a cushion-sized cloud of dust, and is gone.
I stare at the space where she stood, watching the dust settle back to earth. My blood feels heavy and sluggish in my veins; my limbs doughy, thick and immovable. Leila has gone. Though she lives less than a mile from my home – or what used to be my home – I know I’ll never see her again.
It strikes me that I don’t know what to call the feeling that has grown between us. It was hardly what you could call a friendship. ‘Affection’ or ‘tenderness’ seems closer, but still wrong. Whatever the word might be, I sense that I want to hold on to it, keep it alive for as long as I can, though I know she has gone, for the last time.
It’s dangerous to stand there doing nothing, drawing suspicious glances, but for a while I can’t move. With a terrible effort, I eventually force myself to turn round and look again at the checkpoint. The jeep has disappeared from
view, and the boys have formed into a huddle around a small fire of burning rubbish. Most of them are still holding stones which they toss idly from hand to hand.
A line of people snakes out across the dry, empty land, held back from the checkpoint by a solitary soldier. Some of them have umbrellas against the fierce sun, others rely on scarves and hats. There’s no shade.
The crossing is obviously closed. I don’t know why, or when it will open. I haven’t thought about what I should do from here: join the queue and hope no one notices who I am, or walk towards the soldiers and tell them I belong on the other side?
After the previous night, I feel scared of the army in a way I’ve never been afraid of them before, but I remind myself that it’s no longer dark, and there’s no curfew. Once I take my scarf off, they’ll see who I am. If they’re close enough to shoot, they’re also close enough to see I’m not from this side. Their job is to protect people like me. If I walk towards them, they surely won’t open fire.
I decide that approaching the soldiers is a safer option than taking my chances in the cramped, hot line, especially with the stone-throwing boys loitering close at hand. They remind me of the ones who chased me, and I don’t want to risk being spotted as an outsider, as the enemy.
Skirting the edge of the cleared land, with my face wrapped in the scarf and my head turned away from the boys, I edge towards the checkpoint, attempting what I hope looks like a casual stroll. If I can reach the empty space between the waiting crowd and The Wall, I feel I might be safe.
The closer I get, the more I accelerate, but I’m still cutting across the stony land when a heart-stopping bang rings out, and a spot of soil in front of me spits up a spray of earth and stones. I stop, take off the headscarf, and raise my arms.
‘IT’S ME!’ I shout. ‘I’M NOT FROM HERE! I’M FROM THE OTHER SIDE!’
No one at the checkpoint responds. I don’t move.
Eventually I hear a shout, telling me to put my hands on my head. I do as I’m told and take one more step forwards. Immediately, another gunshot pierces the air. The bullet fizzes into a rock, and something flies up from the ground, whacking me in the chest. A yielding, melting sensation bursts hotly inside me. My legs begin to give way, but I don’t dare stagger forwards in case this draws more fire from the checkpoint. Then I feel a sudden sharp pain in my back, as if I’ve been punched, or hit with a hammer, which for a moment is completely inexplicable. I don’t know whether to stand or fall or run, or which direction I’d be able to go, even if my legs were capable of it. Then a stone flies over my shoulder, narrowly missing my head, and lands in front of me, soon followed by another one. I slump downwards and cower on the ground, realising that I’m being shot at from in front and stoned from behind.
The hail of stones continues. One hits me on the shoulder, and as I flinch, another crashes into my ear. A long, high note, like metal scraping against metal, fills my head, only to be drowned out by a new round of firing, this time from more than one gun: a fast, purposeful volley of shots. I press myself into the ground, flattening myself against the soil, but only when I hear a scream of pain some distance away do I notice that none of the bullets are striking near me. I raise my eyes and see a group of soldiers running out from the checkpoint, their guns wedged into their shoulders, firing towards the wasteland. The stone-throwing boys are now fleeing for cover, but before I can see if they’re getting away, or who has been shot, my vision darkens and shrinks to two discs of light, like looking through binoculars. Slowly, these discs contract to nothing more than pinpricks of whiteness, as if I’m at the bottom of a hole which seems to be getting deeper and deeper, further and further from the light, just as the metallic shrieking fades, and the gunfire quietens to muffled pops, and the pain in my head and chest magically dwindles to nothing. The feeling is almost like dozing off, yet somehow more so. Every muscle in my body loosens and fails, disconnected by a wave of paralysis which plunges from my neck to my feet, as if a giant hand is wiping over me, erasing all sensation with a single sweep.
I flop on to my back, the tiniest of falls, but one which feels like a plummet into nothingness. For an instant my vision returns, showing me a flash of dazzling sky, a pristine dome of unbroken blue, before darkness floods in and the world slips away.
Part Five
Squares of white ceiling tiles stippled with black flecks, divided by a grey metal grid. Two tubes of light encased in a grooved plastic oblong. A low hum, like a computer or a fridge, and intermittent high beeps. White sheets, white walls and a white door with a circular window. Tubes, bottles, wires, needles. Stuff dripping into me, stuff dripping out. My hands, puffy and absent, far away at the end of my arms. My mother, half-asleep next to the bed. Then, in an instant, she’s up on her feet, shouting something, almost screaming. I can see how loud it is by the veins popping out on her neck, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. It’s as if I’m lying at the bottom of a swimming pool, looking up at her above the surface shouting inaudibly downwards into the water.
A fizz skids down my spine, something sucks and pops in my ears, and I hear her calling to me, calling for nurses and doctors, shouting that I’ve woken up. She repeats my name again and again and again, her eyes wild and fierce. After a while, I realise it’s a question. She’s asking if I can hear her.
I open my mouth but no sound comes out. My tongue and lips feel dry and numb, like tools I no longer know how to use. My head is wrapped in gauze that presses tightly against my chin.
I nod, two minuscule jerks of the head, blinking at her to show I understand. Tears gush from her swollen, bloodshot eyes. I can see she wants to hold me, pull me towards her, smother me, but with all the tubes and bandages there’s no way in. She presses her face into my hand, or what looks like my hand, but I feel nothing. With my eyes, I trace the path of my arm from my wrist up to my shoulder, in the way you might check a gadget is plugged in. It is definitely my hand, and it isn’t. She’s squeezing my fingers, pressing her wet skin against my palm, but if I were looking the other way I’d have no idea it was even happening.
‘You’re back!’ she keeps saying. ‘You’re back. You’re safe. Don’t ever leave us again. I won’t let you leave us again.’
I look at her and wonder if I ought to be crying, too. I can’t stop thinking about my hand. The thing at the end of my arm doesn’t seem to be part of me any longer. I try to clench it. I try to clench the other one. Nothing happens.
A flurry of white-coated medical staff appear in the room, walking so fast they are almost running. They brush my mother aside and get to work on me. She steps to the foot of the bed, and there is Liev, waiting, his arms crossed over his chest. He reaches out and pulls her towards him, one hand spreading across her back, the other folding her head gently down into his neck. Her body shakes with sobs, and over her shoulder Liev looks at me, his lips curled into an expression that could be a smile, or could be something else entirely.
A week or so later, my hand gives a twitch. Within minutes, people I don’t even recognise start arriving with elated expressions on their faces to congratulate me and prod me. One nurse even cries and nuzzles her soggy cheek against my arm, as if I’m some long-lost friend returned from the dead.
Mum’s there every day, even though the hospital is miles from home, outside The Zone. It ought to be annoying, having her in my room all the time, but actually it’s OK. She reads to me, changes the channel on the TV, keeps me company, and never tells me what to do. But maybe that’s because I can’t do anything.
After the twitch, a new nurse is assigned to me, some kind of physical therapist, who gives me exercises and monitors my progress, which everyone always tells me is ‘wonderful’, as if I’m somehow responsible for it. She brings a diagram of my body, which she marks with lines, ticks and crosses, showing me how I’m improving. Bit by bit, sensation creeps up my arms. After a while – I don’t know how long – it’s impossible to keep track of time in a hospital – I can sit up. Eventually, I’m given
a wheelchair, which I learn to steer and propel.
Everyone acts optimistic and excited, as if this gradual, partial creeping back to how I was before is some astonishing superhuman flowering. It’s like I’m the captain of an underdog World Cup team, from a tiny island no one’s ever heard of, and I just keep on winning games, triumphing against all the odds, and getting closer and closer to the final. That’s how everyone behaves, and I try my best to go along with it, even though I know – and everyone else knows – I’m just a paralysed kid slowly getting a little bit better.
No one ever gives me any bad news, but after a while it dawns on me that the therapist has stopped showing me her chart, and the bubble of excitement around me has deflated. Despite endless pummelling and stretching, my legs remain limp and useless.
Visitors now arrive in coats, so I know it must be winter. They walk into the room swathed in a tiny cloud of outsideness which takes a minute or two to dissipate in the hot, dead air of my room.
Liev comes once a week, on Friday afternoons, but I can see he doesn’t want to be there. He spends the first five minutes trying to make conversation. I don’t ignore him, but I don’t exactly answer him, either. Around the five-minute mark, he gives a ‘that’s the best I can do’ look to Mum, then he sits, and stays seated, not reading, not even looking out of the window, for fifty-five more minutes. Then he leaves. Each time he comes, he looks somehow smaller than the last time I saw him.
David also comes every week. At first he’s even more reluctant and uncomfortable than Liev, and there doesn’t seem to be anything to talk about, but he starts bringing cards, and we just play, and he gives me a book so I can teach him new card games, and in the end I think it’s David’s visits that keep me going. Mum always hugs him when he leaves, which I don’t think he likes.
Mum gets me a book of card skills, and my own pack, and pretty soon I’m a demon shuffler and magician. People love it when I do tricks. It gives them an excuse to be impressed by me, like when a toddler successfully uses a potty, and gets told they’re a genius just for taking a piss.
The Wall Page 22