The Wall

by William Sutcliffe

  I kneel at the edge and shine the torch downwards, with my arm stretched out as far as it will go. In the weak, thin beam, I trace the rope to where it ends in a tangled white blob, sitting on a dark surface that looks like soil. But it’s hard to be sure.

  I can’t look at a high thing without wanting to go up it. Now I’m staring down this hole – a hole like nothing I’ve ever seen before – and the same voice is piping up, telling me I have to go down, I have to take a look, I have to know what it’s for and where it goes.

  I have a hunch as to what this might be, and I know how dangerous it is to get involved with anything like it, but on the other hand, stumbling across this mystery, in the middle of my boring, boring town with nothing to do and nowhere to go, is like finding buried treasure. I can’t just leave it there and walk away.

  Maybe I ought to work out the risks, remind myself of everything I’ve been warned about, take stock of what I have to lose. I know that’s what David would do if he was here with me, but that’s not the kind of person I am, and it’s not who I want to be, either. Mysteries are for solving, walls are for climbing, secret hideouts are for exploring. That’s just how things are.

  I pocket the torch and slide myself into the hole. The first knot is just beyond the reach of my feet, so I squeeze the rope with my knees and edge myself downwards, hand over hand, until I have a knot to stand on. After that it’s easy to shunt myself lower, knot by knot, to the bottom. I’m just beginning to enjoy the climb when I hit the soil, and find myself wishing the hole was deeper.

  The earth at the bottom is softer and darker than on the surface, cool against the palm of my hand. There’s a musty smell, like a bag of football kit you’ve forgotten about for a few days. I switch on the torch and immediately see that my suspicion was correct. The hole is more than a hole. It’s a tunnel, held up with props of rough wood and thin planks that look like they’ve come from packing crates. Mostly, though, it’s just a thin but seemingly endless tube of soil, disappearing ahead into darkness, in the direction of The Wall.

  Now I have a choice. I can go back up, collect my football, and head home; or I can go through. I know what I ought to do. I know what every other boy in Amarias would do. But as I see it, those are the two best reasons there could possibly be for doing the opposite.

  I’ve lived in Amarias since I was nine, and in those four years I’ve never once been to the other side. The Wall is taller than the tallest house in town. If I wanted to see over it, I’d have to stand on the shoulders of a man who was standing on another man who was standing on another man who was standing on another man. Depending on how tall they were, you might need one more. This opportunity has not yet arisen.

  The Wall was put up to stop the people who live on the other side setting off bombs, and everyone says it has done an excellent job. Most of the people who work on the building sites in Amarias are from the other side, and if you drive to the city you see lots of people who look like they come from those towns, but other than that, even though they’re living right next door, it feels like they aren’t really there. Actually, that’s not right. You know they’re there, because The Wall and the checkpoints and the soldiers who are all over the place are a constant reminder, but it’s as if they are almost invisible.

  I thought I’d never see into a town beyond The Wall until my military service, but now, looking down this column of musty air, I realise that within five minutes I could be poking my head up, seeing what’s there. The alternative is to wait five more years, until my conscription.

  People say hysterical things about what’s on the other side, but adults can’t help exaggerating. They’re always trying to make you believe that one cigarette will kill you, that crossing the road is as lethal as juggling with knives, that cycling without a helmet is bordering on suicide, and none of it ever turns out to be true. How dangerous could it really be just to pop through and take a quick look? And how frustrated will I feel tomorrow if I just climb back out now and go home?

  It sounds crazy, but I’m not even scared when I decide to go for it. Frankly, it’s the only logical course of action. If you have the chance to uncover a secret and you walk away without looking, there’s something wrong with you.

  The torch lights a few metres of tunnel ahead of me, but no more. I look upwards one last time and see, as if through a telescope, a disc of blue sky with one tiny puff of cloud drifting across it.

  I crouch on to my hands and knees, waving the torch in front of me, trying to get used to the way it produces only a narrow beam of visibility enclosed on all sides by dense, velvety blackness. At first, it seems almost like a magic trick, the way objects disappear the instant you move the torch away from them. Then I think how odd it is, when you live in a town, that you can get through your whole life without ever seeing real darkness. Amarias is constantly illuminated, with orange streetlights that stay on all night, and floodlights at the checkpoint.

  One last worry pops into my head. I take the phone from my pocket and squeeze it to light up the screen. Down in my hole, there’s only one bar of signal. I put the torch down and write a quick text to my mum: ‘Playing football with David. Back later.’

  Clutching the torch in my right fist, with my other hand flat on the damp earth, I begin to edge forwards. The sound in the tunnel is both oddly loud and unsettlingly quiet. I can’t hear any outside noises at all, but every movement I make seems to bounce back at me off the walls, as if amplified. The scrape of my hand and the torch against the soil; the drag of my shoes behind me; the panting of my own breath; all these seem to boom around me like a static echo which only quietens when I stop moving. Even then, I feel as if I can hear myself swallow and blink.

  Fear seems to seep out of the soil, into my body, like coffee soaking through a sugar lump. As tension closes round my heart and squeezes my lungs, I try to imagine that the real me is somewhere else, up above in the daylight, safe and calm. I pretend there are two versions of me, one in the tunnel, another one encouraging me on from above. The more I think of this, the easier it becomes to picture, like a cross-section through the earth: me on my knees going through a horizontal tunnel, then above that a layer of soil, then above that another me, matching my movements, walking through the gardens of the demolished house, getting closer and closer to The Wall, and at any moment simply ghosting through it to the unknown place on the other side.

  It’s a strange idea: not just passing through The Wall, but also the above-and-belowness of it. Usually the world just feels like a flat skin you walk around on, then sometimes you remember that every place is more than just one patch of land, because there’s also the air above it and the ground below it. Each spot is actually a column, going right down to the magma at the centre of the earth, and up, into the sky and beyond, for ever. People forget that when you go upstairs, you are actually standing right on top of the people who are downstairs. Think about it hard enough and it’s properly freaky. If floors and ceilings had to be made of glass, people would go crazy. They wouldn’t be able to take it, and everyone would end up living in bungalows.

  It’s useful to have things like this to think about when you’re doing something scary, because I have no idea how long I’ve been crawling, or how far I’ve gone, at the moment when my torch picks up a patch of something greyish-white. I stop and extend the torch in front of me, peering into the gloom, squinting to try and form the shifting blob of colour into a recognisable shape.

  Another metre of crawling gives me my answer. It’s a coil of rope. I’ve got to the end of the tunnel. I’m on the other side.

  ‘You’ve done it!’ I think to myself, in a booming military voice. ‘A daring and risky mission executed with determination, courage and skill.’ If I believed in medals, I’d award myself one right there and then. In fact, I hate medals. They gave one to my dad. Mum has hidden it somewhere and I don’t even care where.

  All I need is a quick look outside. After that, I can head home. I grip the rope and give it a
tug, checking it’s firmly attached, then switch the torch off and put it in my back pocket. In pitch darkness, one knot at a time, I begin to climb.

  The cover over the opening wobbles with just a gentle touch. It’s made of metal, but is thinner and lighter than the one at the entrance. Or maybe this is the entrance. That all depends on who the tunnel was built for, and why.

  I gently slide the cover to one side, creating an opening big enough for my head, then work my feet up to the next knot. All I have to do now is straighten my legs, and my head will be poking out, giving me my first view of the other side.

  I come up in an alleyway between a ragged concrete building with bricked-over windows and The Wall, which on this side looks unrecognisable. It is the same size, of course, and the same concrete, but unlike the bare grey surface I’m used to, this side is entirely covered for the first two metres of its height with graffiti: a mixture of drawings, slogans and random scrawls. None of it is in my language, so I can’t read a word. One image, of a huge, old-fashioned key, is repeated in a long line above the text, twenty or thirty times, so high it must have needed a ladder to do it.

  At one end of the alley, a high chain-link fence blocks the way through to what looks like either wasteland or an abandoned garden. In the other direction my view is obscured by a pair of large rubbish bins, but I can see a few passing feet and a glimpse of the odd car. This is the way to the town, but the tunnel exit (or entrance) is set up so you can get in and out without being visible from the street. I check again that no one can see me, swivelling my head in all directions, then push aside the tunnel door and haul myself out. As soon as I’m up, I push the cover back over the tunnel with my feet.

  I stand dead still, not daring to move. Through a gap between the bins I can see a sliver of what looks like normal life: cars, motorbikes, pedestrians, people going here and there doing the things that people do, carrying plastic bags, pushing children in buggies, chatting, standing around. But even within this little slice, I can see that something is fundamentally different from what I’m used to. Perhaps it’s the bustle, the noise, the crowds; perhaps it’s the way people look and walk, how they talk to one another and what they’re wearing; perhaps it’s the oddity of knowing that the freakishness of this place is only in my head, in its unfamiliarity to me. These are ordinary people having an ordinary day in what for them is an ordinary town, but it feels as if my short journey through the tunnel has transported me further away from home than I’ve ever been, and this small glimpse, this tiny sliver of a view, is simply not enough.

  I edge towards the bins and squeeze myself through the gap, just far enough to see out of the alley. It leads to the street through a narrow opening between two tall concrete buildings, the walls streaked with green and brown stains. I stare, pressing myself into the shadows, watching and listening, slowly creeping forwards to widen my view. I know I ought to turn and head straight back to safety, but what I’m seeing holds me there, watching. This place is bursting with something I can’t quite put my finger on, a feeling of bustle and life which seems like the very essence of what the quiet, clean, just-built streets of Amarias lack.

  Eventually I reach the corner, and allow myself a quick look in each direction – two speedy snapshots of this close-but-distant world. Rows of shops and stalls line the road, everything jumbled together. In front of me, a man in a tracksuit is standing alongside a wooden cart piled high with cigarettes. Behind him is a grocery store, with sacks of beans, lentils, chickpeas, couscous and rice laid out on the pavement, underneath boxes of aubergines, green peppers, potatoes, cauliflowers and lemons. Further down the street, an old woman in a black headscarf is sitting on a plastic crate behind a waist-high stack of eggs, but her pavement space is shared with an array of car seats, springs, cogs and axles which have spilled out from a garage. Further on, there are more rows of old men and women sitting behind small stacks of vegetables, mixed in with younger guys selling mobile phones and phone accessories encrusted with fake jewels.

  Opposite the alley is a bakery with a large hand-painted sign, showing a slice of green cake with wings flying through an electric-blue sky. In the window, there’s a heap of oval loops of bread, like stretched bagels, and bright yellow star-shaped pastries.

  In the other direction, there’s a butcher with three whole carcasses almost as big as me hanging from hooks, outside which two middle-aged guys are sitting behind a wooden tray on a low stand, displaying bracelets, hair clips and baby shoes. Further down are fruit stalls and sweet stalls, blocking the entrance to a noisy workshop in which two men, obscured by clouds of dust, are operating a circular saw surrounded by stacks of doors. As I watch, two teenage boys pass by, dragging an enormous canister of cooking gas. A wooden cart piled with a teetering pyramid of oranges follows closely behind them. The mournful wail of a solo voice backed by violins is drifting down the street from one direction, clashing with a hectoring speech blaring from the distorted speakers of a badly tuned radio.

  Next door to the bakery, an old man in a crocheted white cap is sitting on a plastic stool in a narrow doorway, opening and closing a cigarette lighter, watching everything, looking neither bored nor interested.

  Nothing, on its own, is particularly weird, but taken all together, it’s the most astonishing street I’ve ever seen, both enticingly alive and strangely depressing. There’s no paving on the pavement and the tarmac on the road is old, cracked, and dotted with stagnant puddles. The buildings don’t look properly built, with cables and pipes hanging off them in strange places. Many seem unfinished, sprouting tufts of iron bars from their roofs. Hardly anything is painted, and the shops all spill out on to the street as if there’s no clear difference between inside and outside. Not one of the passing pedestrians seems to find any of this even slightly strange.

  Staring at this mysterious vision of strangeness and normality, I lose track of my intention to snatch a glance and leave. Even when a couple of people notice me, staring momentarily then walking on, my feet are still slow to turn me round and take me back. Then I spot a group of four boys crossing the street in my direction, heading straight towards me, at speed. They’re big, at least a year or two older than me, and their eyes seem to be glowing with a strange intensity, twinkling with excitement as they bear down on me.

  I spin on my heel and sprint down the alley. I hear their footsteps accelerate as they give chase, then angry shouts boom out, echoing down the column of dank air. I can’t understand the words, but this obviously isn’t a friendly greeting.

  With my heart beating so hard it seems to be battering against my rib cage, I push through the gap between the bins. I can see that I’ll get to the tunnel before the boys, but if they follow me down, and through, what then?

  My feet drive hard against the dusty ground as I accelerate away from the bins, hurling myself towards my escape route, but suddenly I see I’m not alone. There’s a boy standing on top of the tunnel entrance. His arms are folded across his chest and his feet are planted firmly on the trapdoor. He’s the same height as me, and looks thin but tough. Even though he’s neatly dressed, in a clean school uniform, just the way he’s standing makes him look like the kind of kid who knows how to throw a punch.

  I pause, only a few steps away from the tunnel. He stares at me, his gaze hard and sad, as if he understands exactly who I am and what I want, and with an almost regretful look on his face he gives his head a small shake. He isn’t going to move. He isn’t going to let me into the tunnel.

  I could try to push him away, but if he fights back I’ll be done for. The four guys chasing me are already pushing between the bins. They’ll be on me in a matter of seconds.

  There’s only one direction left to run: onwards past the tunnel, towards the chain-link fence. The boy stares at me impassively as I take off again, running the only way I can, further down the alley, towards who knows what? If I can’t get over that fence, I have no idea what those boys will do to me. It will be bad, but how bad? I’ve never eve
n been in a proper fight before, and now I know I’m about to be beaten up – punched and kicked at the very least – by a gang of boys bigger and older and tougher than me, who hate me just for being who I am, for coming from the other side of The Wall.

  Even if I do get away from the boys, I’ll need to find a way back to the tunnel. If I get lost, I’m in serious danger. There might be adults here who wish even more harm on me than these boys. As my hands crash into the wire of the fence, juddering me to a dead stop, it strikes me that I might never get home.

  I grip hard and begin to climb. At the first two attempts, I slip back down having barely cleared the ground. Only the very tips of my trainers will fit into the tilted squares of wire that make up the fence, and my fingers alone aren’t strong enough to hold my weight.

  The gang is closer now, running past the boy standing on the trapdoor, sprinting towards me, still shouting. There’s an edge of triumph in whatever it is they’re saying. They know they have me cornered.

  In desperation, I kick off my trainers and begin to climb again. I can now get my big toes into the fence holes. The wire bites into my skin, but I spider up the fence using all my strength, just as the boys catch up with me. They jump up at my ankles, one of them catching hold and pulling me down towards him. His pull jerks my other toe out of its foothold, and for a moment I’m hanging only by my hands. I have scarcely a second’s more strength to support myself, but my half-fall causes the boy to lose his grip on my ankle. I shove my toes back into the fence and continue to climb, as fast as I can, the fence clacking and swaying under my weight.