In memory of Peggie Geraghty
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
I The Wall
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
II The Others
13
14
15
16
17
III The Sea
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
About the Author
Also by the Author
Copyright
I
THE WALL
1
It’s cold on the Wall. That’s the first thing everybody tells you, and the first thing you notice when you’re sent there, and it’s the thing you think about all the time you’re on it, and it’s the thing you remember when you’re not there any more. It’s cold on the Wall.
You look for metaphors. It’s cold as slate, as diamond, as the moon. Cold as charity – that’s a good one. But you soon realise that the thing about the cold is that it isn’t a metaphor. It isn’t like anything else. It’s nothing but a physical fact. This kind of cold, anyway. Cold is cold is cold.
So that’s the first thing that hits you. It isn’t like other cold. This is a cold that is all about the place, like a permanent physical attribute of the location. The cold is one of its fundamental properties; it’s intrinsic. So it hits you as a package, the first time you go to the Wall, on the first day of your tour. You know that you are there for two years. You know that it’s basically the same everywhere, as far as the geography goes, but that everything depends on what the people you will be serving with are like. You know that there’s nothing you can do about that. It is frightening but also in its way a little bit freeing. No choice – everything about the Wall means you have no choice.
You get a little training but not much. Six weeks. Mainly it’s about how to hold, clean, look after and fire your weapon. In that order. Some fitness training, but not much; a lot of training in midnight awakening, sleep disruption, sudden panics, sudden changes of order, small-hours tests of discipline. They drum that into you: discipline trumps courage. In a fight, the people who win are the ones who do what they’re told. It’s not like it is in films. Don’t be brave, just do what you’re told. That’s pretty much it. The rest of the training happens on the Wall. You get it from the Defenders who’ve been there longer than you. Then in your turn you give it to the Defenders who come after. So that’s what you arrive able to do: get up in the middle of the night, and look after your weapon.
You usually arrive after dark. I don’t know why but that’s just how they do it. Already you had a long day to get there: walk, bus, train, second train, lorry. The lorry drops you off. You and your rucksack are left standing there in the cold and the blackness. There is the Wall in front of you, a long low concrete monster. It stretches into the distance. Although the Wall is completely vertical, when you stand underneath it, it feels as if it overhangs. As if it could topple over onto you. You feel leant on.
The air is full of moisture, even when it isn’t actually wet, which it often is, either with rain or with sea-spray splashing over the top. It isn’t usually windy, immediately behind the Wall, but it sometimes is. In the dark and the damp, the Wall looks black. The only path or sign or hint for what you should do or where you should go is a flight of concrete steps – they always drop you near the steps. There’s a small light at the top, in the guard house, but you don’t yet know that’s what you’re looking at. Instead what you mainly think is that the Wall is taller than you expected. Of course you’ve seen it before, in real life, and in pictures, maybe even in your dreams. (That’s one of the things you learn on the Wall: that lots of people dream about it, long before they’re sent there.) But when you’re standing at the bottom looking up, and you know you’re going to be there for two years, and that the best thing that can happen to you in those two years is that you survive and get off the Wall and never have to spend another day of your life anywhere near it – then it looks different. It looks very tall and very straight and very dark. (It is.) The exposed concrete stairs look steep and slippery. (They are.) It looks like a cold, hard, unforgiving, desperate place. (It is.) You feel trapped. (You are.) You are longing for this to be over; longing to be somewhere else; you would give anything not to be here. Maybe, even if you’re not religious, you say a prayer, out loud or under your breath, it doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t change anything, because your prayer says, please please please let me get off the Wall, and yet there you are, on the Wall. You start up the steps. You’ve begun your life on the Wall.
I was shaking as I went up the stairs; I’d like to think it was from the cold but it was probably half that and half fear. There was no guard rail and the concrete was more and more damp as I climbed. I’ve never been good with heights, even quite low ones. It crossed my mind that I might slip and fall off and that thought grew as I got higher up. I’m going to fall off and split my head open and die, and my time on the Wall will be over before it’s even begun, I thought. I’ll be a punchline. Remember that idiot who …? But if that happens, at least I’ll be off the Wall.
At the top I got to the guard house. Light was coming through a frosted window. I couldn’t see in. I didn’t know where to go or what to do, but there were no other options, so I knocked. There was no reply. I knocked again and heard a noise and took that as a sign to go in.
I stepped in and a wave of warmth flooded over me. My glasses immediately fogged up so I couldn’t see. I heard somebody laugh and somebody else say something under their breath. I took my glasses off and squinted around. The room was an undecorated concrete box. The walls were covered in maps. Two people sat in the opposite corners, one of them an imposing black man with scarred cheeks wearing an olive-green cabled uniform sweater. This was the Captain, though I didn’t know that yet. He was the only person on the Wall I ever saw wearing uniform. For the rest of us it simply wasn’t warm enough. He looked at me unsmiling. Behind him there were three computer monitors with a green-screen radar display.
‘A Defender who can’t see,’ he said. ‘Great.’
The other person snorted. This was a heavy-set white man wearing a red knitted cap: the Sergeant, though I didn’t know that yet either.
‘I’m Kavanagh,’ I eventually said. ‘I’m new.’ It seems idiotic now and it seemed idiotic then, but I had no idea what else to say. The two of them didn’t even laugh. They just looked at me. The man in uniform got up and walked over to me and looked me up and down. He was tall, at least half a head taller than me.
‘I’m the Captain,’ he said. ‘This is the Sergeant. Do everything we tell you to without questioning why. It takes about four months before you know what you’re doing. I have complete power to extend your stay here, without appeal. I don’t have to give a reason. The only way you get off the Wall is that two years go past, and I decide to let you go. If they didn’t make that clear in training, I’m making it clear now. Is it clear?’
It was. I said so.
‘Take him to the barracks,’ he said to the Sergeant. ‘I’m going out on the Wall.’
He left. The Sergeant’s demeanour changed a little when he was on his own.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘There are two sergeants, one for each shift. I’m yours. The other one is on the Wall. I should be in bed but I stayed up to meet you because I’m a fucking saint. Ask anyone. You’ll meet the rest of your shift in the morning. I’ll give you a quick version of the tour. The rest you can fill i
n tomorrow. Like the Captain said, it takes a while for it all to sink in, and the best way is through repetition. You can ask questions at the beginning but everyone gets sick of that pretty quickly, so I’d advise you to think if there’s an obvious answer to whatever it is you’re asking before you open your gob.’
He showed me around the mess hall, which was a bare concrete box with tables and chairs, the rec room, which was a bare concrete box with a huge television and badly battered sofas, the armoury, which was locked, and the infirmary, which was a bare concrete box with four steel-framed beds and no medical staff. Then he led me down two flights of stairs to the barracks, which is what Defenders called the room where everyone slept. It too was a bare concrete box. After standing in the entrance for about a minute, my eyes adapted enough to be able to make out the main details. There were thirty beds in the room, fifteen on each side, with plywood partitions separating them into cubicles. At the far end was the washroom. I was already familiar with the layout, because it was the same as in the barracks where I had done my training. One side had no external light source, the other had small square windows above head height. The beds along the right-hand wall were all empty, because that half of the company was on night duty. The beds along the left-hand wall were all occupied by sleeping bodies, except the ninth bed along, which had been empty and was now mine.
I put my bag down in the back of the cubicle. I took off my shoes and my outer layers of clothing and got into the bed. The sheets were rough but the two blankets were thick and I quickly warmed up. I could hear snores and muttering from my new squad companions. Being hungry makes me speedy; I realised I hadn’t eaten since setting out, and that my mind was whirring too fast to sleep. Tired, wakeful, apprehensive, I lay there and looked at the ceiling, and thought, I only have two years of this, 729 more nights, after I get through this one. That’s if I’m lucky and nothing goes wrong.
I must have slept, because I was woken up. Or maybe it was a new kind of sleep where you have none of the good part of being asleep but all of the bad part of being jolted awake. I heard an alarm and a few moments later felt the bed shake and opened my eyes to see a man’s face leaning down over me, close enough to smell his hot, faintly rank breath. The face was all beard, eyes and wool cap. On the upside, he was smiling.
‘New meat,’ he said. ‘I’m the Corporal. Also known as Yos. Five minutes to wash, fifteen to breakfast, then we assemble.’ He shook the bed one more time, as if for luck, then stood up and headed towards the washroom. He was another tall man, well over six feet. Around him other squad members were getting up, grumbling and scratching. I saw that most of them slept more or less fully clothed. The Corporal stopped a few metres away and turned to me.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said. ‘You know that thing they say, don’t worry, it might never happen? This is different. You’re on the Wall. It already has.’ He laughed and left me.
——
Thirty in a company, divided into two squads or shifts of fifteen. In addition, five-odd permanent staff at each guard station, cooks and cleaners. Companies rotate, two weeks on the Wall, two weeks off. One of those weeks is training and general maintenance and whatever, the other is leave. Squads only change members when people have finished their time on the Wall. That’s a rolling process, so there are always Defenders who are coming up to the end of their time, mixed in with others who’ve just started. Those are the two twitchiest groups, the ones who’ve only just begun and haven’t got a clue what they’re doing, and the ones at the end who feel they can reach out with their tongues and taste the freedom of life after the Wall, and who can think of only two subjects, how great it will be to get away and what a disaster it would be if anything went wrong in the last few days. The Defenders in the middle, some distance from both the beginning and the end, are more stoic.
In my squad I’d already met the Sergeant and the Corporal: they were always easy to tell apart, at whatever distance and however thickly swaddled in cold-weather clothing, because the Sergeant was heavy and the Corporal was tall. We called the Sergeant Sarge and we called the Corporal Yos. His hobby was whittling, and when we weren’t on the Wall he was usually working on a piece of wood with a wicked-looking curved knife. As for the other members of the squad, that first morning and for several days to come, telling people apart was an issue. It was the layers. So many layers! At breakfast, their heads down over porridge, silent, my new companions were difficult to distinguish even by gender. Everybody goes to the Wall and the balance overall is fifty–fifty, so by probability half of my squad should be women, but there was basically no way of knowing who was who except by asking, and it didn’t seem an ideal icebreaker.
After breakfast we went to the wardroom for a briefing from the Captain. The battered, unloved desks and chairs made it look like a school. There were two maps behind him, one a detailed 3D projection of our section of Wall and the other at a smaller scale showing the nearest fifty kilometres of coast. I was to learn that the briefing almost always had no relevant news, other than the temperature and the weather forecast – though that was very important information. Sometimes we would be told about a flotilla of Others who had been spotted and attacked from the air, just in case some of them had survived and might still be coming in our direction. Occasionally there would be some big-picture news about crops failing or countries breaking down or coordination between rich countries, or some other emerging detail of the new world we were occupying since the Change. Sometimes there would be news of an attack in which Others had used new or unexpected tactics, or attacked in surprising strength. If Others ever got through, we were told about it. The room would go very quiet. We’d hear when, where, how many.
There was no news like that on my first day. We sat shuffling and fidgeting and then the Captain came in. We stood up: not to attention, but we stood up. The Captain ran a tight company; there were lots of posts where nobody bothered to do that. He nodded and we sat down again and the room became still.
‘Nothing special today,’ he said. ‘No sightings of Others reported from the air or sea. No news of any relevance from the wider world. It’s two degrees now, high of five later, which will feel like about zero with the wind chill. Good news: we have a new Defender with us so we’re back up to strength. Kavanagh, stand up.’
I did. I looked around the room and all fourteen members of my squad looked back at me.
‘He’s starting his two years with us. Two years if he and you are lucky and we all do our jobs. Remember, the first few weeks, he’s still training. Also remember, this isn’t a drill. We could be attacked today and he and you need to be ready. OK, that’s it. I’ll see you during my rounds.’
We stood up again and started to make for the door. The Sergeant came over to me and pointed in turn at a grumpy-looking red-headed woman chewing gum sitting in the front row who’d been cleaning her fingers with a penknife during the briefing, the heavily bearded man who’d been sitting beside her, and a gender-indeterminate blob in a balaclava who’d been sitting behind me.
‘Put him in the middle of you lot,’ he said. ‘Posts eight to fourteen. Hifa on the big gun. I’ll come and see you there in thirty minutes.’
We went out onto the rampart that led to the Wall. The Sergeant looked around at us and then he gave the order, the one which was once famous as the most frightening command in the army, the scariest sentence you would ever hear, because it was the immediate precursor of close combat; words which meant, there is a good chance that you will kill or die today. In the new world, it was a sentence Defenders heard at the start of every single shift. He said:
‘Fix bayonets.’
And that’s how it began.
2
I think they used to call it concrete poetry, that thing where the words on the page look like a physical object, the object that the poem is trying to describe. You know, a poem about a tree in the shape of a tree, like this:
a
poem
about a
tree in the
shape of a tree,
in this case a Christ-
mas tree, not a very con-
vincing tree and not a very good
poem but it’s not trying to be a death-
less masterpiece it’s just to show the idea
yes?
A concrete poem. It feels an appropriate form for life on the Wall, because for a start life on the Wall is more like a poem than it is like a story. Days don’t vary much; there isn’t much a-to-b. There isn’t much narrative. You do have the constant prospect of action, the constant risk of sudden and total disaster – but that’s not the same as stuff actually happening. Most days, it doesn’t. The thing a typical day most resembles is the day before and the day after. It’s less like a form of time and more like a physical element. Time as a thing, an object. And then because the Wall is the dominant thing in your life and the life of everyone else around you, and your responsibilities and your day and your thoughts are all about the Wall, and your future life is determined by what happens on the Wall – you can, fairly easily, lose your life here, or lose the life you wanted to have – the two entities start to blur together, Time and the Wall, Time and the Wall, the Wall and your day and your life sliding past, minute by minute.
Add in the fact that so much of the time, what you’re mainly looking at is concrete. You stand on it, you sleep in it, your home and office and the place you eat and the place you shit and the place that gets in your dreams – concrete. Concrete … there it is again. You could talk about the Wall in prose, or you could talk about it in poetry, but either way concrete would be prominent.
In prose it’s a question of sheer scale. The Wall is ten thousand kilometres long, more or less. (This country has a lot of coast.) It is three metres wide at the top, every centimetre of the way. On the sea side it is usually about five metres high; on the land side the height varies according to the terrain. There is a watch house every three kilometres: three thousand-plus of them. There are ramparts, stairs, barracks, exit points for boats, helipads, storage facilities, water towers, access structures, you name it. All of them made of concrete. If you had the stats and the time and were sufficiently bored you could calculate just how much, but suffice it to say, that’s a lot of concrete. Millions of tons of it. That’s prose.
The Wall Page 1
