The Wall (4 page)

I look around the narrow street, and see a black motorbike parked against a wall, with a corner of space half concealed behind it. This is hardly a perfect hiding place, but it’s my only option.

I jump into the gap and squash my body into itself, curling up like a foetus. When I have found the best position, I hold myself absolutely still, and breathe as steadily and quietly as I can, fighting to rein in the insistent rasp of my lungs.

A sudden beep from my pocket pierces the air. I pull out my phone. There’s a text on the screen. ‘OK. Have fun. Mum xxx.’

My phone! Is there someone I could summon to help me? Who could I contact? How could I describe where I am, when I don’t even know? Whatever might be possible, at this moment I can’t make a sound, let alone a call, or even risk another beep. With my thumb muffling the speaker, I switch it off.

It seems bizarre that these words can beam out from a mast somewhere on the other side of The Wall and find me here, crouched behind a motorbike. The thought of my mum, probably standing at the stove, typing out this message, makes my throat tighten and my eyes sting. I can see it: the pans bubbling in front of her, the curve of her neck, the slight frown as she struggles with the tiny buttons. It’s possible that I’ll never again find myself in that kitchen, that at this very moment she’s cooking the last meal she’ll ever make for me, and I won’t even taste it.

As I twist to put the phone in my pocket, I see something astonishing and terrifying, directly above me. There’s a girl, leaning out of a raised ground-floor window, and her large brown eyes are looking straight down at me. If I’d seen her before, I would have written off this hiding place immediately, but now it’s too late to change. She’s wearing a grey and purple school uniform, and looks no older than me, but her hair is plaited on either side of her head in the style of someone much younger. Her eyebrows are puckered together, forming an expression of amused puzzlement.

For a strangely drawn-out moment, we look at one another: the girl leaning out into the street, me crouched down behind the motorbike. With my eyes, I beg her not to give me away. I put a finger to my lips, just as I hear the sound of four sprinting footsteps run past me, so close that particles of dust clatter against the spokes of the motorbike wheel. I flinch and press myself against the ground, willing the boys to keep on running.

They pass by without spotting me, but before the footsteps go out of earshot, I hear them falter, then stop. The road just ahead of the motorbike forks in two. I hear them exchange a few words then turn and head back in my direction. I feel something inside me give way, an internal collapse of courage and hope which feels like the ground caving in under my hiding place, dropping me into a helpless freefall.

The boys speak again, in louder voices, their feet now less than a metre away, but their language incomprehensible. Then I hear another voice: the girl. From the gestures and intonation, it’s clear what is being said. They want to know if she saw me, and where I have gone.

Without looking down at me, she points up one of the roads, sounding enthusiastic and bloodthirsty, wiggling her finger fast as if to encourage them to hurry. They don’t even wait for her to finish speaking before they run off.

She watches them go without even glancing downwards. After the sound of their footsteps has receded to nothing, she lowers her eyes and gives me what is almost a smile. I look up at her, too shattered and confused to smile back.

She beckons me upwards and I slowly uncurl myself, crouching for a moment behind the saddle to check with my own eyes that the boys have gone. My legs feel stiff and sore as I straighten and look at her through the open window. She has a pretty, friendly face, with wide, full lips and prominent front teeth, as if her mouth was intended for a slightly bigger head. Her eyes have a ring of black flecks at the perimeter of large, brown irises, like the site of a minuscule explosion. They are the eyes of someone who thinks fast.

She says something to me, but I can’t understand. My mouth seems incapable of shaping a smile or uttering any words of thanks. Then, without any warning, she shuts the window in my face and disappears.

I look around me. I’m totally lost. I have no idea how I’ve got to this place, or how to get away from it. It won’t be long before the boys, realising they’ve been sent the wrong way, return. I wonder for a moment if I should crouch down behind the motorbike again, or if it’s futile to put off the inevitable any longer. Perhaps I should just stand there and let them find me.

A door clatters open and the girl appears again, on her front step. She barks more words at me, urgently this time, but I still can’t understand. I shrug, and she takes a deep breath. Forming each syllable carefully, she speaks once more, this time in my language.

‘Come inside,’ she says.

I look at her blankly.

‘Quickly,’ she says. ‘They might come back.’

I squeeze out from behind the motorbike, almost knocking it over, and follow her into the house. As soon as we are in, she closes and bolts the door behind us.

I try to thank her, but when I open my jaw, my chin begins to wobble, and this sensation causes my knees to decide that they, too, have forgotten how to behave. Jelly-legged, I realise I can’t remain upright for much longer. I lean my back against the door and slide downwards until the floor comes up to meet me. Without any real idea of how it happened, I find myself sitting on the tiles of this girl’s hallway.

She indicates with her hands that I should stay put, and walks away, returning a few moments later with a glass of water. I’m not sure if it’s safe to drink the water on this side of The Wall, but I don’t want to seem ungrateful and I’m desperately thirsty, so I down the whole thing in one gulp. As I hand her the empty glass, I realise I’ve got back the ability to voluntarily move my face, and I stretch my lips into a smile of gratitude, worrying, as I do so, that my expression might bear more resemblance to a grimace of pain. I feel like I need a mirror to check that my features are doing what I think they’re doing.

She takes the glass from me, our fingers brushing as she does so. Mine are black with filth, hers are clean and slender, with nails immaculately painted a dark shade of blood red. It’s a strange mismatch: these adult hands and that childish hairstyle. Her bare feet move soundlessly across the tiles as she walks away, then returns with a refilled glass. I swallow this one, again, in a single slug.

With nothing more than a raise of one eyebrow, she offers me another glass. I smile and nod, more confident this time that my smile really is a smile.

This third glass I drink more slowly. I even manage a thank you.

‘It’s OK,’ she says.

‘For saving me, I mean.’

‘That’s OK, too,’ she says. Her voice is deeper than you’d expect from a girl her size, her accent strong and throaty but easy to understand. She leaves a gap between every word, pronouncing each one as if it’s a jigsaw piece being slotted into place.

‘It is very kind of you,’ I say. ‘I mean, more than kind. I don’t know what the word is. They were going to . . . I don’t know . . .’ I can’t finish the sentence. I don’t want to imagine what they would have done to me.

‘I hate those boys. They’re bullies. They beat up my cousin.’ Her forehead wrinkles with anger, her lips pursing into a resentful pout.

‘Do you think they’ll come back?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I want to . . . I want . . .’ I can’t get the next word out. The feel of it moving from my brain to my tongue sets my chin spasming again. I stop myself, take a deep breath, then try to get through the whole sentence in one quick gabble. ‘I want to go home.’

I stare down into my drink and sip. A swirling green pattern covers the glass; the rim is painted gold. A worm of sweat slides down my spine. I shiver, momentarily unsure if I am hot or cold. It strikes me that I can smell a sour, meaty waft coming from the residue of the boy’s spit on my cheek. The stink of it brings back the look on his face as he spat – a pure hatred I’ve never seen before, let alone had directed straight at me – as if without that fence between us, he would have reached out and ripped me open.

I dip my fingers into the glass and dab at my cheek and eyelid. My mother might have phoned David’s mother by now, and found out that I’m not with him. She could have phoned the school, too, to check that I left on time. It’s probably dawning on her that something has gone wrong, that I’m missing, but even her worst nightmares didn’t contain the possibility of me being here.

I’m not, in truth, very far away at all. Probably only a few hundred metres. But I’m in another world.

‘I'll try and help you,'
she says, ‘but we have to be fast. Before my father gets home.'

‘OK,' I say, pulling the phone from my trousers. ‘Thank you. Can I phone?'

‘Phone who?'

‘Home. They can send someone to get me. I need an address.'

‘Send who?'

‘I don't know. Soldiers, I suppose.'

‘The army?'

‘Yes.'

‘Here?'

‘Yes. Just to get me.'

‘No! No no no! Not here.'

‘Why?'

‘Put it away! Put it away!'

I return the phone to my pocket. ‘But . . .'

‘Can you stand?' she says.

I push against the ground and heave myself up. My legs feel achy and weak, barely strong enough to support my weight. The girl has turned away and is looking through a cupboard. This room, with its cracked tile floor covered in one place by a small threadbare rug, seems to be the whole apartment. There is a cooking area in the corner, a wooden table surrounded by five flimsy chairs, one small sofa that looks like it has almost fallen to bits. The whole cramped, dark space isn't much bigger than my bedroom.

The walls are decorated with an array of photographs, some framed, some just stuck to the wall; some recent, some old and faded. Even at a glance, you can recognise the same faces at different stages of life – feel a family swelling over time. The most ornate frame is around an old black-and-white portrait of a severe-looking couple seated in front of a large, elegant house, with four smartly dressed children posing stiffly around them. The youngest child has a blurred head which is facing both forwards and to the side.

As the girl turns back from the cupboard, holding an intricately patterned black-and-white scarf, I notice a pile of bed-rolls stacked under the window. ‘You sleep here?' I say, realising as soon as the words come out that the surprise in my voice has been badly concealed.

‘Over there,' she replies, pointing to a patch of floor, apparently not offended by the question or even noticing my tone of voice. Then I think perhaps she did understand, because she eyes me closely for a reaction as she adds, ‘and my mother and my father and my brothers.'

I try not to move any muscles in my face, but just nod. ‘Where are they all?'

‘Out. But they'll be back soon, so we must be fast. This is my father's,' she says, handing me the scarf. ‘Be careful with it.'

I take the scarf, unsure what she wants me to do with it. I stand there for a moment, smelling stale cigarette smoke rising from the soft cotton. She steps towards me and wraps it around my head and shoulders.

‘Where are your shoes?' she asks.

‘I had to take them off to get over a fence.'

‘Are your feet OK?'

‘I don't know. I don't want to look.'

‘Do they hurt?'

‘They sting, but it's fine.' Just thinking about them sends needles of fresh pain darting up through my legs.

‘Maybe I can lend you some sandals.'

Her voice sounds reluctant. I know I ought to refuse, but the idea of heading outside again on the bare, raw soles of my feet is too awful. I shrug and she walks away, returning with a worn pair of plastic and foam flip-flops, several sizes too big, which she places in front of me. The insides of the soles are flattened and smoothed to the exact outline of her brother's feet, including each toe.

Now I've seen them, I almost want to change my mind and refuse, but I know I can't. I slip my feet reluctantly in.

‘Now you look OK,' she says. ‘Not too strange.'

‘Thank you.'

She smiles at me, and I find myself smiling back. I'm not sure why. I feel sick with nerves at the idea of leaving her home.

‘How did you get here?'

‘Through a tunnel,' I say, wondering as soon as the words are out of my mouth if this is something I should admit.

‘Where?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You don't know?'

‘I know where it is from the other side, but on this side it's a blur. I came up, then I was chased away. I just ran for it. I can't remember the route. It's a long way.'

‘I can't take you to the checkpoint. I'm not allowed near the checkpoint.'

‘Can you tell me where it is?'

‘It's closed now. There's no point.'

‘They'd let me through.'

‘You won't get close enough.'