The Wall (13 page)

Sixth rest: my shoulder muscles are trembling, my fingers stinging. This feels like the correct distance, but nothing looks right. I’m searching for a green front door with a square iron knocker. I remember it clearly. Or there’s the black motorbike I hid behind, which should be parked in front of the house. Now I’ve strayed from my route I’m as good as lost, except for a mental thread I’m clinging on to: the route back to the main road, and towards the bakery. I decide to keep going until I feel this thread weakening. The second I think I might be losing track of the way home, I’ll just dump the bags and turn back.

Seventh rest: close to giving up. I know this street is wrong. In front of me is a yellow-painted building set back from the street, which I’m sure I’ve never seen before. No one seems to be around, so I give myself a longer rest, then turn round. I hang on to the bags, but head back to the main street.

Eighth rest: a green door! But no square knocker. No shutters on the window. I remember shutters above me when I looked up at the girl from my hiding place. Looking around, I see a whole street of green doors. This feels right. I pick up the bags and carry on.

Ninth rest: an iron knocker, but not square. Round. Shutters, but no motorbike. Could I have misremembered the knocker? I step towards the window and look at the ground, which is scattered with square indentations. The bike stand. I remember, inches from my nose as I hid, the motorbike was supported by a metal stand. Stepping closer I see a few small black circles, just visible on the grey ground. Oil stains. I look again at the door. Three steps up from the street. Yes, that’s the door.

With the bags at my feet, I look at the house. This is it! My scheme has worked! But as I stand there with my heart pounding, I realise I now have no idea what to do.

My plan ends here, as if I were making an ordinary delivery to an ordinary family, but staring up at this doorway, I’m struck by the risks involved in knocking. Quite aside from the possibility this might be the wrong house, it’s clear that someone other than the girl is likely to answer the door. What then? How will I explain myself? And if the girl isn’t at home, what reception will I get? What would they do to me: a boy from the other side with the missing scarf and flip-flops, a few bags of food, and no language to explain anything? I’d be at their mercy. The girl helped me, but the rest of her family might hate me on sight, like the spitting boy and his friends.

Every muscle and tendon in my body seems to slacken as I feel all confidence drain out of me. My plan suddenly looks stupid, foolhardy, lethal. But I’ve come this far. I can’t just drop everything and run for it. Not now.

The urge to flee, to get myself back to the tunnel and home, tugs me away from the green door, hauling me backwards, but if I don’t want my efforts to be wasted, I know I have to at least approach, and leave the bags on the girl’s doorstep. They might be stolen, they might not, but either way, if I do this, I’ll know I tried my best.

I inch towards the threshold and put the bags down as quietly as I can. Knock and run?

No. No running. I mustn’t do anything that could attract attention.

The scarf, I decide, can go through the letterbox, then I’ll be able to return home confident I’m no longer a thief. It’s a message the girl will understand. If she gets that, she’ll know who delivered the food. I don’t want praise, or thanks, but I want her to know.

The letterbox is small, with stiff springs, but the scarf fits through if I stretch it out and feed it in little by little. I do this as fast as I can, working the cotton in lumps from my thumbs to my fingers and poking at the narrow slot. I’ve almost finished when the door springs open, giving way in front of me, toppling me forwards.

I straighten up as fast as I can and find myself looking into the angry, bearded face of a man who looks a little older than Liev. This has to be the girl’s father, the owner of the scarf which is now hanging from his letterbox. He says something to me, a string of harsh, guttural words I can’t understand, and I realise that given the choice between attempting to explain myself and running away, there’s no contest. I promised myself I wouldn’t run on this side of The Wall, but this man – the look on his face – changes everything. It’s time to run.

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.’