The Wall by William Sutcliffe Page A

hovering, ready to grab the railing. No one had been up here for a while: other than his footsteps, the surface was dry. Soon, there was no concrete ahead of him, only air.
    He curled his toes over the lip of the platform, spread his arms, and stood there, swaying slightly. The gusset of his trunks had sagged away from his body, releasing droplets of water which splashed between his ankles.
    With his chin raised, he slowly bent his knees and leapt forwards, flying through the air with his back arched, a perfect, graceful swallow dive. For half a second, it was beautiful. Then, as his head speared towards the water, the flaw in his technique became apparent. With several more metres to fall, he was still rotating. His legs and arms began to flail in a futile attempt to correct his trajectory, before the skin of his back hit the water with the sound of a whipcrack. A circular wave spread out from his point of impact, causing concentric rings of swimmers to bob in the water. A ripple of laughter echoed upwards as the sound of the splash faded.
    He resurfaced and swam towards my mother. I couldn’t make out the expression on either of their faces, but I could see that before he said a word, he kissed her on the lips. It was the first time I ever saw him touch her. The sight of that kiss stabbed into my chest like another poke. That was the moment when I knew he’d beaten me.
    I climbed down the ladder, struggling on the slippery rungs, my body heavy with foreboding. Liev had taken charge. I didn’t know where he’d lead us, but I sensed that everything was going to change, and I was powerless to stop it.
    ‘Too high for you?’ he said, as I swam into earshot.
    ‘Is your back OK?’ I asked.
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘Must be sore.’
    ‘Not really.’
    ‘Can I see it?’
    ‘Nothing to see,’ he said, splashing me playfully-but-not-playfully in the face.
    Not until we were in the changing rooms did I get a look at his injured skin. A livid rash spread across his back as if someone had strapped him to a table and sandpapered him, the redness interrupted only by a thin white line, like a streak of lightning, that divided the wound. You could see the whole area would be hot to the touch. It seemed amazing that he hadn’t wept, hadn’t given away even a hint of discomfort. A slight flinch as he put on his shirt was the only sign he was in any pain.
    On the way home, he clutched the steering wheel with both hands, holding his body upright so his back didn’t touch the seat. He told me my swimming needed work and offered to take me back to the pool, just the two of us, ‘for a few lessons’.
    Mum swivelled in her seat and smiled at me. ‘Isn’t that kind?’ she said.
    I didn’t answer.
    Within two months they were married, and Liev had moved us out here, to the Occupied Zone, into a brand new house at the edge of Amarias.
     
    ‘Are you OK?’ says Mum, leaning towards me and stroking my cheek.
    I lean back, out of reach, and stare down at the untouched chicken on my plate. Liev is already halfway through his portion. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just tired.’
    ‘You had a big fright.’
    ‘I’m just tired,’ I snap.
    ‘OK,’ she says, raising her hands in a fake mini-surrender. ‘You’re just tired.’
    ‘Of course he is,’ says Liev, squeezing out his sarcasm through a mouthful of rice. ‘Falling asleep over his schoolwork. You think that’s how to get good grades?’
    ‘He’s doing fine,’ says Mum.
    ‘I know he is. Fine is fine, but fine isn’t good. Fine isn’t excellent.’
    ‘Let him eat,’ says Mum.
    ‘Am I stopping him? Am I?’
    Mum shrugs.
    ‘He’s thirteen years old. You can’t tiptoe round him all the time.’
    I put my head down and try to make a start on my meal, wondering how long the two of them will be capable of carrying on this conversation without any input from me. Except that I can’t eat. The chicken on my fork looks succulent, dripping with a thick, glistening sauce, but in my