Authors: Rachel Ingalls
As he walked, he thought about his wife. Where had she really heard those things? Women sometimes kept a piece of news away from the men of a community just as the men did from the women, but the problem of refugees was one that affected everyone. And surely the children would
be talking about the quarry, if the story were true.
He could understand that something of the kind might happen. The time for pity and humanity was during and right after the shooting and bombardment: after the savagery of fighting. As soon as a year or so had gone by, the injured became a burden. But despite the lack of policing, and the makeshift nature of organizations in the district, people wouldn’t feel safe committing such atrocities unless they thought they couldn’t get caught. And the only reason they might feel that was if the aid agencies were in on some sort of swindle with them: handing the regular food ration to the families and dumping the refugees into the quarry to rot.
That made sense. And in that case, it would mean that she’d heard it from the man who kept giving her the cigarettes. So, had she been seeing him on the side? She was pregnant again, too. Was she pregnant by the other man? Was she in love?
*
The wind was behind him as it usually was if you were heading out of town from that point. That was why the quarry, the slaughterhouse and the tannery were all in the same general area. And it was another reason why his parents’ house, now gone, had been in a better location than his and why his first long trek to the quarry had seemed such an adventure.
Despite the direction of the wind, as soon as he was close enough to see the outcrops of rock that marked the quarry boundary, he became aware of the smell: it was sporadically
evident, moving in single, fugitive wafts and then the occasional full gust.
He circled the place, looking down. All the people he could see at the far end were entirely without clothes or shoes. They lay separately and most of them appeared to be dead but during his inspection one figure gave signs of consciousness. As he continued to walk, he caught sight of another: a man, wrapped in a few strips of cloth, who raised his head, crawled forward a few feet and lay down again. A crowd of noisy birds circled overhead. They landed near the bodies and flew back up, to come down at a different spot. A few desultory groans reached him: it was impossible to tell where they came from.
All at once he heard children’s voices. Ahead of him, among the brushwood and scrub running up to the lip of the quarry, stood a girl and a boy: the girl no older than six and the boy possibly about four. They were throwing something down to one of the people below. He caught the girl’s words: ‘bread’ and later – triumphantly – ‘blanket’. A dark shape rose into the air and disappeared from view.
He wrapped his handkerchief around his hook and crept closer. The children were so preoccupied that they didn’t notice. He was right on top of them before they saw him. The boy screamed. The girl whirled around and stared, ready to run.
In an easy, conversational tone he said, ‘Do you know somebody down there?’
‘Anna,’ the boy answered.
‘Is she your mother?’
‘She’s our friend. She takes care of us.’
The girl pointed off into the bushes, and said, ‘We found a ladder, but it’s too heavy.’
‘He could lift it,’ the boy told her.
He said, ‘I know those ladders. They’re old. They’ve rotted. You’d hurt yourself on them. Haven’t your parents told you to stay away from here?’
Both children looked down. The girl mumbled, ‘We hear them crying.’
‘Well,’ he said vaguely, ‘I’ll see what I can do. But you’d better go home now. Nobody’s safe here. And remember to keep away from the ladders. You could fall in there yourselves, you know. Go on.’ He moved his good hand in an outward sweep. They stood still for a few moments, looked at each other and then ran.
He stepped forward to the quarry itself and peered over the drop. A middle-aged woman was standing directly below him, looking up. She was wrapped in the blanket the children had thrown down. ‘Please,’ she called up. ‘For God’s sake.’
Behind her stood a young woman, the only person he’d yet seen in the place who had on any clothes other than rags. She was not simply fully dressed: she was magnificently attired for the evening in sumptuous garments, the like of which hadn’t been seen since before the war – a long, silky gown and a little velvet jacket with elbow-length sleeves. Her shoes, one of which was just visible beneath the hem of her dress, were of satiny black with an arrow-shaped stripe of some glittering substance at the front:
metal or beads. Like the older woman, she was eating food from a piece of paper. There was no indication that anything had been taken by force; the two were evidently friends or had become allies through circumstance.
The older woman limped a step nearer. As she tightened her hand on the blanket he could see that she wore some kind of dark shift, possibly underclothing borrowed from her friend. ‘Please,’ she called out again, more desperately. Behind her the young woman crumpled up and threw away the piece of paper that had held the food. She made a graceful, swinging move forward, like the first step of a dance. ‘Please,’ she repeated. Her voice was stronger and fuller but also smoother and sweeter than the other woman’s. As she spoke, she put her hands to the front of the dress underneath her jacket and pulled the material apart, showing him her breasts. ‘Please,’ she insisted, so softly that he could hardly catch the sound. It was as if he stood right next to her, close enough to touch, transfixed by her large, dark eyes, the kissing shape of her mouth after speech had left it, the beautiful breasts that she covered again.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Maria.’
‘And you’re Anna?’ he said to the older woman. She nodded. ‘What’s wrong with your leg?’
‘It happened when they threw me in.’
‘Could you climb a ladder?’
‘Yes. But soon, please. Every hour we’re weaker. We don’t dare to fall asleep at the same time.’
He looked at Maria again. Her eyes held his, but she didn’t
add any words to what her gesture had already promised in return for rescue. He said, ‘I’ll try,’ and turned away.
He followed the direction the little girl had indicated. After beating the undergrowth and shrubbery for a while, he found the ladder. It was old but long enough to reach to the bottom of the pit from one of the lower sides. Several rungs were missing, although the long sections looked all right; in some places they had been reinforced with metal. He kicked the wood. He tried its weight. He thought that he’d be able to get Maria out if he came back and put three more rungs in. He’d bring a rope too, in case they had to tie Anna to the lower rungs and haul her up that way. It would be easy if they had a car or a tractor or a horse – or any of several other things nobody had any more.
He didn’t go back to look at them. Anything could happen between then and the next day. The ladder, for instance, might belong to a gang that was still using the place for smuggling or secret meetings, in spite of the gruesome recent addition of the living graveyard. He might return and find the ladder gone. The children’s parents could be there, lying in wait for him, ready to deal with anyone who knew what they had done to the pleasant, gray-haired refugee who had been working as a nursemaid to their children.
He’d do what he had promised: he’d try. And they’d wait where they were, knowing that he’d expect them to be in the same spot when he came back.
A few drops of rain spattered down as he made his way home. At first he thought that he’d misjudged the hour and
that the darkening sky meant an early evening, but the rain convinced him that he still had time to do everything: collect his toolbox, pick up some clothes and find the ropes he kept coiled in the corner cupboard to the right of the sink. The longest rope would certainly be enough. And there were two shorter ones.
As he walked, he scanned the houses in the distance. One of them would be the place where the two children lived. He wondered how the women in the quarry would be able to stand the cold and wet in a downpour. Thinking about the older woman reminded him of the old woman at home. What was he going to do with her now? If he hadn’t met the children and Anna and Maria, he’d have taken a quick look, come back at night and just shoved her over. But he’d have needed to borrow a car from somewhere, so maybe he’d have postponed any action till then.
The rain passed by. He came to the lane that led to his house. He’d have to think up something to tell his wife. He’d say that he’d decided to do what she’d been asking, and get rid of the old woman. So, he’d gone to the quarry. But there was a woman and … her daughter … who had been tricked, robbed and thrown in there with the others. And he was going to get them out. They could work in the house. They could take care of the children. And if she didn’t like it, she could get out, because she sure as hell didn’t do much herself nowadays. All she did was smoke black-market cigarettes one after the other.
He stepped over the threshold. The whimpers of the old woman started up as if renewing themselves in increasing
frequency. And the smell was there. But his wife wasn’t at home. And the children were out; they ought to have been back in the house at that hour. Maybe they were at a neighborhood party or walking home from a soccer game or doing work somewhere in order to earn extra money. But now it really was beginning to get dark and he didn’t like the girls to stay out late unless they were with friends. Had his wife taken them all somewhere without telling him beforehand – had she left him? She wouldn’t be able to manage on her own. And what man would take on a woman who had all those kids?
He heard another noise above the sounds of the old woman: the cries of someone in pain. They came from one of the back rooms where some of the children slept. He hurried towards the noise. Long before he reached the door, he must have recognized the grunts and moans for what they were. And as soon as he knew, he should have stopped, gone away to think, and laid a trap. But he didn’t miss a step. He didn’t seem to think at all, although something must have been taking place in his mind because he speeded up, going faster towards the door and not bothering to walk quietly. So, even though he had surprise on his side, they would have heard his approach before he came through the door.
He pulled the aid worker off his wife, swiped him across the side of the head with his hook and when the man produced the knife he’d reached for, jumped on the bed and started to kick him in the belly. His wife scrabbled around for the fallen knife. He slammed her in the face. Blood
gushed from her nose and she fainted. He turned back to the man, but not fast enough.
He saw the fist coming at him, right in front of his face.
*
He woke with a headache worse than any hangover he’d ever had. The night sky was above him, irradiated by a half moon. Someone was bending over him: a woman – a beautiful woman. Maria.
He was in the quarry.
As soon as he understood where he was, he could smell the pungent reek: coming from all around him, especially from a large, lumpy shape lying on the ground ahead of him.
‘Are you badly hurt?’ Maria asked. ‘Can you understand what I’m saying?’
He felt his jaw and tested the action of his limbs. He was still in his clothes and boots, but his hook was gone. He wondered if it had been lost during the fall. Of course not; it had to be unscrewed. He was lucky that they hadn’t beaten the other half out of the bone; that could help to identify him, if anyone ever wanted to take the trouble.
He was sore, but that was all. No bones were broken, not even his jaw, and he still had his teeth. All the pain – except for his head – came from bruising, nothing more.
‘They were in a hurry,’ she told him. ‘They threw the old woman over first. You fell right on top of her, with your arm under your head. Otherwise, you’d probably be dead.’
‘This is the sandy side,’ he said. ‘Everybody knows that. They must have been scared. Or lazy. They must have known the fall might not kill me.’
A shadow moved behind Maria: Anna, still wrapped in her blanket. She sat down on the ground next to him, and sighed, saying, ‘What difference does it make? We can’t get out. You might be better off if you’d broken your neck.’
‘They had a car,’ Maria said. ‘We heard it. I came over here to look. Anna stayed where we’d seen you in the afternoon.’
‘How long ago did this happen?’
‘Ten minutes, no longer.’
He sat up, thinking:
Thank God I haven’t been here for a week
and lost my strength
. The clothes and boots were a help, but not necessary. The missing hook was more important; without it he felt somehow unsure of his balance.
He told them about the stone steps that used to lead from the top. The stairs that went down to gravel and the ones that ended on solid stone had been left with projections and rough edges. The ones that led from stone still contained a long middle section of steps. Going up from gravel the stairs were more destroyed and higher, but less dangerous if you fell. It was a question of weighing advantage against disadvantage. He chose the stone. The women disagreed with him. He said, ‘We’ll see what it’s like first.’
They walked across the quarry in the moonlight, Maria stepping daintily in her party shoes, Anna limping behind. Halfway over to the other side, someone began to follow them. He stopped to chase the intruder away. Anna said, ‘Most of them are quiet till near the end, when they start to go crazy. That gives them a burst of energy every once in a while.’ When the same form scuttled back, he turned around and kicked out at it. No one bothered them after that.
He put his hand on the rock face; it was cold but not wet. He wiped his hand on his trousers. He considered taking his boots off and decided against it. He longed for his hook.
‘Stand back while I’m climbing,’ he told the women. ‘If I get out, I’ll come back to where they threw me over the side. And I’ll try to find the car. If I don’t come back, I’ll be dead.’
*
The first part of the climb was easy. At the still almost complete mid-section, he went up the steps without hesitation. Only after that did the ordeal begin, as he moved across jutting spars and ledges that broke under his weight, or leaned close to the rock wall to catch his breath and slow his heartbeat, only to find that the stone now seemed moist and slippery. He was running with sweat and gasping for air. His head felt ready to burst and he began to tremble. In the half-light his sense of distance was distorted so that he mistook shadow for solid ground. Pieces of rock crumbled away beneath him as he tried to find a safe place to stand and rest. But the longer he struggled, the clearer it became that there wasn’t going to be any rest. He couldn’t go back: he would never be able to repeat any stretch of the climb, much less do it again from the beginning; the trail was collapsing – erasing itself as he moved. This was the test that was like life: you went through it once and that was your only chance.