The Fall of Man

Part II chapter 13

Chapter 13

Later that day, Noah steps out of the hospital complex for the second time. He promised to bring Gwen flowers (she assured him that this was an impossible task) but more importantly, he knows that there is much more to see of the undiscovered city.

This time he slips off the central boulevard and onto one of the smaller side streets that run east - west. The difference in character is immediate. As a direct consequence of the high-density replanning of the city centre, many of these streets are alleyways - often more like crevasses. The slender void outside his apartment window suddenly seems generous in comparison. However, this narrowness provides welcome shade in the heat of the midday sun, and allows him to move around throughout the afternoon without suffering the sticky inconvenience of the previous day.

Where at first he had thought this place built from scratch, Noah soon discovers parts of the older city buried within the new facades. Entire streets of Victorian and Edwardian townhouses remain, shrouded behind and beneath layer after layer of modification and extension. In many cases, the original buildings were not man enough to carry the vast structures that now tower overhead. Noah finds himself walking down covered ambulatories and cloisters created in the gap between the original buildings and new colonnades of steel or timber posts that support vertical extensions of ten, twenty or even thirty storeys. Where they are still exposed to sunlight, the older buildings have been overclad in shimmering photovoltaic skins or are crisscrossed by the matt black pipes of solar hot water runs. Sun shades hang everywhere; suspended up the faces of buildings and across the top of streets to create arcades - keeping harsh sunlight away from interiors that would otherwise require mechanical cooling. In the shadows, illuminated signs of every shape, size and design hawk a dazzling array of services against a background of spray-paint, years of fly-posting and layer upon layer of grime.

These slender spaces are filled with life throughout the day. Many are lined from bottom to top with balconies, bridges, staircases and ladders. Shoppers trundle bicycles through the streets, their panniers laden with groceries. Workers come and go via busily revolving doors. Teenagers slouch together in alcoves higher up, while neighbours chat from balcony to balcony as their laundry swings across the void. Squawks and warbles emanate from the top of each street where pigeons and seagulls roost. Their droppings encrust the less fortunate handrails, ladder rungs and stair treads below.

In his wandering, Noah gets quite lost. He returns along streets he knows he has already walked, but finds them often dramatically changed, sometimes unrecognisable. Offices, workshops and shop-fronts open and close along the façades at different times of the day. Shutters are pulled down on one premises, as another neon sign springs into life.

Along one such alley, Noah spies a building that is being shrouded in a fresh cloak of scaffolding. On closer inspection, the scaffold is formed entirely from bamboo; the strong, fast-growing struts are quickly hacked to size with short, heavy machete, then briskly passed hand-over-hand up the crumbing face of Georgian corbelled stonework by skilled labourers. Once in position, each member is notched and lashed to the frame with well-practiced precision. Dusty canvas billows from the partially completed skeleton like the sails of a stocky ship. The procedure is at once rudimentary and highly efficient.

At the base of the marshmallow-soft edifice, a tattered yellow awning with a print of white flowers projects out into the street. Inside, an array of fruit and vegetables hang in crates along the walls of the small store from floor to ceiling. Most of the stock is fresh. Along the rear of the unit, an undulating wall of glass jars of every size and shape - containing beans, roots and pulses – provides a shimmering backdrop to the counter. The vendor confirms that it is all grown within a few miles of the city perimeter and, of course, none of the valuable arable land is used to grow cultivated flowers. There are strict limitations on the class and quantity of non-edible crops that can be grown for sale.

Above Noah’s head, the lofty ceiling is festooned with bicycles of every description. All show signs of having been used, and are in varying states of repair. Through a beaded doorway to the rear, two men in oily smocks work on a bike together while talking and laughing. Noah walks up and down the shop, scrutinising the aisles of bikes that hang overhead. He recognises most of the manufacturers’ insignia, although many have been modified – stripped down, parts replaced, gears removed. On the other side of the opening, the men watch Rover’s trundling progress across the floor with interest.

Later that afternoon, Noah presses his way through a typically bustling arcade and steps out into the sunlight; into an open space of a different scale. A square of perhaps one hundred by one hundred feet is dominated by an alien edifice that stands apart from the hotchpotch of city blocks pressing in on all sides. Almost filling the modest courtyard, it has the appearance of a giant termite mound; from the basalt base, a cluster of organic, ovoid towers emerge entwined like lovers’ limbs out of the clutter of the surrounding city, and taper high in the sky to infinitesimally slender points. Most striking of all, the structure is entirely black; without a shred of colour adorning its surface, the matte towers suck the light out of the sky. At the base, the whole melds together like a gigantic animal at rest – folds of dark, overgenerous skin sagging on top of one another in waves of volcanic slurry.

Noah approaches the slumped sculpture across a scorched grass-and-gravel square and tentatively lays a hand on the undulating mass. The afternoon sun has heated the rubbery surface, which is embossed with a regular tread. Thousands upon thousands of car tyres have been piled together to create this giant monument. He picks his way around the perimeter - a sequence of freeform outcrops, each one more bulbous than the last. Eventually, he finds a way in; a gaping cave of a portal, darker than the darkest of the tyres.

With hands outstretched, he feels his way into the pitch black lobby and the noise of the street falls away behind him. Pushing through the dangling ribbons of a vulcanised curtain, he is confronted by a pointillist world filled with pin pricks of colour. The cavernous void spirals higher above him than he could have imagined possible, and each tiny recess is festooned with lighting of every description. Low down, the tyres have been hollowed out and candles stand shimmering on every hump and bump. Higher up, fairy lights swing from the bulges and bald pendants hang suspended like king-sized fireflies. Glass bottles are sandwiched throughout the strata of rubber, nestled between its thick black folds, and their colourful bases sparkle with reflected sunbeams.

As Noah’s eyes adjust, the lofty cathedral-like space shimmers with movement and shadow. With a start, he realises that the floor of the vast cavern is packed with people. Every inch of space is occupied. Everywhere he looks, figures are standing, squatting or reclining. Some huddle together in groups, others appear to be alone. And they are all focussed intently on the same thing. At the far end of the main chamber, a gigantic LED screen has been suspended from the vaulted ceiling by a pair of illuminated ties. On the screen, a number burns with angry red light:

575 533 246

A second passes and the number blinks.

575 533 245

575 533 244…

Suddenly there is a soft buzz in Noah’s ear.

“Doctor Marsh. Connecting.”

Noah ducks into a small, rubbery alcove and turns his back on the assembled masses.

“Hello? Doctor Marsh?” His whisper sounds coarse and loud in the soft, absorbent silence.

“Hi Noah. I just called to see how you’re doing?”

“Great, thankyou. I’m feeling much better. I’ve taken some long walks – you know, outside.”

“Good – that’s very good. Where are you now? Why are you whispering?”

“I’m in a church - I think. Made of tyres. Do you know it?”

“Oh.” The doctor’s tone turns a little flat. “Yes, that’s the Mormon chapel on 8th. What are you doing there?”

“I was just walking. There’s a lot of people inside. Do you know why they’re all here?” Behind Noah, someone makes a tutting sound. He looks over his shoulder, but the source of disapproval is unclear. In the fluttering candlelight, the whole place is alive.

“I believe that they’re waiting for the second coming. Of Christ, that is. There has been quite a rekindling of interest in religion over the last decade or so. Catastrophic weather patterns and the like have particularly suited the Mormons, although I think that they prefer to be called the LDS. Apparently, He may be arriving any day now…”