The Fall of Man

Part III chapter 9

Chapter 9

Inside the Wall, the silence is deafening. Eve had thought the fields quiet, but the sudden absence of sound - no moaning wind, rustling grasses or occasional twitter of a hungry bird - leaves her cold. The air is stale and stagnant; it carries the musty odour of a discarded fish tank.

Eve lingers beneath the enormous opening, still partly concealed by the obtuse line of the fallen gate, and surveys her new surroundings. She is squatting at the centre of an expansive paved area. Perhaps a hundred feet away, the buildings rise like cliffs in a wide semi-circle of glass, concrete and steel. Beyond the small oasis of sunlight illuminating the gates, the surrounding space languors in shadow, and a thick frost dusts every surface. Drifts of discarded belongings and refuse still gather in every lea and against every upright; all of it encrusted with a coating of crystalline whiteness. There are no tracks, no signs of life. Eve’s tentative scufflings are the only imperfections in an otherwise-unworldly landscape of silver and grey.

She steps out of the sunlight and walks towards the closest edifice. In the shade of the towering buildings, a stiff chill descends. Down at eye level, Eve wipes away a swathe of the sparkling frost. Beneath, everything is coated with a fibrous camouflage. Walls, windows and hoardings, benches and billboards have been consumed by a crude collage of fly posting and graffiti. Layer after layer of paper and card have accumulated and coagulated, like the thick paint on an artist’s palette. Images of staring strangers, missing-persons flyers, and printed contact details coat every available surface. Eve reads aloud while she walks, her fingers drawing a spidery trail across the frosted montage of faces, phone numbers and scrawled messages for loved ones. Her voice echoes in staccato bursts against the dry crunch of her new shoes on the cold ground:

“Desperately seeking Bill. Bill, your father is ill and urgently needs an operation. If you have seen this man, please call his home on….”

“From Mum and Dad, David if you are reading this please contact us... we love you.”

“Amy Hunt, Wife and mother. Age 42. 5’4”. Missing for 2 weeks. Will pay for any information about Amy. Please get in touch with us on…”

“Please look at the picture of Shaun, 17. Read what his mother says (below), and forward this message on…”

Lined up in long rows of lost souls, faded faces with boring eyes, the morbid messages read like epitaphs. Above these tattered postings, the buildings all show signs of deterioration. Most have broken windows. Many are scorched and blackened. In places, whole walls have peeled away, brick by brick, to exhibit their contents in museum-like displays. Mouldering wallpaper, battered kitchen units and antique appliances are paraded in doll-house fashion for the outside world.

Nowhere, however, are there signs of life. This is a ghost ship. As far as Eve can tell, the whole city was abandoned. Not necessarily quickly; there is no great evidence of rushing or panic, or even of an actual exodus. But over a long period of time, this place has withered and died.