The Fall of Man

Part II chapter 21

Chapter 21

The complications do not resolve themselves and so, from the eighth month of her pregnancy, Gwen is confined to a ward within the maternity unit, located close to the northern edge of the hospital compound.

Noah visits her of course, for the few hours that he is allowed inside the sterile unit each morning and evening. Mostly he finds her asleep. In a medicated state, he is told, there is least risk of damage to the baby, and Gwen is saved the indignity of labouring day after day in a hospital bed. Every time he walks into the small, cool room she looks just the same. Immaculately composed, she lies dead straight along the spare white bed. Her skin is just a few shades darker than the sheets that balloon over her swollen belly. Her crimson hair and the ruby red curve of her bottom lip are the only traces of colour in the anaemic room. The shallow rise and fall of her chest is the only sign of life. He sits patiently at her bedside, and cups her limp, warm hand between his - powerless to do anything other than wait. He wonders if anyone ever sat with him while he slept.

During the long hours of each day and night that he cannot stand guard over Gwen, Noah must find other ways to pass the time. As sleeping is out of the question and the much-reduced menu of the hospital kitchens has little appeal, he continues his explorations outside. Each passing day takes him further and further afield…

Trudging back from an extended foray along the eastern edge of the Wall, Noah finds himself chasing the short-lived spring sun as it falls between the distant towers of the hospital apartments clustered way off to his west. As their shadows lengthen, darkness closes in around him and the air temperature plummets. Cursing his lack of care at being caught at the outer limits of the city, Noah scurries for shelter beneath one of the many overhangs projecting from the buildings overhead. In just a few more seconds, an inhospitably cold day deteriorates into a swirling, impenetrable blizzard of snow and ice. With his arms outstretched against the raging maelstrom, he searches desperately for the edge of the street. Making contact with a solid surface, he shuffles sideways uncertainly. His feet stumble across the unfamiliar terrain in frozen near-darkness. His fumbling hands trace the unbroken building envelope, from one sealed polycarbonate panel to the next.

After what seems like an eternity of blindness, fingertips following the same machined surfaces inch by inch, they brush against the rough softness of a different material. Smooth, rounded stonework set into a grainy mortar that flakes away at his touch through years of exposure to the elements. He presses his body flat against the worn masonry and works his fingers along the façade until he finds a straight line – the bevelled edge of a window cill. The opening has been secured with a board of some kind, but its edges are fat with rot and frayed, and his fingers worm between the damp board and the moulded timber window jamb with ease. Noah sets his shoulder against the stonework and heaves with all his remaining energy. With a tearing sound, the board gives and a large fibrous corner breaks off in his hands, exposing a triangle of dark in the white flurry around him.

Inside, the heavyset building is quiet as a tomb. The air is cool and a thick carpet of dust lines the undisturbed floor. Further down the large, airy chamber, pools of flickering artificial light create small, intermittent circular spaces out of the bigger darkness. A series of overhead monitors hang submissively at regular intervals from the long wall, their black screens devoid of information. Moving as quietly as he can in clothes that are wet through, Noah creeps down a generous sweep of cold stone steps towards the source of a yellowed light emanating from below.

At the base of the staircase stands a short concrete platform. A tunnel radiates out from each side of the platform. Along one wall, a faded red arrow points towards CITY CENTRE and he carefully lowers himself from platform edge onto the broken floor of that tunnel, taking care not to step on the blackened rails that crisscross the ground. Once-glossy tiles curve overhead on the dirt-encrusted walls, and sparkle occasionally in the weak yellow glare of fluorescent strip lights. They are littered with graffiti – mostly just tags and lewd images, but scattered amongst these are scrawled snippets of text. One passage in particular, writ large and black in angular cursive, grabs his attention – WHERE THERE IS THE STINK OF SHIT, THERE IS THE SMELL OF BEING. Artaud.