Liminal by Ben Tufnell
No one would notice. That’s what he told himself as he climbed the fence. He looked back down the street again and saw it was still empty. Some stray dogs were on the corner and one had detached itself from the group and followed him. It now sat and watched curiously. Reaching the top of the fence, he awkwardly swung himself over and then dropped down, meeting the ground with surprising force. He lay on his back and watched the orange light from the street lamps filter through the mesh of the wire fence and the branches of the trees that hung down above him.
He looked at his watch. It was well past midnight.
It should be cooler now, he thought. But if anything, it felt closer than it had earlier. He was drenched with sweat. Even in the darkness the air seemed to buckle in the heat.
He had been wandering the streets after drinking with new friends. It was a new city. Somehow the excitement of arrival had overtaken him and he’d drunk too much. There had been endless toasts with a harsh spirit that tasted of liquorice and which numbed his tongue. After, to clear his head, he had walked and allowed himself to become lost. But even as he wandered, he found he could always orient himself by the ancient structure that towered over the city, lit by spotlights. It was always there, glimpsed between alleys and high above the squares he crossed. He planned to visit tomorrow, or maybe the next day. But in his heightened state it somehow drew him to it and after a while he found himself on a road that skirted the site. A wire fence ran along the boundary and was overlooked by trees. And through the woods he could see it, the rocky ground rising steeply up towards the dark sky, and the great temple like a beacon. Then the idea formed that he must visit now. How wonderful it would be to explore the ruins alone, without crowds, he thought. And it was very unlikely anyone would notice. What harm could come of it?
He picked himself up and started to push his way through the undergrowth.
At first it was difficult, forcing a way uphill through the trees. Several times he slipped and fell. But then he found himself on a wide pathway, roughly paved, that climbed gently across the hillside. Here he stopped and looked back at the city spread below him. It was like an enormous jigsaw puzzle, he thought, lit by embers and flames. It went on or as far as he could see and the glow of it cast a gentle fire on the sky.
He followed the path and found himself beside a broken amphitheatre that reminded him of the interior of the shell of a vast and ancient sea creature. Like all the other structures on the hill it was illuminated by warm orange lights.
The temple was now directly above him, its many columns lit up and its huge interior filled with shadow. Who lives in there? he asked himself. He followed the path and soon found himself on the top of the hill. Around the temple were low flat-roofed structures which, he thought, might have been small dwellings, storage chambers or perhaps even tombs. He climbed up onto one of them and lay down. The stone was warm to the touch.
The urgency of his expedition had dissipated. Above him the fiery glow of the city spread across the sky.
*
When he wakes he does not know, for a moment, where he is. Not only that, but he does not know when he is. Looking down upon the wide city below it seems to him that it really is lit with fires. That the streets are illuminated by braziers. The air is not hazy with particulates from a million engines, but from the burning of wood and tar, and with the oily smoke from countless tallow candles.
The temple and the massive rock on which it stands is like a generator; it seems to throb and pulse with ancient power.
He remembers reading that Neolithic people lived in caves in this rock, long before any of these enigmatic structures existed. And a strange phrase from his guidebook comes back to him: They soaked the stones of the hilltop in blood.
When he read it, it had struck him as odd, melodramatic. It was suggested that the temple, through the ages, had served not only as a symbol of wealth and power but also as a burial site as well as for ritual sacrifice for, as he read, it has always been a place where the veil between the world of the living and that of the dead is especially porous.
Used by a dozen different cultures and religions over millennia, the hill has always been a place of sanctity, of worship, but also of darkness. It is a portal: a crossing point.
*
When he wakes, he does not know, for a moment, where he is. And then he remembers the incident at work. Thinking of it, he feels shame. It is the cause of everything. Of his flight. He remembers the long train journey that brought him here, and the drinking. But when he looks about, he is in darkness. The hillside is bare and there are no lights, just a sky filled with stars. They’ve turned the lights off, he thinks. But if they have turned the lights off then they have also turned the city off. For it is not there.
He stands up on the stone slab and looks out across the darkness. The hill is surrounded only by shadows which stretch away into the distance. There are no lights. There is nothing. Turning, he sees that the hillside is bare but for a few crude stone structures, including the one on which he stands. There is no temple.
*
When he wakes he does not know, for a moment, where he is. He seems to have come adrift in some way. Far from home. That’s the only thing he is certain of. But then it comes back. So, he thinks, it’s true, I really am adrift.
It is deep in the night and everything is quiet and still and the city is holding its breath. There is no movement anywhere on the hilltop. He looks around, half expecting to see a guard or guards, for surely they must do checks in the night? But there is nothing. Everything is quiet and still.
His head is sore and his mouth is dusty. His watch has stopped. He is so tired he can barely think, and his arms and legs are stiff. He needs water. He must get to his hotel and sleep. For tomorrow he should start to sort his life out.
Wearily, he picks his way back down the mountainside.
*
When he wakes it is deep in the night and everything is quiet and still. It is as if the city has paused. As if it is holding its breath. The air is cooler, but it is still warm and close and he is sticky with sweat and uncomfortable with it. The stone beneath him is hard and his head aches. He can feel the inside of his skull. A strange sea creature lives in there and it keeps turning and twisting, over and over. His mouth is dust dry and he can hardly swallow. His watch has stopped but he knows that it is deep in the night.
He sits up on the stone slab. It is a tomb, he thinks to himself.
From somewhere below comes the faint wail of a siren, the barking of dogs.
Looking around he notices a figure moving among the ruins, a silhouette against a wall washed with orange light. He supposes it is a security guard. They probably do a round of the site every hour or so. But it moves strangely. It is somehow jerky, unnatural; it stops often, it stoops, it turns. It seems to sniff the air.
Now, the figure pauses and is very still and he senses then that he has been seen. He groans and briefly considers ducking down into the shadows and hiding, or even running, but he is too tired. Fuck that. He says to himself that honesty is the best policy and he will just come clean and explain that he made a mistake. A drunken escapade. No harm done. He will be escorted down to the gate and then he can go to his hotel, wherever that is. And then sleep. He’ll have a good story to tell Smith when he meets him for lunch tomorrow. Today.
He is so tired, running is out of the question.
But a life can pivot on one moment. Or, not. One small mistake - no harm meant, no damage done - might be the beginning of the end, the start of the unravelling.
The figure begins to move quickly towards him, crossing the ground between them with unlikely agility and speed and something in him cracks.
Time folds in upon itself.
He jumps to his feet and starts to run.
It is difficult going downhill in the darkness. He cuts straight across the wide pathway he came up and plunges into an area of darkness that is littered with rocks and rubble and spiky bushes that tear at his skin. He dare not look back. He falls often but every time he forces himself back to his feet. Only once does he look back and, as the hillside is in shadow, he sees nothing. But he knows the figure is there, coming on. If it is a guard, he would call out, wouldn’t he? Why does he not call?
He reaches the hollow of the amphitheatre and skirts the rim. But then his way is blocked and his only choice is to cross the floor of the theatre and pass through a tall archway.
He runs quickly down the steps, crosses the sandy floor and, as he steps beneath the high arch of stone, he pauses and looks back.
His pursuer is at the upper rim of the amphitheatre, silhouetted against the illuminated ruins higher up the hill. The figure has paused and watches him. As he takes a step back and begins to turn, ready to plunge through the arch and down into the darkness beyond, it moves again. But there is something completely wrong. It does not spring or step forward, as a man would, or even an animal, but seems to unfold itself and scuttle down the steep tiers of the theatre with spidery motion, stiff and strangely mechanical, but horribly quick. Or was it a trick of the light, and the strange angular way the shadows fell across the tiers of the arena?
He crashes down through the scrub and suddenly he is amongst trees and thick undergrowth and is running almost blindly. Branches lash his face and his arms and legs. His t-shirt catches and is torn.
Suddenly there is light ahead and he is at the fence. He can hear his pursuer moving in the trees behind him, coming closer. In a panic, he scrambles up and almost throws himself over the top of the fence, losing his grip and falling, landing heavily and awkwardly on the pavement. His legs give way beneath him and he is on the ground with concrete pressed against his face.
The movement in the trees on the other side of the fence stops and there is silence. All he can hear is his own breath and the throbbing of the blood in his head. He sits up and watches. Nothing. He is covered in scratches and bruises, filthy with dust and dirt, and his clothes are torn and ragged. Nothing moves beyond the fence.
On the other side of the street the stray dog watches him, curiously.
Slowly, he gathers himself and stands up. All of him hurts. Cautiously he walks along the pavement, parallel to the fence. He watches carefully. Before he turns away at the end of the street, to wearily walk back into the city centre to seek out his hotel, he sees something moving amongst the trees on the hillside. A guard? An animal? It is impossible to tell.
*
The light is grey and the air is cool when, shortly after dawn, Baler unlocks the gates. He makes his way to the guard office and puts the box containing his lunch in the fridge. In a pan on the hot plate is some oily coffee from yesterday. He warms it and drinks a small cup. He rolls a cigarette and puts it behind his ear. This done he begins his rounds. As he leaves the office and starts up the hill Emek comes through the gate and they exchange a few words. The hum of traffic is beginning.
He follows the paths around the hillside, not really paying attention. His thoughts are focussed on the game that is to take place that afternoon. Much is at stake and he wonders how the coach will approach it. Will Klee be back from injury? I should have a bet with Emek, he thinks. The prospect cheers him.
The temple is vast. As always, it brings him back into the moment. In the early morning it seems to glow, as if light comes from within the stones. He marvels at the size of the blocks from which it is constructed. It makes him feel proud and happy to look at it. He sits on one of the stone steps leading up into the building and lights his cigarette, gazing out across the hazy expanse below him.
The light is pink and there is no horizon; the city stretches for as far as he can see and then simply merges with the sky.
But then, as he smokes contemplatively, he notices an incongruous flash of colour on one of the stone structures that are scattered across the hilltop. Probably a scarf or jacket left there the day before, he thinks. He will carry it down to the office and if it is not claimed one of the team will take it. It is one of the perks.
Baler stubs the butt of his cigarette on the stone step and then crosses the rocky hilltop in the raking golden light of morning. His day is about to be ruined. As he comes closer he sees that it is not a piece of clothing on the stone tomb top, but a figure. It is a young man. There is no movement. It is not the first time this has happened and his heart sinks as he thinks of the paperwork he will have to do.
………………..
Ben Tufnell is a curator and writer based in London. Short stories have been published or are forthcoming in Elsewhere: A Journal of Place, Litro, STORGY and The Write Launch, and as chapbooks from Nightjar Press and The Aleph Press. His debut novel, The North Shore, will be published by Fleet (Little, Brown) in 2023.