Page 12 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘Do you know your name?’ she prompts me.
‘Maia,’ I say. ‘Maia Borg.’
‘A Maltese name and an English accent,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘As you must be aware, security is something of an issue at the moment, after we hanged that traitor in March. The head honchos are in a terrible fret about espionage.’
Christina pauses, offering up an apologetic smile. ‘Perhaps I’m already saying too much if youarea spy . . . But I’m rather afraid that either way, you are an unfamiliar face in these parts, without any identification or anyone to claim you, so as soon as you are fit, you’re to be taken to HQ just to tidy up the loose ends. Nothing to worry about – just a formality. Unless, of course, youarea spy? But honestly, what kind of spy would run around in the middle of a raid? Not a very good one, that’s for sure. Mind you, the other chapwasa terrible spy. Landed at midnight in a boat by the cliffs, then realised he couldn’t climb them and nearly starved to death. Poor, silly boy.’ Christina goes on, as if she is talking to herself, more than me. ‘His name was Borg, too. The island is full of Borgs – it’s a terribly common name. Like Smith is back in England. Are you a terrible spy, Maia Borg?’
‘I’m not a spy. I’m not even here!’ I sit up, ignoring the pain that shoots down into my neck. Maybe my brain is swelling again, and somewhere in the real world, the good Dr Gresch is checking me over right now. The one constant that connects every reality is the ringing in my ears, low and steady – it follows me everywhere.
‘Steady on, old girl,’ Christina says. ‘You’ll do yourself a mischief. Did you say you had a cousin? Let’s start there.’
‘Yes, Professor Kathryn Borg at the university,’ I reply. ‘But she’s almost a century away.’
‘I say, you are a funny duck.’ Christina shrugs. ‘Well, there’s a telephone at Lascaris. We’ll have this all cleared up in a jiffy and find a safe place to put you. Now, I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, and you see if you can get dressed. How does that sound?’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
‘You know you made half the women on Malta sick as dogs when Danny brought you in yesterday, carrying you like he’d just swept you off your feet. He’s regarded by many a poor girl as the most eligible bachelor on the island, but he’s a heartbreaker is Danny. Not a cad, you understand? Quite the opposite. Won’t have anything to do with a girl. I did wonder, but he’s notthat wayinclined either, if you know what I mean? Too focused on the job, he says. Oh, the girls that have cried themselves to sleep over Danny Beauchamp . . .’
She chuckles to herself once more as she walks away.
When I’m alone, I take a good look around the small room. This metal-framed bed is rickety and old, the sheets rough and coarse. The room is barely furnished. There is a sink, a lantern, a small cupboard – and no electricity at all. It is a little odd to be so immersed in whatever this is and yet kind of detached from it. Nothing exactly like this happened after Syria, but I’ve experienced enough for me to know that something is misfiring somewhere to create this illusion. I’ll take this over the terrifyingly real and sickening flashback that would floor me in an instant, leaving me a sobbing wreck. Instead,thisdelusion feels somehowhealing.
Perhaps it’s because it’s years and years before I made that terrible mistake. Perhaps in this world, I am a clean slate with no penance to pay.
Chapter Eight
Tentatively, I swing my legs out of bed and put my feet on the cool tiles. They are firm beneath my feet. A stiff breeze wanders through the broken window shutters, which fight against their rusting latch with every gust of wind. Over the sink, there’s part of a mirror attached to the wall by a twist of wire and a nail.
Bracing myself, I peer into it to see my forehead wrapped in white bandages like a headband, with a small dark flower of blood at the centre where I was wounded.
What came before feels vividly real: I was standing there, staring at this plane flying so low it felt like it was coming straight down the street. There was gunfire churning up the ground beneath me. And then the American – Danny, she said his name was – he came out of nowhere and knocked me out of the way. He saved my life, she said. My life before life, I suppose.
Hastily, I pull on my jeans and T-shirt, looking around to find my shoes placed neatly under the bed. Interesting that I’m wearing my usual twenty-first century clothes when I am in a bedgown in a hospital bed somewhere in 2025 and apparently in 1942 in this moment.
Slipping my feet into my sandals, I open the door an inch and peer into what must be a waiting room. The windows are cracked and filmed with dirt. Sunflower-yellow paint peels off the plastered walls; the hot, still air is thick with debris. An older woman, all in black, sits on one of severalrickety-looking wooden chairs that line the walls of the room. She rubs at her knees, muttering fretfully under her breath. A young mother cradles a fitful baby against her shoulder, murmuring low, soothing words. Silent tears roll down her cheeks. Two seats away from her, a small boy of about five sits alone. His dark head is bowed over the scraps of paper he has rested on a book. He draws intently with the stub of a short pencil. I recognise the tilt of his head: it’s the kid from the shelter, the one who followed me into the path of a murderous plane.
‘Hello, kid,’ I say.
The boy looks up and smiles. ‘You are alive!’ he says. Scrambling up, he trots over to me, wrapping his arms around my hips with a tight squeeze. ‘I am glad you are not dead.’
‘I’m gladyouare not dead,’ I say, disarmed by his easy affection. I must be careful; this is dangerous ground to tread. ‘I did tell you to stay put.’
‘Yes, but I had to save your life,’ the little boy says. ‘Be a hero, like Papa.’
By all accounts, it was the pilot who saved both of us, but I don’t bring that up. In the full light of day, the boy is a thin but healthy-looking child. His clothes are a little big but clean, his shoes almost worn through.
This is a world of deprivation, where even everyday things are hard to come by. I understand the resourcefulness and determination it takes to live in these worlds. I’ve travelled through so many versions of the same place: ordinary people brought low by power grabs and political egos out of their control, while I report their hardships to the world.
I am, as ever, acutely aware that I have always been fortunate enough to be able to fly away back home to a world of new shoes and running water. I don’t know much about thehistory of wartime Malta, but just from looking at the kid’s shoes, I know there is no flying away from here, not for him.
There’s no sign of Christina, and I think about trying to leave, except I’m not at all sure the kid won’t follow me. Still, I start strolling towards the exit. Sure enough, the kid is on my tail, a sweet, fond smile on his face. This is stupid, but I can’t run out on him again.
‘Where do you think you are going?’
I turn around slowly to find a new woman questioning me: in her early thirties, about my age – dark hair, tall, with midnight eyes. Everything about her tells me at once that this is a woman you mess with at your peril.
‘She leaved again, Mama,’ the boy says. ‘I will stop her again! Just like Papa.’
