Page 17 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘Christina.’ I take her hand impulsively. ‘Thank you. For everything.’
‘Don’t make me regret it,’ Christina says. ‘For some reason, I feel like you and I have already met, even though I know we haven’t! And while you’re thanking people, you should probably find Danny Beauchamp and thank him for saving your life. Don’t leave it too long. Danny’s an ace, all right, but we lose so many of our boys fast round here. You never know when it might be too late.’ She says this matter-of-factly, as though it is a completely normal thing to say, then looks down at an elegant gold wrist-watch. ‘It will soon be time for the one o’clock raid, and I’m due at work. Make sure you stay in the shelter this time, Maia.’
‘I will,’ I say, desperately trying to get my head around what is going on. I look up at the sky, so serene and clear. It seems impossible that so much violence and death can be concealed in the blue.
Professor Borg nods and bows, and then he turns to me. ‘Shall we?’ He gestures for me to follow him.
I fall into step beside him. After all, I have no idea what else to do.
Chapter Eleven
For ten silent minutes, I try to work out what to do now as I follow the surprisingly fast-paced professor through the rubble-strewn streets of Valletta, taking turn after turn after turn.
Every sense I have tells me that I am actuallyhere, on this street, in this place, in 1942. And my gut says I should believe it. But then again, maybe I’m crazy – maybe this is what psychosis is like. Either way, I know already that to try to game this, or act like it is a place where no action has any consequence, would be a rookie error.
Somehow, my head has put mehere, in this time and place, and I need to try to understandwhy.
Especially why I am following a strange man ever deeper into the less salubrious narrow streets and alleyways of war-torn Valletta, like a lamb to the slaughter – a man who somehow knew my name. If my head made him up, that would make sense.
But what if it didn’t?
I’ve followed more overtly threatening men in the past: men with covered faces, carrying weapons and issuing threats. I’ve followed them for a story, content to risk my life to get it. This is different, though. There is no truth here – it’s all a mirage. Sal doesn’t glance back at me as we walk. He is certain I’m following behind, and I don’t like that kind of certainty. It implies that he knows I have no choice.
Eventually, we turn onto a long, narrow, straight street that runs first downhill then inclines upwards again. It’s lined oneach side by shuttered buildings, apartments, nightclubs and bars. It has an air about it – the sort of atmosphere that even in the strangest of circumstances might make a woman wonder where she’s being taken and why. Wary, I stop.
I know this place. I had an Aperol Spritz here on my second night in Malta, about a hundred years from now.
‘Is this the Gut?’ I ask.
Professor Borg falters to a stop and looks at me as if he’s half-forgotten I’m here. I read about this place before my trip. Once, it was Valletta’s most infamous street, home to cabaret bars and ladies of the night.
‘Er, yes – but you have no need to worry for your reputation, Miss Borg. It is just a short-cut. Besides, during the day it is perfectly safe for respectable young ladies such as yourself.’
‘Hey, it’s you! The woman who almost did what the Nazis haven’t yet and got me killed.’
Coming out of one of the narrow houses in front of us is the man I now know to be the Canadian local hero and Spitfire ace who saved my life: Danny Beauchamp. He looks like he hasn’t slept a wink. His hair is a mass of tangled brown curls beneath his battered peaked cap. His frayed shirt has more buttons undone than I would imagine is regulation, revealing a tanned, toned chest. The bottoms of his shorts are rolled up, revealing muscular thighs. And seeing him here gives me a chance to tell someone where I am going and who with – just in case.
‘So, you’re not dead, huh?’ He grins at me, before nodding at my bandage. ‘Though you took quite a hit. Where you going now?’
‘I’m going with Professor Borg here – I’m not sure exactly where,’ I tell him pointedly.
‘Oh, hi, Prof!’ Danny tips his cap at the man. ‘I didn’t see you there, sir. Wait a second – you know this gal?’
‘Ah yes, Flight Lieutenant. She is my cousin. I didn’t take proper care of her, and I can only apologise that she caused you such inconvenience.’
‘Excuse me….’ I begin, put out by being spoken about like I’m a naughty child.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Danny says, glancing at me with a lopsided twist of a teasing smile. ‘Ladies are delicate creatures, after all. Especially English ones.’
‘Look, I’m quite capable of looking after myself and apologising when I have to,’ I say firmly. ‘And I am sorry. Truly. Thank you for – I don’t know, saving my life I suppose.’
Danny shrugs. ‘I’d have done it for anyone.’ He pushes his cap to the back of his head and squints at me in the midday sun. ‘Christina wouldn’t let me see you yesterday, and then I heard they’d carted you off to General Gort, under suspicion of being a spy. I told Christina it’d be an awful shame to shoot you after I nearly died to save your life.’
‘I strongly agree,’ I say, ‘but it’s all been cleared up now. A misunderstanding. You know. . . my cousin, well?’
‘Sure, the prof is a stand-up guy. Comes and reads with our injured men and helps them write letters and such. Teaches the local kids who don’t have schools to go to anymore. A genuine local legend.’
‘You go too far, Flight Lieutenant.’ The professor bows his head, blushing with pride. ‘You are the real hero.’
