Page 31 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘Presentable for what?’ I ask.
‘For Miss Strickland. It’s too late this evening, but we’ll go first thing in the morning. Mabel Strickland is the editor-in-chief of theTimes of Malta, andIl-Berqa, two very important publications for the island. You will offer her your services as a reporter.’
‘Sal . . .’ I catch hold of his wrist. It feels so real. The frayed hems of his suit jacket, the small dark hairs on his wrist, are rendered in such detail, as is the heat on the back of my neck, the feeling of this shirt rubbing on my upper arms. It’s all so real that I almost forgot for a moment that it can’t be.
‘You wonder why I take you to get a job when you are still sure this is a dream or a hallucination?’ Sal asks. ‘Even after everything you have seen and experienced yourself?’
‘It still makes more sense than suddenly being at the whim of some mysterious force of the universe,’ I tell him.
He thinks for a moment, rubbing his hand over the top of his head.
‘Like I told you, I’ve had problems with my mental health before. Depression and quite severe anxiety, flashbacks – did they use the term PTSD in the nineties?’
‘I’ve heard of it.’ Sal smiles, possibly because even as I insist this is a delusion, I am talking to him as if it’s all real.
‘Well, that can make you think you see and feel things, though I’ve never had anything like this before. But it makes sense for this to be connected to that or the crash. And I need things to make sense, Sal.’
‘Very well. If you prefer to believe this is a fantasy created by your dying brain, Maia, or a dream after eating too much cheese, or some side effects of medication, then I understand. But even so, your mind did not choose a resort or castle for you to exist in, but a war. And in this war, everyone must do their part. Perhaps you won’t be here for very long before you fall through time again or wake up in your own time – or die, though I sincerely hope you do not. Either way, it hardly matters. What else are you going to do while everything around you is like this?’
He raises his eyebrows and hands in question. I have no reply.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘If I’m still here in the morning, let’s go and see Mabel Strickland.’
* * *
The next morning, after a dreamless sleep, I wake in the little bed Sal made up for me in the half-house. I almost expected to find myself in 2025 when I opened my eyes, but I’m still here . . .
We find Miss Strickland sitting behind a desk that is positioned literally in the street, bashing away at a typewriter with a fearsome focus. Dark-haired, with thick brows and a fierce expression, Mabel Strickland is perhaps a decade older than me. She is smartly dressed and sitting at her desk as if it’s perfectly natural to be working in what is more or less the middle of a ruin. Beyond her is an office – or the remains of one, anyway – where two young women are working, in somekind of meeting with an older gentleman, perhaps piecing together the layout of the paper.
‘Miss Strickland?’ Sal approaches her almost sideways, as if he is caught between wanting her attention and rather hoping she doesn’t notice him. ‘If I may have a moment of your time?’
‘There are no spare moments of my time, Professor,’ she says, without looking up from her typewriter. ‘We are updating the casualty lists, and as you can imagine, it is essential that we do not make any mistakes.’
‘Ah yes – I have brought you a young lady who has experience in journalism, and I thought perhaps she could offer you and your staff some assistance with the paper.’
‘What?’ Mabel stops typing and squints at Sal in the bright afternoon sun. ‘What someone?’
‘Hello.’ I step forwards. ‘My name is Maia Borg. I’ve previously worked as a reporter in the UK. The professor, my cousin, thought that as I’m here, I could be of service.’
‘Why have you not come to me before?’ she asks, affronted, sitting back in her chair, just as at ease in the rubble and mayhem of the street as she would have been in a well appointed office.
‘I was helping at my aunt’s farm on the other side of the island until recently,’ I explain, hoping I’ve got the story right. I see Sal give a faint nod and let out a sigh of relief.
‘I see. How many words per minute?’ Mabel asks. Clearly, she has little time for sentiment either.
‘Ninety,’ I say off the top of my head, although I have never typed on a typewriter before.
‘Shorthand?’
‘Naturally,’ I reply, although honestly, I only learnt it for a qualification for one of my first jobs, and can’t remember anything.
‘It is our duty to bring the truth to our readers,’ she tells me, gesturing at the ruined building behind her. ‘Even when our office took a direct hit this April, we still went to print that day. We have never missed an issue, not ever. Paper is finite, ink is scarce, so we publish only what is essential to our readers on one sheet of newspaper. You will be information-gathering and fact-checking across the island. It will be boring and hard and very badly paid. Are you still interested?’
‘Yes,’ I say, glancing at Sal.
Mabel gets up and comes round her desk to look me up and down.
‘Are you the girl they thought could be a spy?’ she asks, incredulous.
