Page 32 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘I’m not a spy,’ I tell her.
‘Of course you’re not,’ she says. ‘Look at you – the very idea! Well, I’m far too busy to talk to you anymore, so come back here first thing tomorrow morning, and I will assign you duties. Agreed?’
I nod. ‘Agreed.’
Sal links his arm through mine and hurries us away.
‘I’m not at all sure I know what I’ve just agreed to,’ I tell him once we are out of earshot.
‘Whatever Miss Strickland tells you to do,’ Sal replies.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Where are we going now?’ I ask Sal.
‘Rabat,’ he tells me, ‘in the centre of the island, next to the ancient city of Mdina. I have a friend there who will help us with your papers. But it is dangerous, Maia. You must stay close and don’t speak if you can help it. I use the term “friend” very loosely.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’m not traditionally good at not speaking, but I’ll try. Why is it so dangerous?’
Sal glances around, simply shaking his head, from which I gather that he doesn’t want to talk about it when anyone might overhear us.
‘How will we get there?’ I ask, looking up at the burning sky. Sweat is already tracking its way down my back and beading around my hairline. ‘Are we walking?’
‘It would be a very long walk, even if it weren’t so hot,’ Sal says to my relief as we stop at the edge of a dusty trail on what seems to be the outskirts of Valletta. ‘There is a bus.’
‘The same bus that your friends were shot and killed on?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘But we have some time until the next raid, so no need to be afraid yet.’
It is the word ‘yet’ that lodges in the middle of my chest.
When the bus – a small, squat, rickety vehicle – all but staggers into view, I see that any remaining glass has been removed from the windows and that it is pocked along itsvisible side with bullet-holes. I’m certain the far side looks the same, and it seems more than likely to be exactly the same bus the family was travelling on when they were attacked.
I think about them: a small, close family, getting on with things; the threat of death from above must have seemed like an abstract thing – real enough, but not meant for them. Not until it was. It’s hard not to think of their last moments, of desperate confusion and fear.
And yet the weary people still take the bus, because they must. Trusting that this time, they will reach their destination. Hoping that when death comes, it will not be for them.
The other passengers sit in silent exhaustion.
Sal nods to a few people as we edge our way down the aisle. He signals for me to sit in a vacant seat while he stands at my shoulder, holding on to the back of the seat. Doing as I’m told, I slide into the stiff, wooden bench-like seat, next to a very young, slender woman, who is holding a sleeping baby cradled against her chest. Her lovely face set in a frown of concern and deep worry, she rocks and murmurs to her infant. I get the sense she is comforting herself. The weight of the world rests on her narrow shoulders.
‘What a beautiful little one,’ I tell her, with a gentle smile. For a moment, her features lighten. Her arms tighten around her precious bundle. Tears shine in her eyes.
The bus squeaks and rattles onwards. Outside, a parched landscape rolls by, an ombre of creamy yellows descending to deep, dark red, punctuated here and there by dark-green trees and row upon row of prickly pears. Bright wildflowers dazzle in the muted landscape with starbursts of colour: remarkably similar to the Malta I saw with my waking eyes. Not surprising, I suppose.
Long, narrow fields are marked by drystone walls, running in terraces that echo the contours of the land, each containingthe hard-fought-for crops of cabbages and potatoes, presenting their own personal battle for life over death in the endless heat and violence.
Despite this – perhaps even because of it – the landscape is beautiful.
Truly, I didn’t expect to feel anything when I set foot on this island. But now, as I sit here with these people in my own personal film, produced and directed by my tender brain, I do feel . . .something. Not that the battered, bomb-blasted land I’m watching unfurl around me belongs to me. More that part of me belongs to it and always has. And I don’t mean just to the island, but to this precise moment in time and each of the seconds that follows after. Somehow, I feel these coming minutes, hours and days from the past have been waiting just for me.
So, despite the heat, the jolts of the transport, the surreal uncertainty of everything, I feel something I have hardly ever felt before: I feel as if I belong.
* * *
From quite a way out, I see the medieval citadel of Mdina perched on the highest point in the centre of the island. Until now, I’ve only read about it in guidebooks, though I saw it presiding over the island from a distance as we drove past.
Sal taps me on the shoulder, and I follow him off the bus outside the grand gates of the citadel. As we leave, the baby begins to cry.
