Page 33 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘Wow, this is so beautiful,’ I say, stopping in front of the stone bridge. It crosses a now empty and overgrown moat, leading to the grand entrance to the city, which is flanked oneither side by a great lion holding the livery of the Knights of St John.
‘Mostly, the airmen are billeted here now,’ Sal tells me. ‘Flight Lieutenant Beauchamp, for one – I believe he is here. But there are still a few old families, some clergy and an order of nuns who will not be moved from the city, not for anyone.’ Sal chuckles. ‘One wonders how the airmen and the nuns get along as neighbours.’ His demeanour changes in an instant, and he lowers his voice. ‘Now, follow me closely – we are going into Rabat. You are not to talk. These people cannot be trusted, and they are dangerous, understood?’
‘Understood.’ I nod. I can feel something building, something beyond the heat of the afternoon or the collective grief and resilience of the people around us. There is something else. It’s coming for me.
* * *
Rabat seems like it is – or would have been before the war – a charming little town of picturesque squares and café life. There is a church on almost every corner, and as with Valletta, the buildings are elegant and beautiful, concealing the promise of shady courtyards and cool, vaulted rooms beyond.
Sal seems to know where he is going, and soon leads me into a cemetery crowded with tombs, and then to a mausoleum that seems to be the entrance to the underworld. A rusty, barred gate stands open, and when I take a tentative step forwards, I see a flight of steps leading down into the dark. The last time I’d ventured into a cellar staircase on the island, it didn’t go so well.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask. ‘Because I am not keen.’
‘We are at the St Paul’s Catacombs,’ Sal tells me, glancing around to check we are not being overheard. ‘The people who have inhabited this island have been burying their dead underground here for many thousands of years. There are pagan, Christian and Jewish burials here. At the beginning, local people would use them as a shelter, but we do not like to disturb the dead.’
‘There are still remains down there?’ I ask.
‘Naturally – where else would they be?’ He shrugs, as if I’ve asked a foolish question. ‘There are tunnels and rooms in there that have yet to be explored and many corners that most people would not concern themselves with. That is where we are heading. Stay close – don’t lose sight of me. It is possible to become lost down here and not be found again until it is too late.’
It’s not the prospect of mortal remains or a labyrinth of tunnels that gives me pause, though. I look at that entrance, the steps leading down, and it is not Rabat I see, or even the shelters I’ve taken refuge in over the strange two days I’ve spent in this fever dream. I see a fateful decision, a moment where my choice would end a life. I took a little girl’s hand and led her down a flight of stairs just like this to get her out of harm’s way. At least, that’s what I thought I was doing.
Now, these stairs remind me how one wrong turn can change everything.
‘Come, Maia,’ Sal says, reading my expression. ‘You are the intrepid journalist. You are not scared of the dark or a skeleton or two, are you? Not when very real evil rains down from the heavens?’
‘I feel like something very bad is coming,’ I tell him, too tired and afraid to pretend to be brave.
‘Something bad is always coming, Maia,’ Sal says, taking my hand. ‘The trick is to be ready to meet it.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
At the foot of the steps, Sal produces the stub of a candle from his pocket and lights it. The glow thrown by the flame is not huge, but it doesn’t need to be. I can sense the vast spaces that echo with shadows around us. The air smells of earth and dust and something ancient.
‘There have been burials here since before the Roman times,’ Sal tells me in a low voice. He holds the candle up and circles slowly to show me a series of open-sided, arched chambers, each with one or two plinths. ‘Maybe even before. Centuries of grave-robbing mean there are fewer remains here now than there once were, and even so, there is nothing to fear. Just our ancestors – that’s all. Proof, if you like, that we have come from somewhere other than a dream.’
He keeps the candle high as he makes his way between the tombs, sending flickering shadows to dance along the hand-wrought stone, and every now and then, I find myself caught in the blank gaze of a skull or resting my hand close to a scattering of disarticulated bones.
‘Watch your step,’ Sal warns as we turn a corner. Every last trace of daylight vanishes. ‘We descend.’
There is nothing to do but follow him, feeling the echo of a child not yet born following in my wake, the child whose life I will not save. The dark thickens; the air grows heavy and hard to breathe, and somehow, even Sal’s candle seems to dim. As we pass an alcove, I glimpse the figure of a womanon her knees, shawl around her shoulders, her hair covered with a scarf. She weeps.
‘Don’t look,’ Sal whispers. ‘We must not disturb the ghosts.’
I steal another glance at where she was kneeling. There are only empty shadows now. Despite being below ground, the air feels thin, as though we are at altitude.
Following the curves of another set of tombs, we pause by a large, flat, circular surface carved into the floor.
‘A kind of table. For the funeral feast,’ Sal tells me. For a span of seconds, he is gone, and the circular table is surrounded by people, speaking softly as they eat, linen hoods drawn over their heads. In the low light of a simple oil lamp, I see a child at rest on the plinth, a little girl being guided to the afterlife by her family. I recognise her.
Then up ahead, I see a faint glow of light, and Sal reappears.
‘I think I just . . .’
‘Quiet now,’ Sal warns. ‘We have arrived. Elias! It’s Sal Borg, your friend. I bring another with me. We need your assistance.’
There is silence, and then a figure comes out of the gloom, hardly more than a shadow. I get a glimpse of lantern-light reflecting their eyes, the collar of their jacket turned up to hide a portion of their face, out of shame or subterfuge – it’s hard to know which. Whoever it is might not even be from this time. They may have come from a time long ago or a time yet to be – that is, if I let myself believe Sal’s theories. But I refuse to let that happen. Following him down here isn’t admitting this is real. Like he said before, what else am I going to do? Sooner or later, I will either wake up or pass into nothingness. I’m not sure which outcome I long for the most.
The figure slips away, receding into the darkness of the catacombs, and a deep voice booms from within the roomthey have just left. ‘Come then, Salvatore.’ The words reverberate jarringly through the chamber. ‘Come into my office.’
