Page 43 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘And in the meantime . . . I need Kathryn to be able to find me. If she can find a record of me here, at least then she will be able to see what’s happening – which means I need to get noticed by history.’ I sit up straight and wipemy face dry. ‘I think I might have a story for Miss Strickland.’
Everything I do here is waiting to be written in the future. So, it’s time to make some waves.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Saturday 8thAugust 1942, 9 a.m.
‘Are you certain?’ Mabel sits back in her chair. Operations have been moved inside the paper’s ruined office once more. The windows are shattered, with shards of glass still protruding from the wooden frames and plaster that was once on the ceiling now scattered across the floor, but I don’t get the impression the building is about to fall down. I’m not sure that Mabel would leave her beloved paper, even if it was.
She watches me as I go to every window and doorway to check once again that we can’t be overheard.
‘No, not at all,’ I tell her. ‘It’s just an . . . instinct. One I’d like to explore.’
‘Your gut?’ She smirks. ‘Do you like to pretend you are a hard-boiled PI?’
‘No.’ I take a deep breath and hold her gaze. ‘I like to think that after years in the job, I can tell where there might be a story. Since I arrived in . . . Valletta . . . the fear of espionage has been constantly present. The island’s on its knees. There are probably plans being put in place by both the Allies and Axis forces that you and I know nothing about – maybe aid coming from the UK or America. And if those plans were discovered somehow and intercepted, then the fight for Malta would be over. So, if there is even a slight chance that an influential and trusted figure on the islandcould be in a position to pass information and secrets to the enemy, then wouldn’t that be worth knowing?’
‘My dear.’ Mabel uses the term like an insult. ‘I think you misconstrue the purpose of our work here. The army takes care of intelligence. TheTimes of Maltais a tool to inform the people and to lift them up, to fortify their spirits by connecting them to the outside world and telling them that victory is certain. We report the news; we don’t make it. If you have any evidence that the count is collaborating with the enemy, then you should take it to HQ – though I am certain they will laugh in your face and arrest you for good measure. The count’s family has lived on this island for centuries!’
‘And yet he still calls himself an Italian,’ I remind her. ‘And anyway, victory isn’t assured, is it? We both know that. The island is on her knees. The people are tired, heartsick and hungry. It’s not the people’s stoicism that is going to save Malta: all it does is prolong the agony. Malta has no control over her fate, but if there is a traitor living in plain sight, then let me at least look for evidence. If I find any, I will give it to General Gort, and you can break the story. All I want is a by-line.’
‘I have never even heard your name before,’ Mabel says.
‘Is it because it’s a Maltese name?’ I ask her archly.
‘How dare you!’ She stands up, and suddenly I really understand where she gets her fearsome reputation from. ‘This island runs through my blood, and when I tell you that I would die for Malta, I am not exaggerating.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
Her eyes blaze for a moment longer; then her fury recedes as quickly as it rose. ‘Apology accepted,’ she says, taking her seat again. ‘I’m not blind, Miss Borg. I see how some of the English treat the Maltese – like they are naive peasants. But you must remember that IamMaltese.’ She presses herhand to her heart. ‘In here. I am a woman who has carved a path for myself from the rocks beneath my feet. It is my sincere hope one day to be prime minister of an independent Malta in a world free from the terror of fascism.’
‘You would be a great prime minister,’ I tell her.
‘I would.’ She accepts the comment as a statement of fact, and I decide I like her very much. ‘The truth is that every attempt to break the siege by sending supplies from Gibraltar has failed. Our only chance is a heavily armoured convoy with the aid of the Americans, and it’s already underway. What everyone wants and needs to know is what route it will take and when it will arrive. What mustn’t happen is that they find out too soon. Every hour counts in this war. Every mile a convoy can travel unnoticed improves its chances of making it to Valletta. Therefore, if you believe that you can gather evidence on a potential spy in our midst, you must do it. However, I insist that you talk to HQ first, or you could find yourself with a noose around your neck.’
‘I can’t.’ I shake my head. ‘You do things your way, Miss Strickland, and I have to do things mine. If anyone other than you and I know what I’m up to, there’s a chance my cover will be blown. No one else can know, not even Sal.’
‘And ifyouare a spy, as a good many in Valletta already think?’ Mabel asks.
‘Time will tell.’ I shrug. ‘But you don’t think I’m a spy, do you? And I think you don’t make mistakes when it comes to trusting your gut.’
Mabel smiles. ‘Touché. Very well, Maia Borg. But take care, please.’
When I leave her office, stepping over the rubble on the staircase that takes me out into the bright sun, I have a sense of purpose, a sense of being alive, that I haven’t felt since Syria. It’s not the moral cause or an urge to do the rightthing; it’s the risk I am attracted to. It’s playing roulette with my life and knowing that I might lose.
Chapter Thirty
As I’m leaving, I hear the sirens mount their call and the radios playing through open windows, announcing that a fleet of bombers is incoming. I can already hear the distant thrum of the approaching aircraft. The sound vibrates in my bones. It’s deeper and more sonorous than the fighter jets I heard over the skies of Ukraine or Syria, but it brings the same message, one of mindless death and destruction.
For a few seconds, I freeze. I am back in the collapsed building, trapped under rubble with a small girl’s hand in mine. It’s growing cold to the touch.
The Maltese hurry towards the shelters, parting around me as though I’m a rock in a stream. This is not a moment to lose my grip, I remind myself. If anything, here in this time, I am absolved. That terrible day is decades in the future.
I haven’t killed her yet.
That thought gives me strength enough to move my feet. Moving against the flow of the crowd, I head towards the half-house, where I think Sal will still be. There’s a familiar comfort now in the deep, dark shelter, but more than that, there is an unfamiliar comfort in knowing him. He is like my one fixed point in time, somewhere I can return to and know he will welcome me.
Just as I get to the door, the first of the bombs drop on the harbour. Turning towards the sight, I see that the sky is black with heavy bombers slouching towards us. Just above theirmassing swarm, I can make out the trails of distant dogfights cutting swathes in the clear blue sky. Up there are men like Danny – and Danny himself – fighting for us and their lives far above the earth. Bombs fall from the bellies of the aircraft, gliding softly down beyond the horizon. The ground shakes under my feet as snakes of smoke and rubble unfurl a few streets away. When I look up, the planes are right overhead.
