Page 63 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘Maia . . .’
Incredibly, I hear my own laughter bubbling out.
‘But now I know! I know Idon’twant to die, Sal,’ I tell him happily. ‘Iwantto live. For the first time in . . . well, somehow time seems irrelevant now. All I know is thatIwantto live life, that Ilovelife. And it’s taken this’ – I wave at the book – ‘to show me that.’
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Sal says. ‘Are we happy or sad?’
‘The book says that I die that day,’ I tell him. ‘ButIsay I don’t.Isay that this Maia Borg, the one who is here to save her grandmother’s life, is not going to fail. Iwillsucceed. That is the new plan. The 14thof August 1942 is not going to be the day I die. It’s going to be the day I live.’
Chapter Forty-Four
Monday 10thAugust 1942, 9 a.m.
The next morning, Danny turns up on the doorstep.
‘How are you feeling?’ I say, coming to meet him.
‘Me?’ Danny shrugs. ‘I’m peachy keen. I’ve got a few hours off today, so, I thought I’d come and see if you’re free for that date we talked about the other day.’
He nods behind him, where sitting outside on the street is a clapped-out old motorbike that seems to be held together with wire and rust.
‘You suggested we go for awalk,’ I say, eyeing the machine.
‘We will when we get there,’ Danny says. ‘And good!’
‘Good what?’ I ask.
‘You didn’t say it’s not a date!’ He smiles, pushing his cap back on his head. ‘Look, I traded in all my chocolate and cigarette rations for a quarter tank of gas and this bike for a day. I know we’re on this tiny dot in the middle of the sea, but I really want to get as far away from the war as I can, at least for a couple of hours. Don’t you?’
Shielding my eyes from the sun, I can see the traces of the worn and worried expression on his face, camouflaged by his tan and wide smile. His body language is open and confident, but there’s something else in his voice: a need. I find myself longing to answer it.
‘I do,’ I tell him. ‘I want to come with you.’
The expression in his sky-blue eyes is unreadable as he climbs onto the bike, the sleeves of his khaki shirt rolled up to reveal his strong brown forearms. ‘Get on the back and hold on tight.’
To say that swinging one leg over the bike in my yellow dress feels awkward is something of an understatement – to call the rear part of the bike a seat, even more so. I have no choice but to move in closer to Danny. My thighs press along the back of his. My breasts cinch into his back. As my arms wrap around his ribcage, I feel his stomach muscles flex against my wrists, the warmth of his skin under the worn cotton of his shirt. The urge to run my hands under his tattered shirt and over his skin is almost irresistible. But I do resist, leaning my chin on his shoulder instead, so that his curls brush and tickle against my cheek.
Danny kicks the bike into action. There’s a roar of the engine; wheels spin, kicking up dust and gravel, and then we are in motion. It takes a concerted effort for me not to scream.
It’s too noisy to talk. For the first minute or so, I don’t even want to open my eyes. The moment the bike accelerates, my arms tighten hard around Danny, and I press my cheek between his shoulder blades. As we whip through the hot air, I am acutely aware of his body, how the muscles in his thighs and buttocks are tensed and taut, fitting tightly between my legs.
I prise one eye open and take a moment to get used to the wind full in my face, then open the other. Danny leans into the twisting roads, and I lean with him. The landscape streams past in rapidly unfurling ribbons of gold and turquoise. I catch glimpses of people at the side of the road,some waving, children shouting, their cries carried away before the sound can reach us.
Is this a little like flying? Everything is warm: the breeze, the heat of his body, the sun on the back of my head, the rush of speed taking my breath away. Closing my eyes again for a moment, I feel like I am flying, free of everything, even my flesh, soaring and speeding away from every bad thing – and I realise this moment is something perfect.
Finally, the bike slows and comes to a stop. Danny tilts it slightly, steadies us with his booted foot as he kicks down the prop.
I climb off first, a little unsteadily. My legs and arms are silted with dust, my hair tangled and thick with it. Danny turns off the engine and climbs off after me.
‘That was actually really . . . not as bad as I thought it would be,’ I say, batting dust off my dress as an excuse not to look him in the eye. I’m not sure it’s the heat that’s making my cheeks flush.
He nods, taking off his cap for a moment, running his fingers through his dark curls and repositioning it in exactly the same place.
‘Blows the cobwebs away, as my old ma would say,’ he says. ‘Well, welcome to Mellieha.’
When finally I take a proper look around where we’ve arrived, I see we’re in a beautiful village made up of traditional Maltese houses that line a series of gently scalloped bays. The dwellings climb leisurely up a steep hill, crowned at the top with a domed and towered church.
The colourful fishing boats,luzzus, are pulled up onto long, golden beaches or moored in the shallows. The sea is crystal clear and the brightest cyan blue, lapping gently against the boats, which rock and sway together on the tide with a comforting clank.
