Page 67 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘This is as far in as it gets,’ he says. ‘When the tide goes out, we’ll be able to walk back to the bike and our shoes. I kind of hope the tide never goes out, though, and that time will stand still forever. But I guess that’s not how it works.’ He sighs. ‘It oughta be.’
‘Can I look at your sketchbooks?’ I ask, seeing the pile on the other side of him.
‘You can, but remember, I’m just an amateur.’
I reach over him for one of the books, kissing him as I take one. He catches me to him and kisses me back, his body rising to meet mine.
‘Now, now,’ I tease, breaking the kiss. ‘We’re getting to know one another, so let me look at your books.’
He smiles at me ruefully as he lets me go, looking away as I open the book.
Each page is covered in drawings. Some pages are devoted to a landscape, some of them the view from this cove, others of Valletta and Mdina, as well as places I don’t recognise. What amazes me is that even though the drawings are all black and white, I can feel the colour and heat in each, see the movement of breeze. He weaves the same kind of mercurial magic in the many swiftly drawn portraits that fill the books, too: pilots, local people of all ages, from the most elderly gentleman to the youngest baby. When I see a sketch of Christina, her arm swung around Warby’s neck, her head thrown back in laughter, I can hear her giggles. Then there’s a drawing of an older woman who I guess is Danny’s mother – she has the same-shaped eyes and serious set of the mouth. There’s a snow-bound farmhouse with mountains behind. And dozens and dozens of tiny drawings of Spitfires, on the ground, in the air, crashed into fields or sand – page after page filled with little visions of curiosity.
‘They are really good,’ I tell Danny after a while. ‘My dad is a painter. He’s good, too, but these have a life to them. His art is all about death.’
‘He makes you mad and hurt,’ Danny says tenderly, reading me at once.
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘We were never close. I loved my mum, but I lost her a few years back.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Danny says. ‘My folks are as good as they get. I’m lucky.’
‘Dad is Dad. Mum was at peace in the end. They both lived the lives they wanted to. So many don’t get that chance.’
‘I’ve come to realise that chances to be happy don’t come in one big go,’ Danny says. ‘They are small and fleeting, and you’ve got to recognise them when they are here. Like now, with you. This is just about the happiest I’ve ever been. Andthat I might die tomorrow or even later today can’t take that away from me.’
All my resolve to be patient slips away in an instant.
‘Then why don’t we do everything right now that we should wait to do until we’re better acquainted?’ I ask him. ‘We can hold hands and go for walks and to the cinema after all this is over. If we both make it out, we can do that until we are old and grey. Why don’t we live forever right now?’
Danny doesn’t even reply. Instead, he drops his sketchbook and pulls me into his arms, his kisses urgent and hungry, his fingers fumbling at my buttons again, while his other hand slides up my thigh and under my skirt. Hungrily, my hand travels under the loose waistband of his shorts, grabbing buttocks and pulling him closer to me.
Then the sirens start to wail. We freeze, our eyes closed, paused as if we are hoping it might be a mistake. Eventually, Danny rolls over beside me, his face turned to mine.
‘I guess we’re just going to have to stay alive until the next time we can be alone,’ he says, breathing heavily. ‘I promise you I ain’t gonna die, and you promise me you will stay alive, Maia. Don’t you let me down. Swear it.’
‘I swear I will stay alive for you,’ I tell him, hoping and praying to everything and anything that I am not telling a lie.
Chapter Forty-Six
‘It’s not usually too bad out here,’ Danny tells me as we reach the bike, ‘but you never know where they’re going to plant their stray bombs. There’s a public shelter under the church. Come on – this way . . .’
We are walking, part of a steady stream of people all heading for the shelter, when I stop. I can hear something. I feel Danny’s hand slip from mine as he’s pushed on by the steady movement of the crowd, but I tilt my head, listening for the noise. Then I hear it again: the sound of a child whimpering. Somehow, the quiet cries cut through the wail of the siren and the noise of people hurriedly making their way to the shelter.
It’s David, sitting alone on the step of a closed-up shop, his arms wrapped around his knees, his head in his lap. His shoulders are shaking. Weaving my way against the flow of people, I finally get to him.
‘David?’ Crouching down, I lightly touch his shoulder. ‘What are doing here?’
He jumps, looks up at me, startled.
‘Hey, Qalbi, it’s me!’
Not even that makes him smile; his dark eyes are wide with fear.
‘Where’s your mummy and your sister?’ I ask. ‘Or Vittoria?’
He starts to cry again, shaking his head. He’s talking in fast, sobbing Maltese, but I know that he’s lost. Desperately, I look around for Stella, as Danny continues on, lost in thecrowd. There’s no sign of her anywhere, and the crowd is dwindling as the locals gradually disappear into the shelter. I can already hear the distant hum of plane engines.
‘Come with me,’ I tell David, offering him my hand and a smile. ‘I’ll take you into the shelter, and afterwards we’ll find your mummy together. Is that OK?’
