Page 7 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘Fine,’ he says, short. ‘If it means you will relax a little, I’ll take you close to the entrance. Maybe we’ll pick up the kid’s mom on the way. But the warden’s not going to let you out, not even if you turn out to be Princess Elizabeth, which you sound like you might be.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Wait—’
He blows out the lamp, and we’re blind once again.
‘It’s dark as hell, and there are tunnels upon tunnels down here,’ he says, his voice soft, ‘so you keep hold of my jacket hem, OK? You hold on to me, and make sure the kid’s got a hold of you, and we might just avoid breaking anything.’
‘Fine.’ I take a couple of inches of the rough cloth between my thumb and forefinger, and he starts to shuffle forwards, with me in tow. The boy holds on to my wrist with both hands. There is nothing to do but follow; all I can think about is being close to the exit, close to escape.
To consider how this happened only tilts me even further out of my mind. Not that long ago, I was standing in the ruins of a temple in a peaceful, sunlit morning. Wherever I am now is far from there. Could this be another ghost of PTSD? They said psychosis was rare but possible. But what does a psychotic person consider reality?
‘Which . . . which war is this?’ I ask.
He stops abruptly, and I walk into the back of him.
‘Do you mean which front?’ he asks.
‘Er . . . yes.’
‘Well, we’re trying to keep Malta from the Axis powers. If they get hold of this rock, that’s the end of North Africa. Don’t you know where you are?’
‘I hit my head in the first impact,’ I tell him. ‘Things aren’t clear.’
‘Hell, hold on.’ He stops, turns and strikes a light. His face, younger than I imagined – he’s maybe in his twenties – appears in the glow of the flame. Worried eyes scan my face. When he takes my chin with his thumb and forefinger, I don’t flinch. He turns my head from side to side, winces when he spots something and fumbles in his pocket with a handkerchief. When he presses it to the side of my head, pain burns down my neck.
‘That was a hell of a bump,’ he says. ‘Can you keep it compressed and keep a hold of the kid?’
‘I can,’ I say.
‘Good, stay close to me, OK? We’ll find a doc to look you over.’
‘Doctor!’ The little boy leaps at the word. ‘Doctor! Mama!’
‘Your mom hurt, too, son?’ the American says as we resume our slow journey. ‘Don’t you worry. We’ll get help to her – we’ll get you both help. Almost there.’
I keep my eyes fixed on the shape of his back. Strong but supple, it fills out the rough material of his uniform. I follow him for what seems like an age, my arms grazing against the stone walls again and again. We pass signs in English and Maltese:no smoking, no swearing, no spitting. Gradually, the air gets a little fresher and the light stronger.
Eventually, we reach a sort of cubby office, lit by a lamp, with a wooden desk and a rickety-looking chair. There’s a chart on the wall and an ancient-looking radio system, as well as one of those old-fashioned telephones.
‘What you doing ’ere?’ An older Maltese man with a bald head and grey moustache looks my guide up and down. ‘You should be up there giving Jerry hell!’
‘I’m supposed to be on rest leave, for all the good it does me,’ the American explains. ‘Got caught out, I guess. Ducked into the first port of call, sir.’
‘You’d think you lot would know better,’ the man huffs. ‘Anyway, go back to your cell – can’t have people running around willy-nilly. Is hazard.’
‘Sir, this little boy is lost – he is asking for a doctor for his mom. And this lady has a nasty cut and may have some concussion or something. Is there a doctor here?’
‘Is that . . . ?’ The older gentleman peers at the boy concealed behind me, smiling broadly as he talks in Maltese. They know one another.
Slowly, the boy emerges and nods in understanding, his expression still very serious.
‘He’s not asking for a doctor for his mother,’ the gentleman tells us, with a chuckle. ‘His motherisa doctor. He must have got bored and gone exploring and lost his way, yes? Very bad.’
The boy nods, bowing his head.
‘No harm done,’ the gentleman tells him kindly.
‘I give you light. You follow the boy. He takes you to the doctor for the young lady.’
