Page 12 of Never Tear Us Apart
Chapter Eleven
For ten silent minutes, I try to work out what to do now as I follow the surprisingly fast-paced professor through the rubble-strewn streets of Valletta, taking turn after turn after turn.
Somehow, my head has put me here , in this time and place, and I need to try to understand why .
Especially why I am following a strange man ever deeper into the less salubrious narrow streets and alleyways of war-torn Valletta, like a lamb to the slaughter – a man who somehow knew my name. If my head made him up, that would make sense.
But what if it didn’t?
I’ve followed more overtly threatening men in the past: men with covered faces, carrying weapons and issuing threats.
I’ve followed them for a story, content to risk my life to get it.
This is different, though. There is no truth here – it’s all a mirage.
Sal doesn’t glance back at me as we walk.
He is certain I’m following behind, and I don’t like that kind of certainty.
It implies that he knows I have no choice.
Eventually, we turn onto a long, narrow, straight street that runs first downhill then inclines upwards again.
It’s lined on each side by shuttered buildings, apartments, nightclubs and bars.
It has an air about it – the sort of atmosphere that even in the strangest of circumstances might make a woman wonder where she’s being taken and why. Wary, I stop.
I know this place. I had an Aperol Spritz here on my second night in Malta, about a hundred years from now.
‘Is this the Gut?’ I ask.
Professor Borg falters to a stop and looks at me as if he’s half-forgotten I’m here. I read about this place before my trip. Once, it was Valletta’s most infamous street, home to cabaret bars and ladies of the night.
‘Er, yes – but you have no need to worry for your reputation, Miss Borg. It is just a short-cut. Besides, during the day it is perfectly safe for respectable young ladies such as yourself.’
‘Hey, it’s you! The woman who almost did what the Nazis haven’t yet and got me killed.’
Coming out of one of the narrow houses in front of us is the man I now know to be the Canadian local hero and Spitfire ace who saved my life: Danny Beauchamp.
He looks like he hasn’t slept a wink. His hair is a mass of tangled brown curls beneath his battered peaked cap.
His frayed shirt has more buttons undone than I would imagine is regulation, revealing a tanned, toned chest. The bottoms of his shorts are rolled up, revealing muscular thighs.
And seeing him here gives me a chance to tell someone where I am going and who with – just in case.
‘So, you’re not dead, huh?’ He grins at me, before nodding at my bandage. ‘Though you took quite a hit. Where you going now?’
‘I’m going with Professor Borg here – I’m not sure exactly where,’ I tell him pointedly.
‘Oh, hi, Prof!’ Danny tips his cap at the man. ‘I didn’t see you there, sir. Wait a second – you know this gal?’
‘Ah yes, Flight Lieutenant. She is my cousin. I didn’t take proper care of her, and I can only apologise that she caused you such inconvenience.’
‘Excuse me….’ I begin, put out by being spoken about like I’m a naughty child.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Danny says, glancing at me with a lopsided twist of a teasing smile. ‘Ladies are delicate creatures, after all. Especially English ones.’
‘Look, I’m quite capable of looking after myself and apologising when I have to,’ I say firmly. ‘And I am sorry. Truly. Thank you for – I don’t know, saving my life I suppose.’
Danny shrugs. ‘I’d have done it for anyone.
’ He pushes his cap to the back of his head and squints at me in the midday sun.
‘Christina wouldn’t let me see you yesterday, and then I heard they’d carted you off to General Gort, under suspicion of being a spy.
I told Christina it’d be an awful shame to shoot you after I nearly died to save your life. ’
‘I strongly agree,’ I say, ‘but it’s all been cleared up now. A misunderstanding. You know. . . my cousin, well?’
‘Sure, the prof is a stand-up guy. Comes and reads with our injured men and helps them write letters and such. Teaches the local kids who don’t have schools to go to anymore. A genuine local legend.’
‘You go too far, Flight Lieutenant.’ The professor bows his head, blushing with pride. ‘You are the real hero.’
‘We’re just doing our jobs.’ Danny removes his cap and runs his fingers through his curls, before replacing the cap.
‘Each one of us is proud to do our duty, sir. Especially for the people of Malta. There ain’t none braver that I’ve ever met.
’ Danny flashes another smile at me. The ice-cold blue of his eyes reflects the sky he spends so much time in, as if he has brought a little bit of the heavens back with him.
‘Well, I shall wait a little way down the street for you, Maia,’ the professor tells me.
‘I know you would like a chance to speak with Flight Lieutenant Beauchamp in private. We are going to the half-house first on the right-hand street at the end of the Gut, Flight Lieutenant. That is where Maia will stay while she is in my care. Once again, my deepest thanks for your service.’
‘Champ,’ Danny calls after the professor as he heads into the shade. ‘My friends call me Champ.’ He turns to me. ‘So, you OK, Stitches?’ he asks. ‘OK with the prof?’
‘Do you really know him?’ I ask.
Danny raises an eyebrow. ‘He’s your cousin, ain’t he?’
‘Yes, but I only met him . . . recently. And I don’t have anyone else here. I suppose I only just met you, too, but you did stop me from dying, so . . .’
‘I’m pretty sure you’re in safe hands with the prof,’ Danny assures me. ‘As safe as you can be anywhere in this war. But I feel kind of responsible for you now, so I’ll keep an eye on you, if that’s OK with you?’
I nod. It irks me ever to need help from anyone, but it seems sensible to make allies until I understand what’s happening.
The professor has walked a few steps down the street to shelter from the sun in a doorway. The moment he stops, he fishes what looks like a notebook out of his pocket, and the stump of a pencil. He licks the end of it, then begins to take notes.
The sun is fierce. I can feel the skin on the back of my arms stinging with sunburn.
The smell and taste of dust in every breath is chalk and oil.
The way Danny Beauchamp stands, head cocked to one side as he waits for me to talk, is both assured and boyish.
The scent of his sweat, his height, his golden skin, a graze of stubble and a crooked smile.
He’s both so young – mid-twenties, at a glance – and so world-weary all at once.
Life flows out of him with a barely repressed energy.
‘Oh, it’s Maia, by the way. My name, that is. Maia Borg.’ I offer him my hand.
‘Named after a star,’ he says.
I nod. ‘Good guess.’
The professor coughs from his doorway, and when I glance at him, he shows me his pocket-watch.
‘Oh, I know stars,’ Danny tells me. ‘They are my compass and companions. You have a pretty name. I might still call you Stitches, though. It suits you.’
‘Ahem.’ The professor is rather more insistent this time.
‘I’d better go.’ I hesitate. I have no idea what’s coming or even when.
‘You better had.’ Danny nods. ‘Next raid due any minute. Try not to die before we next meet, OK?’
‘Same goes double for you,’ I tell him.
‘I’ll do my best, Stitches.’ Danny tips his hat and strides away.
‘Not much time now.’ Professor Borg taps his watch-less wrist as I walk towards him. ‘Hell by clockwork. It’s how the Nazis want to wear us down. Get us softened up nicely for invasion.’
‘I need to ask you something before we go any further.’ I stand assertively, refusing to follow him for now. He looks anxiously towards wherever we are going, but I stand my ground.
‘Very well,’ he says.
‘Am I safe with you?’ It may seem like an odd question, but I’ve discovered that people don’t often lie when you are direct.
‘Yes, you are safe with me, Maia.’ He nods, and I think I believe him. ‘I am the only person on this island who can help you.’
What does he mean by that?
‘But we must go,’ he says.
‘One more thing: how did you know my name?’
‘That much is easy,’ Professor Borg tells me. ‘I know your name because I read all about you. And I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time.’