Page 25 of Never Tear Us Apart

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘Where are we going now?’ I ask Sal.

‘Rabat,’ he tells me, ‘in the centre of the island, next to the ancient city of Mdina. I have a friend there who will help us with your papers. But it is dangerous, Maia. You must stay close and don’t speak if you can help it. I use the term “friend” very loosely.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’m not traditionally good at not speaking, but I’ll try. Why is it so dangerous?’

Sal glances around, simply shaking his head, from which I gather that he doesn’t want to talk about it when anyone might overhear us.

‘How will we get there?’ I ask, looking up at the burning sky. Sweat is already tracking its way down my back and beading around my hairline. ‘Are we walking?’

‘It would be a very long walk, even if it weren’t so hot,’ Sal says to my relief as we stop at the edge of a dusty trail on what seems to be the outskirts of Valletta. ‘There is a bus.’

‘The same bus that your friends were shot and killed on?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘But we have some time until the next raid, so no need to be afraid yet.’

It is the word ‘yet’ that lodges in the middle of my chest.

When the bus – a small, squat, rickety vehicle – all but staggers into view, I see that any remaining glass has been removed from the windows and that it is pocked along its visible side with bullet-holes.

I’m certain the far side looks the same, and it seems more than likely to be exactly the same bus the family was travelling on when they were attacked.

I think about them: a small, close family, getting on with things; the threat of death from above must have seemed like an abstract thing – real enough, but not meant for them. Not until it was. It’s hard not to think of their last moments, of desperate confusion and fear.

And yet the weary people still take the bus, because they must. Trusting that this time, they will reach their destination. Hoping that when death comes, it will not be for them.

The other passengers sit in silent exhaustion.

Sal nods to a few people as we edge our way down the aisle.

He signals for me to sit in a vacant seat while he stands at my shoulder, holding on to the back of the seat.

Doing as I’m told, I slide into the stiff, wooden bench-like seat, next to a very young, slender woman, who is holding a sleeping baby cradled against her chest. Her lovely face set in a frown of concern and deep worry, she rocks and murmurs to her infant.

I get the sense she is comforting herself.

The weight of the world rests on her narrow shoulders.

‘What a beautiful little one,’ I tell her, with a gentle smile. For a moment, her features lighten. Her arms tighten around her precious bundle. Tears shine in her eyes.

The bus squeaks and rattles onwards. Outside, a parched landscape rolls by, an ombre of creamy yellows descending to deep, dark red, punctuated here and there by dark-green trees and row upon row of prickly pears.

Bright wildflowers dazzle in the muted landscape with starbursts of colour: remarkably similar to the Malta I saw with my waking eyes. Not surprising, I suppose.

Long, narrow fields are marked by drystone walls, running in terraces that echo the contours of the land, each containing the hard-fought-for crops of cabbages and potatoes, presenting their own personal battle for life over death in the endless heat and violence.

Despite this – perhaps even because of it – the landscape is beautiful.

Truly, I didn’t expect to feel anything when I set foot on this island.

But now, as I sit here with these people in my own personal film, produced and directed by my tender brain, I do feel .

. . something . Not that the battered, bomb-blasted land I’m watching unfurl around me belongs to me.

More that part of me belongs to it and always has.

And I don’t mean just to the island, but to this precise moment in time and each of the seconds that follows after.

Somehow, I feel these coming minutes, hours and days from the past have been waiting just for me.

So, despite the heat, the jolts of the transport, the surreal uncertainty of everything, I feel something I have hardly ever felt before: I feel as if I belong.

* * *

From quite a way out, I see the medieval citadel of Mdina perched on the highest point in the centre of the island. Until now, I’ve only read about it in guidebooks, though I saw it presiding over the island from a distance as we drove past.

Sal taps me on the shoulder, and I follow him off the bus outside the grand gates of the citadel. As we leave, the baby begins to cry.

‘Wow, this is so beautiful,’ I say, stopping in front of the stone bridge. It crosses a now empty and overgrown moat, leading to the grand entrance to the city, which is flanked on either side by a great lion holding the livery of the Knights of St John.

‘Mostly, the airmen are billeted here now,’ Sal tells me.

‘Flight Lieutenant Beauchamp, for one – I believe he is here. But there are still a few old families, some clergy and an order of nuns who will not be moved from the city, not for anyone.’ Sal chuckles.

‘One wonders how the airmen and the nuns get along as neighbours.’ His demeanour changes in an instant, and he lowers his voice.

‘Now, follow me closely – we are going into Rabat. You are not to talk. These people cannot be trusted, and they are dangerous, understood?’

‘Understood.’ I nod. I can feel something building, something beyond the heat of the afternoon or the collective grief and resilience of the people around us. There is something else. It’s coming for me.

* * *

Rabat seems like it is – or would have been before the war – a charming little town of picturesque squares and café life.

There is a church on almost every corner, and as with Valletta, the buildings are elegant and beautiful, concealing the promise of shady courtyards and cool, vaulted rooms beyond.

Sal seems to know where he is going, and soon leads me into a cemetery crowded with tombs, and then to a mausoleum that seems to be the entrance to the underworld.

A rusty, barred gate stands open, and when I take a tentative step forwards, I see a flight of steps leading down into the dark.

The last time I’d ventured into a cellar staircase on the island, it didn’t go so well.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask. ‘Because I am not keen.’

‘We are at the St Paul’s Catacombs,’ Sal tells me, glancing around to check we are not being overheard.

‘The people who have inhabited this island have been burying their dead underground here for many thousands of years. There are pagan, Christian and Jewish burials here. At the beginning, local people would use them as a shelter, but we do not like to disturb the dead.’

‘There are still remains down there?’ I ask.

‘Naturally – where else would they be?’ He shrugs, as if I’ve asked a foolish question.

‘There are tunnels and rooms in there that have yet to be explored and many corners that most people would not concern themselves with. That is where we are heading. Stay close – don’t lose sight of me.

It is possible to become lost down here and not be found again until it is too late. ’

It’s not the prospect of mortal remains or a labyrinth of tunnels that gives me pause, though.

I look at that entrance, the steps leading down, and it is not Rabat I see, or even the shelters I’ve taken refuge in over the strange two days I’ve spent in this fever dream.

I see a fateful decision, a moment where my choice would end a life.

I took a little girl’s hand and led her down a flight of stairs just like this to get her out of harm’s way.

At least, that’s what I thought I was doing.

Now, these stairs remind me how one wrong turn can change everything.

‘Come, Maia,’ Sal says, reading my expression. ‘You are the intrepid journalist. You are not scared of the dark or a skeleton or two, are you? Not when very real evil rains down from the heavens?’

‘I feel like something very bad is coming,’ I tell him, too tired and afraid to pretend to be brave.

‘Something bad is always coming, Maia,’ Sal says, taking my hand. ‘The trick is to be ready to meet it.’