Page 26 of Never Tear Us Apart

Chapter Twenty-Four

At the foot of the steps, Sal produces the stub of a candle from his pocket and lights it. The glow thrown by the flame is not huge, but it doesn’t need to be. I can sense the vast spaces that echo with shadows around us. The air smells of earth and dust and something ancient.

‘There have been burials here since before the Roman times,’ Sal tells me in a low voice.

He holds the candle up and circles slowly to show me a series of open-sided, arched chambers, each with one or two plinths.

‘Maybe even before. Centuries of grave-robbing mean there are fewer remains here now than there once were, and even so, there is nothing to fear. Just our ancestors – that’s all.

Proof, if you like, that we have come from somewhere other than a dream. ’

He keeps the candle high as he makes his way between the tombs, sending flickering shadows to dance along the hand-wrought stone, and every now and then, I find myself caught in the blank gaze of a skull or resting my hand close to a scattering of disarticulated bones.

‘Watch your step,’ Sal warns as we turn a corner. Every last trace of daylight vanishes. ‘We descend.’

There is nothing to do but follow him, feeling the echo of a child not yet born following in my wake, the child whose life I will not save.

The dark thickens; the air grows heavy and hard to breathe, and somehow, even Sal’s candle seems to dim.

As we pass an alcove, I glimpse the figure of a woman on her knees, shawl around her shoulders, her hair covered with a scarf. She weeps.

‘Don’t look,’ Sal whispers. ‘We must not disturb the ghosts.’

I steal another glance at where she was kneeling. There are only empty shadows now. Despite being below ground, the air feels thin, as though we are at altitude.

Following the curves of another set of tombs, we pause by a large, flat, circular surface carved into the floor.

‘A kind of table. For the funeral feast,’ Sal tells me.

For a span of seconds, he is gone, and the circular table is surrounded by people, speaking softly as they eat, linen hoods drawn over their heads.

In the low light of a simple oil lamp, I see a child at rest on the plinth, a little girl being guided to the afterlife by her family. I recognise her.

Then up ahead, I see a faint glow of light, and Sal reappears.

‘I think I just . . .’

‘Quiet now,’ Sal warns. ‘We have arrived. Elias! It’s Sal Borg, your friend. I bring another with me. We need your assistance.’

There is silence, and then a figure comes out of the gloom, hardly more than a shadow.

I get a glimpse of lantern-light reflecting their eyes, the collar of their jacket turned up to hide a portion of their face, out of shame or subterfuge – it’s hard to know which.

Whoever it is might not even be from this time.

They may have come from a time long ago or a time yet to be – that is, if I let myself believe Sal’s theories.

But I refuse to let that happen. Following him down here isn’t admitting this is real.

Like he said before, what else am I going to do?

Sooner or later, I will either wake up or pass into nothingness.

I’m not sure which outcome I long for the most.

The figure slips away, receding into the darkness of the catacombs, and a deep voice booms from within the room they have just left. ‘Come then, Salvatore.’ The words reverberate jarringly through the chamber. ‘Come into my office.’

Quite improbably, this Elias has occupied one of the chambers of the catacombs and filled it with every requirement for black-market administration.

He is sitting behind a wooden desk, on which a number of ledgers make an unstable tower.

He is working by the light of a lantern, and it throws large shadows on the wall behind him.

Stacked all around his desk are piles and piles of what I imagine are black-market goods: tins of all kinds of food, bags of rice and pasta, and a variety of other items I can’t make out in this light.

Standing on a tripod in one corner is a very old-looking camera that long predates this war and possibly the last.

‘Sal, my old friend.’ Elias grins. ‘I never expected to see you here. But then, even a man of principle like you may need the help of old Elias from time to time, no?’

Sal smiles, his discomfort plain. ‘It is so.’

As little as I know Sal, it’s obvious that Elias doesn’t seem like the kind of man he’d be truly close to.

Any man who would set up their racketeering operation in a grave must have quite the question mark over his character, and he is not the first of his type I have encountered.

In every war, there is always someone turning a profit from suffering.

I’m also sure that Sal wouldn’t have brought me here if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.

Needs must – that’s what Mum used to say.

‘My cousin.’ Sal gestures at me. ‘We need papers. Everything. Hers are lost.’

‘Cannot you then apply for replacements?’ Elias asks, looking me up and down very slowly. I feel the creep of his gaze on my skin. ‘Oh, is this the spy?’

‘Maia is not a spy, but there are complications,’ Sal says, with a wave of his hand.

‘It must be resolved quickly. I know you have people who can provide good-quality documents.’ He is trying to look and sound as if it is not a matter of life and death, knowing, I suspect, that Elias will put the price up as soon as he sniffs out a trace of desperation or fear.

‘Have you brought money?’ Elias asks.

Sal nods.

Elias turns one of the ledgers to face us and pushes it across the desk, holding out a pencil in his other hand. ‘Write all her information here,’ he tells Sal. ‘You.’ He points at me. ‘Stand up against that wall.’

Turning, I see a square of rock that has been whitewashed. I stand in front of it.

‘Don’t smile,’ he says. That’s an easy command to follow.

A moment later, the glare of a flash fills the room, with a second of blinding light and the scent of smoke.

‘Will you take another to be sure?’ Sal asks.

‘No,’ Elias replies, without further explanation. ‘Come back the day after tomorrow.’

‘Very well.’ Sal nods. ‘How much?’

Elias gives him a figure, and Sal patiently counts out the fee, or at least half of it.

‘The rest on delivery,’ Sal tells him sternly over the top of his glasses.

Elias shrugs. ‘And what else can I tempt you with?’ He gestures at his treasure trove.

‘Where did you get all this from?’ Sal asks. He is doing his best to keep his anger hidden, but his tone is stiff and halting.

‘Some I “find”; some is sold to me,’ Elias says, unconcerned. ‘You disapprove, my old friend, but in times of war, there is always a need for a man like me, as you yourself have demonstrated. Those who sell to me are desperate. Those who buy, the same.’

Sal nods curtly. ‘Do you have another candle?’ he asks.

‘For you, on the house.’ Elias takes a fresh candle out of his desk drawer and rolls it across to Sal. ‘To remind you that I am not a monster, eh?’

‘Not a monster.’ Sal picks up the candle, lighting it from the lantern.

‘Two days and all will be ready,’ says Elias.

Sal sighs deeply as soon as we are out of earshot of Elias.

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. ‘It’s my fault you have to deal with him. That was a lot of money.’

‘It’s not the cost.’ Sal waves that away with a gesture. ‘To protect you is my honour, Maia. You are my compatriot in more ways than one. No, it’s this war – any war. How can Elias be a monster when the world is populated by far worse? We are all monsters now.’

‘Not you,’ I say, ‘or Christina or Warby. You’ve lived after the end of the war once already. You know how many heroes there always are.’

‘Have I the courage to be a hero here and now?’ Sal says sadly. ‘When a choice must be made, who knows how we shall make it?’