Page 33 of Never Tear Us Apart

Chapter Thirty-One

The gate of the catacombs is locked with a thick chain and heavy padlock. I stand for a moment in the long, dry grass and hot afternoon sun, staring at it, trying to work out what to do next. I didn’t account for this.

Then I hear a short, sharp hiss.

Looking towards the sound, I see a small boy wearing a cap several sizes too big for his head, peering through the railings. Glancing around, he beckons furtively.

‘Hello?’

He frowns at me from below the peak of his cap. ‘You want Elias?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘Do you know when he will be back?’

‘I know. I know everything,’ he tells me. ‘You follow.’

There’s something about him, the way he’s deadly serious about living this adventure, that reminds me of her – a child flirting with danger and the dangerous, because no harm can possibly ever come to them.

Confident and frightened in one breath, living in make-believe to get through another day.

My instinct is to scoop him into a hug and take him home to his family.

And yet the last time I followed that instinct, it caused all the harm.

So, I don’t try to save this little boy. I follow him instead.

He leads me through dusty, empty streets, the residents of Rabat having taken shelter inside out of the worst heat of the afternoon.

The boy marches on, setting quite the pace, occasionally lifting his cap to wipe his brow on the sleeve of his shirt, revealing the prominent bones in his neck and shoulders.

By the time he leads me into a quiet shaded courtyard, I am desperate for water, my hair is clinging to my head in damp curls and my yellow dress sticks to my back and breasts.

In one corner of the courtyard, sitting at a table under the shade of an old grape vine, is Elias with two male acquaintances.

They are eating from a plate of pastizzi , little pastries filled with ricotta or mince and peas, and drinking bottles of beer.

The bottles glisten with perspiration, like they have been chilled.

How much does Elias charge for a cold beer, I wonder.

But when I start towards the table, the boy bars my way with his skinny arm.

‘Name?’ he asks.

‘Maia Borg.’

He removes his hat as he approaches the table, then whispers in Elias’s ear.

His eyes go wide and round with awe as Elias makes a gesture to an unseen waitress, who brings over a small packet wrapped in newspaper.

Meat, probably. I’ve seen more than a dozen children just like this boy, looking for a hero amidst terrible hardship.

He is in awe of these men drinking cold beers at a shaded table who can give him food as if they are gods dealing in manna. I fear for him.

I wait as he trots back towards me, holding his prize close against his chest. The two men that were at the table melt away into the shadows. It seems Elias wants to be alone with me.

‘You may go,’ he says, and the boy leaves, presumably to go back to his station at the catacombs.

‘Miss Borg!’ Elias greets me with an expansive gesture. ‘Take a seat. I see you are not used to the heat of the afternoon. Here, let me send for another beer.’

He gestures at a slender girl standing in the doorway, who turns on her heel at once to do his bidding.

‘You have my items?’ I ask him, glancing at his two companions lurking under the arches, each openly leering at where my dress sticks to my damp skin. I take the balance of payment that Sal gave me out of my pocket and place it on the table.

‘Ah yes, they are here.’ Elias picks up the folded notes, takes a small packet from his shirt pocket and lays it on the table.

But as I reach for it, he closes his hand over my wrist.

‘There is an extra charge,’ he tells me with a smile, his gaze travelling to my breasts.

‘We have paid what was agreed,’ I remind him. I try to pull my wrist away, but he holds it firm. Any fear I might have felt is washed away by fury.

‘Yes, but you see, you need these papers. And I suspect the reason you need them isn’t one that you would be happy for the authorities to know. So, I’m renegotiating. ’

‘I don’t have any more money,’ I tell him. I learnt a long time ago never to let men like this see any fear or weakness in you. The moment you show vulnerability, they will treat you like prey for the taking.

‘I will accept payment in kind.’ His wet lips curl into a smile, revealing yellow teeth with flecks of peas caught between them.

‘I suggest you let me go at once,’ I say evenly. ‘If you don’t, you will regret it.’

I have no idea what my next move is, but I know enough to push my luck until it has run out. This time, it hasn’t.

‘Unhand that young lady!’ The count appears at the entrance of the courtyard, striding towards us.

Elias drops my hand and stands to greet the nobleman. I find my legs don’t quite have the strength to do the same.

‘You will give my friend her items immediately, Elias.’ Nicco looks cool and elegant in white slacks and a shirt open at the neck. His black hair is concealed under a Panama hat.

‘Signor Conte,’ Elias bows, grovelling. It’s pleasing. ‘Of course. I didn’t realise that she . . .’

‘You embarrass me,’ Nicco tells him. ‘Your role is to provide a service for those already in hardship. Once a bargain is struck, the deal is done. Don’t let me catch you trying such tactics again – on friends of mine or on anyone on this island, do you hear me?

We want the goodwill of the people, not their hate. Now, get out of my sight.’

Beckoning to his associates, Elias half-stumbles, half-runs away, no doubt back to the underground tombs where he is a king of sorts.

Taking a breath, I compose myself as Nicco takes a seat at the table.

‘Please accept my sincere apologies,’ he says, picking up the envelope which he opens.

Waiting, I watch him take out the documents and examine them closely.

‘These are good,’ he says. ‘You will pass muster.’

He refolds them and hands me the envelope. Cautiously, I take it.

‘You need not be afraid of me, Maia,’ Nicco assures me. ‘I will not betray you for being on the island without the proper papers. Were you not provided with any before you arrived?’

It seems that Nicco might suspect I am a spy after all – an agent who has landed on one of the island’s remote rocky shores in the dead of night, come to spread disinformation and propaganda just like the foolish young man they hanged.

And if he believes that and hasn’t turned me in, then he must think of me as an ally.

The count isn’t working for the good of the people of Malta. He’s working for the triumph of Italy.

‘Thank you.’ I lower my eyes, saying nothing. If I am still and quiet, it’s more likely he will talk. ‘I lost my papers at sea. A difficult crossing.’

‘I’m sure,’ he says, ‘though I’m surprised that the professor has taken you in.’

‘We are cousins,’ I say as if that is a sufficient explanation alone. ‘Sal wants to protect me.’

The more I can re-enforce the assumptions he has made about me without telling him anything, the better. Let him do the talking.

‘You wonder why a man of means such as I is running a black-market operation, profiteering from others’ misfortune? It’s a fair question.’

Silently, I raise my eyes to meet his; they are as dark as a moonless night and as impenetrable.

‘I am a man of layers, Maia,’ he begins to explain. ‘A count from an old family, but really, what does aristocracy matter in this modern world? It’s a relic of another age, and I am a man who believes in radical progress. Freedom and opportunity for all kind.’

It’s clear that this is a speech he has made a few times before. It’s well-rehearsed and polished. I’m sure the people he usually performs for are in awe of him. He is impressive.

‘In addition, I am a grocer of sorts. Finding ways to obtain what is very scarce for those who can afford it leaves more for those who cannot, does it not?’

An argument I’ve heard a thousand times before.

‘But the man I really am, at the heart of everything, is a patriot determined to help my country win the war.’

The question is: which country?

‘You had no papers – no need to tell me why. No need to explain why you didn’t seek replacements through the more formal channels,’ he says. ‘We all have secrets that we would like to keep, do we not? I will keep yours, and you will keep mine – agreed?’

I nod. ‘Yes.’

‘Then we are friends who understand one another, Maia,’ Nicco says. He signals the waitress. ‘And perhaps we will find a way to help one another when the time is right. Now, we will enjoy a nice cold beer on such a glorious day.’

‘Nicco.’ I pause, uncertain if what I am about to say is the right thing.

I need something to tempt him with, something harmless but risky that means he will trust me with all of his secrets – some information that will show him I am who he wants me to be.

I remember what Mabel said. ‘A huge convoy, protected by the US Navy, is already on its way,’ I say. ‘It won’t be long now.’

‘Do you know when it will reach the harbour?’

I shake my head.

‘Well, I wish them godspeed – they will need it.’

That Nicco is at the top of the profiteering and black-market operations run by Elias is not in doubt, but that doesn’t necessarily make him a spy or a traitor.

If anything, it’s quite possible that the senior members of the British army know what he’s up to and even discreetly avail themselves of his services.

The count is cautious and careful. He sees me in exactly the same way I see him, as an asset ripe to be exploited at the optimum moment.

And so we play on, sipping cold beer in the late-afternoon sun, each of us biding our time.