Page 42 of Never Tear Us Apart

Chapter Forty

‘Maia? Maia?’ I hear Sal’s voice through the emptiness, a nothing that seems to go on forever in all directions, even inwards.

It’s not dark exactly, just a sense of being nowhere and not existing, of nothing being present but his voice crackling in the distance like a faint star.

His voice speaking my name becomes a fixed point, a spark to focus on, and I direct all that is left of me towards it, concentrating hard.

As the light of that single word grows, others come into being, competing for my attention.

My mum shouts out my name, the way she used to when I was little and had been playing for too long in the woods at the bottom of the garden.

I hear the whimpers of a little girl crying for her mother.

Voices and words I don’t know call to me, too, but I fix on that one coppery spark, turning the whole of my being towards it the only way I can: with intention.

‘Sal?’ Opening my eyes is difficult, almost like I am a newborn.

‘You are here.’ Sal’s blurred face looms before me. ‘You are back.’

‘I’m back. I’ve got so much to tell you,’ I say, coming to life almost immediately. Reaching for the water jug on the table, I pour a little into my palm and pat it over my face, blinking. I feel myself arriving at the very tips of my fingers.

‘There are these things called microtubules . . .’

‘Wait.’ Sal stops me with a calming motion. ‘Tell me on the way. If you are able. We are already late.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, standing up, looking down at my body.

I’m wearing the same yellow sundress, but stuck just below the neckline is one of the plastic disc things that the doctor used to attach me to the machines.

How on earth could that happen? Just when I think I am making sense of any of this, there’s another curveball or direction change that makes it all the more mysterious.

‘What are we late for?’ I ask.

‘You are to present your papers at HQ,’ Sal tells her. ‘Rumours are rife on the island, and you are at the centre of a few of them, I’m afraid. People simply don’t know you, and that is a little strange.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I say, patting myself down. I wonder what happened to the envelope I got from Nicco. ‘Oh, no. I think I . . .’

‘Here.’ Sal hands me my ID card without the envelope.

He’s folded and creased it a little, and stained it, perhaps with some coffee, to make it look as if it’s been in a purse or a pocket.

‘Vittoria got a group of army men to carry you to me when you fainted on the bus yesterday afternoon. The doctor wanted you to be taken to the medical room, but Vittoria was adamant you came here. The doctor was astounded that Vittoria wouldn’t obey her orders!

The poor girl was quite worried she wouldn’t have a job the next day when she left here.

I hope it’ll be all right – I believe the hope of going into nursing is the one thing she has left. ’

‘I’ll go and talk to the doctor,’ I resolve. ‘It was me who insisted. I knew I’d be safe here.’

‘I’m glad you did,’ Sal said. ‘Vittoria gave me your papers, too. If she looked inside the envelope, she didn’t say anything to me.

But we must be careful, Maia. Word is going round that there might be a British and American convoy on the way to break the siege.

Of course, you and I know exactly when that will be, but if we say the wrong thing to the wrong person, there is a chance we could alter history and give the island to the Axis. ’

‘I actually don’t know the dates,’ I tell him, a little shamefaced. ‘History wasn’t ever really my thing. I sort of regret it now.’

‘I see.’ Sal smiles. ‘Well, that at least narrows the risk. I will keep what I know to myself. Come along then. We must hurry.’

Just as we leave the house, we see Christina walking towards us along the street.

‘Prof!’ she calls. ‘I was just on my way to call in and see how Maia was after the crash and fainting on the bus.’

Cheerfully, she hooks one arm through mine and another through a delighted Sal’s, so that we are walking three abreast.

Looking around, I see shopkeepers opening up their bare-shelved shops and little children heading somewhere to learn something.

I seem to be in the morning, the day after I saw Danny nearly die.

It is already incredibly warm. The sun beats down on the top of my head, seeking me out through the narrow alleyways and tall buildings.

What is reality? Dr Gresch mused. If it seems real, if it feels real, then what does it matter either way?

I feel the hot road underfoot, the touch of my hair on my neck, the thinness of Christina’s arm in mine, and in my heart, there’s a quiet desperation to know how Danny is today.

I can’t remember the last time when I felt anything so keenly as everything I am feeling here and now.

‘Is Danny OK?’ I ask Christina, trying to sound casual. ‘Have you heard anything?’

‘Oh, yes, he was back in the sky last night,’ Christina says, shaking her head.

‘Those boys – they are so exhausted, but they refuse to stop, even for a second. He’ll be up there again today before long, I don’t doubt.

’ Christina pauses. ‘My Warby’s off somewhere today, too.

Can’t say where, but I know I’ll be holding my breath until he lands again.

’ She looks at me briefly, her smile growing wan.

‘Don’t fall in love with a pilot, Maia. It’s a fool’s game and one that can only end in heartbreak.

One way or another, I will lose him. All that remains to be seen is how. ’

‘Come, now,’ Sal intervenes. ‘There are some young men who are like gods in the sky, and Adrian Warburton is one of them, as is Danny Beauchamp. These young men are like Icarus: they have the sun in their thrall.’

‘I don’t think you’ve heard quite the same version of that story as me,’ I say.

‘I have, but you see these men are pilots. They don’t fly into the sun; they fly out of it.’

This thought enormously cheers Christina, whose smile is restored as she listens to Sal reinvent Greek mythology just for her.

As they talk, she treats him to a succession of dazzling smiles.

Every now and then, she hugs his arm a little closer to her body.

It’s clear that Christina has real affection for Sal, just as it’s clear Sal is very fond of Christina – and so am I.

Now I can fully believe that there are a million of me spread out across a multitude of realities.

What I find harder to fathom is that there could possibly be more than one version of someone as spectacular as Christina Ratcliffe.

I’ve almost wilted completely away by the time we reach the administration building, where Christina drops us off before heading down into the tunnels and the war rooms.

‘Now, don’t let me down in there,’ Christina tells me, brushing me off and hastily applying a dab of a blunt lipstick to my mouth and cheeks, before rubbing it in. ‘Remember I’ve vouched for you.’

‘I promise I won’t,’ I tell her.

‘That’s the spirit!’ She claps me on the shoulder before walking off to work, whistling a show tune. The sunlight follows in her wake.