Page 45 of Never Tear Us Apart

Chapter Forty-Three

‘Kathryn said that Stella was killed the evening before the siege was broken,’ I tell Sal once we are again in the cool and relative comfort of the half-house.

Our walk back from the truths we told one another under that arch was silent and somehow distanced.

We both know things have shifted between us, that we see each other in a different light now – one that casts us as we truly are, instead of in the images we want to be true.

That I have grown to care about Sal in the days I’ve known him hasn’t changed, but now I see him for what he is: not a perfect paragon but a man as fallible as any one of us, as capable of doing great good and of making mistakes.

In his two lifetimes, Sal has done both.

Somehow, that makes me love not only him but my own father even more.

It makes me want to redeem them both – and myself – even more.

As for what he thinks of me now . . . Sal seemed a little wary and preoccupied on the way back, mulling over thoughts that perhaps he hadn’t dared to allow before.

In realising that David will grow up to become my father, we have both found a reason for hope. Because it is surely possible to undo any harm if it has not yet been done.

‘The evening before the siege was broken,’ Sal says thoughtfully, mopping his furrowed brow. His frown is deep and etched with sadness.

‘Do you know what date that is?’ I ask.

Sal doesn’t answer at once, which makes me wonder. He stands up, then seems rooted to the spot for a moment before making a decision about something only he knows.

‘I do.’ He nods, then goes to a bookshelf and retrieves a small brown notebook from between two large hardbacks where I never would have noticed it.

‘I don’t suppose I need this to remember that particular date, but when I first arrived, I wrote down everything I could remember in this book, and I’ve added to it.

When I was still taken to other times, I would write down everything I could learn then.

Some things that I read about the siege, well .

. . I do my best to forget what I know. If you ever need answers, Maia, and I can’t help you, look here. ’

‘Can I look now?’ I say.

Sal holds the book to his chest. ‘I’m not sure.’

Frowning, I look at the notebook, and one of the first things he said to me – something that was quickly lost in the confusion and chaos – comes back to me.

‘On the day we first met, you said that you had been waiting for me – that you knew I was coming because you’d read about me.’

Sal nods. ‘Yes.’

‘Well, what did you read?’ I ask him. ‘ When did you read?’

‘I wish I had never mentioned it,’ Sal says. ‘It was foolish of me, but in the light of what we think is possible, I think you have to see it.’

‘If it’s about me, I want to know!’ I say, laughing. ‘I hope Mabel gave me a by-line, and I delivered a huge scoop and got a medal, or something. There is only now, remember? Whatever is in the book, it’s fine.’

Sal looks at the book for a moment longer.

‘It was not very much,’ he says. ‘A line on a website, in . . . 2040, I think it was. I was there briefly, many years ago now. The site was on historic women of Malta.’

‘Really?’ I say, impressed with myself. ‘I’m a historic woman?’

‘Not exactly. You were in a footnote on the page about Mabel Strickland,’ Sal says.

I shrug. ‘Oh, oh well.’

‘When I read your name, it seemed to shout out at me from the screen. Borg, of course, I am familiar with. But Maia – I have never met a Maia, not in any of my lifetimes. It felt too modern for the 1940s, so I searched for it, and I found your articles. They were very good, Maia. I knew you were no ordinary woman even before I met you.’

I smile and shrug.

‘But there was no photo of the 1940s Maia Borg that I could find, just the twenty-first century one. I thought that maybe, if someone with such a particular name was in two timelines, then perhaps this Maia Borg might be like me. So, all I had to do, once I was back in 1942, was to write down the information I’d read about you and wait.

I never thought . . . it didn’t occur to me . . .’

‘What?’ I press him. ‘What did it say, the line about Maia Borg? You have to tell me. To leave me wondering would be too unkind, and you are not an unkind man, Sal.’

Sal sighs, turning his face away as he opens the book on a marked page and hands it to me. Taking a deep breath, I brace myself and read.

Maia Borg, who had been living on

the island since before the war, was

commended for her acts of bravery and

life-saving heroism in August 1942

DOB unknown

DOD 14 th August 1942

I read the words again and again. They feel like they are about someone else, but at the same time, I know they aren’t.

‘When was the siege broken? When is Stella meant to die?’ I ask Sal, stopping him before he can answer. ‘No, don’t tell me – it’s 14 th August, right?’

Sal nods. ‘Yes. The convoy arrives on 14 th August and the ships finally make it through to the harbour on the 15 th .’

I stare at the words again. ‘So I die on the same day as Stella.’

‘The future isn’t written,’ Sal repeats. ‘It can change.’

‘I die, and Stella dies,’ I say. ‘Everything that has happened points towards exactly that. I come here, decide I must save Stella to save my dad – and I fail. Badly.’

‘Impossible to know what will happen,’ Sal tries again, but without much conviction.

There should be fear or tears or anger, but none of that happens.

‘I don’t want to die,’ I say slowly, the realisation coming to me like a slow dawn creeping over the hills of my childhood home. ‘I don’t want to die.’

‘Maia, I know.’ Sal reaches for me. ‘You must remember that it’s not—’

‘No, you don’t understand. Until just now, I was really certain that I didn’t mind either way.’

‘Maia . . .’

Incredibly, I hear my own laughter bubbling out.

‘But now I know! I know I don’t want to die, Sal,’ I tell him happily. ‘I want to live. For the first time in . . . well, somehow time seems irrelevant now. All I know is that I want to live life, that I love life. And it’s taken this’ – I wave at the book – ‘to show me that.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Sal says. ‘Are we happy or sad?’

‘The book says that I die that day,’ I tell him.

‘But I say I don’t. I say that this Maia Borg, the one who is here to save her grandmother’s life, is not going to fail.

I will succeed. That is the new plan. The 14 th of August 1942 is not going to be the day I die. It’s going to be the day I live.’