Turning back to the landing, he slammed the lift button, before abandoning it for the stairs. Three flights led up to the roof terrace; he shouldered open the fire door and scanned the flat, moonlit space. In the centre rose a covered dining area, already laid for breakfast, perspex windows providing a cloudy protection from the breeze. Around the outside, wooden tables were positioned to admire the view. At the furthest, silhouetted against the night sky, sat his father. Spike set off towards him.
Rufus was staring over the railings at the glittering tongue of the Grand Harbour below. The breeze fluffed out his white, shoulder-length hair. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s you.’
‘Were you expecting someone else?’
He turned back to the railings. ‘You can see the dockyard from up here. They were loading a ship.’
Spike placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, feeling the shoulder blade jut beneath his cotton shirt, the bone as light as balsa wood. ‘Come on, Dad. Let’s get you back downstairs.’
His father remained seated, so Spike pulled up a chair. Beyond him spread the skyline of Valletta, its towers and cupolas alight, their ornate splendour an insult to the stolid practicality of Gibraltar.
‘I’ve been thinking about your uncle David,’ Rufus said.
‘Me too.’
‘He told me something once. That he would never take his own life. Under any circumstances.’
‘Because of what happened to Mum?’
Rufus’s blue eyes flashed, giving Spike a glimpse of the man he’d once feared. ‘This has nothing to do with your theories about your mother,’ he retorted. ‘No,’ he went on, ‘because of his religion. They all make a song and dance of it out here, but David was the real deal. A staunch Roman Catholic, far more devoted than your mother. Those religious paintings he loved . . . He really believed in their message, that suicide is a cardinal sin. And who would choose to go to hell?’
Someone who was already there, Spike wanted to say, but didn’t.
‘And as for what they’re claiming he did to Teresa. His beloved Teresa . . . It’s an abominable slur.’
‘Perhaps he was ill.’
‘David was one of the sanest men I ever met. To a fault. Always such a planner,’ Rufus continued, shaking his head. ‘Working on his catalogues, plodding along. David wasn’t spontaneous. Bloody-minded, yes. Delusions of grandeur, maybe. But this?’ Spike felt his father’s dry, bony fingers squeeze the back of his hand. ‘You’ll look into it, won’t you, son? You’ll find out what happened.’
‘Yes, Dad. Now come on. I’ll run you a hot bath.’
7
Spike checked the temperature of the bathwater, then turned back to the open door. His father was propped up in bed in a white hotel robe, devouring a club sandwich with the sort of rapacity which sometimes made Spike wonder how ill he really was. Spread over his knees was a tourist magazine that had come free with the room. ‘Listen to this,’ Rufus said, folding a fistful of fries into his mouth. ‘On 15 April 1942, the entire civilian population of Malta was awarded the George Cross for enduring 154 days of continuous German and Italian bombardment.’ Rufus lifted up the magazine. ‘This is page four, son. We had the Great Siege on page two, when Malta apparently saved the whole of Europe from Muslim rule. Not shy in coming forward, are they?’
Spike glanced down at his father’s empty water glass. ‘Have you taken your beta blockers?’
‘How many sieges has Gibraltar withstood?’ Rufus asked, picking up the bottle of water.
Spike smiled. ‘Fourteen.’
‘Fourteen sieges,’ Rufus said, swallowing down two pills. ‘Moors, Spaniards, U-boats . . . You don’t hear us crowing, do you?’
‘Never.’
After steering his father to the bathroom, Spike stripped down to his boxers, staring out at the wooden balcony which protruded over the small city square below. What was it with the Maltese and balconies? Something to do with medieval times, Spike seemed to remember, when the Arabs had ruled the islands – allowing well-born women to observe street life unseen. ‘Do you remember Michael Malaspina?’ he called through.
‘Who?’ Reclining in the bath, Rufus resembled a skeleton soaking in acid.
‘Michael Malaspina,’ Spike repeated.
Rufus’s silver mane of hair was dampened back, pale blue eyes blinking, like a nocturnal animal torn from its burrow. ‘You mean the Baron?’
‘He’s invited us to dinner.’
‘Then we must go,’ Rufus said, dipping his head back into the water.
Back in the bedroom, Spike picked up his uncle’s diary and lay down. Just one week before David died, he’d been to Gozo, Malta’s smaller sister island, visiting Our Lady of St Agatha – a church by the sound of it. He turned the page. The day after David’s death, he’d scheduled a meeting at the Co-Cathedral of St John with the chief curator. A receipt was stapled to the page: photographs awaiting collection. The next week, an appointment with someone called Olsa . . .
‘Son?’ came a voice from next door. ‘I can’t seem to get the cap off this. Son?’
Cursing to himself, Spike closed the diary and stood.
The man lies bare-chested on the bed. From the street below come the sounds of cars, restaurants, chatter. The man stares upwards. The display on his new sound system casts green lozenges of light on the ceiling. He feels his ribcage rise and fall; soothed by the rhythm, he dares to close his eyes.
Beneath his lids, the parade of faces begins again. The women emerge one by one through a curtain. Once at the centre of the stage, they turn their heads, their expressions the same: bored, neutral, until they blink, and their eyes grow larger, black as night, blood seeping from the corners, dripping down painted cheeks. An older woman appears. She wears a blue dressing gown. Clutched to her chest is a baby . . .
The man snaps open his eyes. The ceiling is darker, the voices outside louder; he hears female laughter carry up on the breeze. He touches his forehead. Warm and sticky; fumbling for the lamp he finds not blood, but perspiration.
Rolling out of bed, the man picks up the remote and switches on the music, waiting for the hard, thrash metal to cleanse his thoughts. Head clearer, he steps forward to the full-length mirror which hangs on the bedroom cupboard. Looping a hand over one shoulder, he twists his neck, admiring his tattoo. The inky skin is taut and smooth. He straightens up, then dresses carefully for the evening ahead.
Chapter Three
1
A posse of men loitered outside the charity office, each holding a hand-painted placard. ‘Close All Tent Camps’ read one. Another was more direct: ‘Blacks Go Home’. The men’s chests were swollen with a heavy, filled-out look which might have been fat or might have been muscle. As they shook their placards at Spike’s approach, their biceps suggested the latter.
The charity office door was emblazoned with stickers – Red Cross, Salvation Army, Save the Children – like a mid-market restaurant advertising its modest success. Inside, Spike made out a figure in the gloom, standing with folded arms. He knocked on the glass with a knuckle. The figure moved towards the door.
Spike turned to the protesters – ‘Don’t panic. He appears to be Caucasian’ – as the door opened to a young man in khaki chinos and a white Brooks Brothers shirt.
‘Pulizïa?’ the man said in Maltese, and even Spike could tell he was not a native speaker.
‘Teresa’s nephew.’
The man opened the door wide enough for Spike to slip through, then locked it again behind him to a chorus of guttural Maltese protests.
The man turned from the door. Beneath his side-parted hair, his square-jawed face wore a sprinkling of reddish freckles across the nose. Spike imagined him advertising milk, or fortified bread. ‘I called the cops, like, an hour ago,’ he said in an inevitably American accent. ‘That new placard is straight-up inflammatory – actionable, even.’ He swept his ash-blond fringe aside with the palm of a hand. ‘Apologies,’ he went on, ‘rude of me. My name’s John Petrovic.’
‘Is that Serbian?’
John smiled. ‘Not since Ellis Island. The family’s mostly Scotch and Irish these days. Why do you ask?’
‘Doesn’t matter. I’m Spike Sanguinetti.’
‘So sad about Teresa,’ John said as he crossed the office. ‘May the Lord rest and take mercy upon her soul.’ He closed his green eyes, as though allowing the blessing a moment to wend its way up to heaven. His long fair lashes curled up at the ends.
‘May I?’ Spike said, motioning to the strip lights.
John snapped open his eyes. ‘Sure. Didn’t want to encourage those goons by letting them know I was here.’
Two plastic bins stood by the far wall, printed sheets of paper taped to their rims: ‘CLOTHING’, ‘TINNED FOOD’. The former contained a few T-shirts, the latter was empty.
‘We’re all still reeling,’ John said as he sat down at his desk. ‘You’re here for the funeral, I guess?’
‘Funerals.’
‘What? Oh, yeah. Right.’
John pursed his lips in a manner that suggested the Lord’s blessing might not be extended to Teresa’s husband, then consulted a heavy-looking diver’s wristwatch. ‘Cops don’t even bother turning up these days,’ he muttered. ‘We’re totally off their radar.’ He turned back to Spike, as though taking him in properly for the first time. ‘Anyway. How can I help?’
‘I’m trying to understand how this could have happened.’
‘How what could have happened?’
‘To the Mifsuds.’ Spike paused. ‘Did Teresa seem herself to you?’
‘She was a bit strung out by our friends outside. Every day, new people – it’s like they’re working on shift. But otherwise she was OK. The girls loved her, she was great at her work –’
‘Did she only teach women?’
‘We have four migrant centres on the island,’ John said, relaxing into his chair and his subject. ‘The first was founded in Marsa, on the site of an old technical college. That’s all male. Then, when that reached capacity, they opened a new one at Hal Far, in a former British army barracks. The number of women increased, so they opened a dedicated female block. Then nature took its course and we got a family centre up the road.’
‘And Teresa only taught at the women’s centre?’
John nodded. ‘English and cultural orientation.’
‘Can I go there?’
‘Not without clearance.’
‘Can you take me?’
‘I’m on housekeeping,’ John said, looking down at the remarkably uncluttered desk.
‘Is there anyone else?’
‘Our two full-time teachers are on holiday, the only one left is –’
There was a rap at the glass. ‘Right on cue,’ John said with a smile. He got to his feet and unlocked the door.
Another snatch of protest from outside as the door closed. ‘Fucking Neanderthals,’ came a familiar husky voice. ‘Hey, you,’ John said, pecking the new arrival on each cheek. Spike heard the sound of a handbag dumped on the floor.
‘This is Teresa’s nephew,’ John said. ‘Name of –’ He broke off, sensing something in the atmosphere.
‘Hello, Spike,’ Zahra said.
2
Spike’s dislike of Malta’s newfangled buses intensified as he found tourists were charged double the fare. Taking a seat in an empty row, he glanced across the aisle at Zahra. Her hair was cut in a sleek black bob, hooked behind her elfin ears. Her narrow eyes and the dark sweep of her cheekbones caused Spike a familiar sense of turbulence. He dug the edge of his hand into his stomach to chase it away. ‘Unusual guy. What is he, Mormon?’
Zahra turned towards him. ‘I’m so sorry about Teresa, Spike. And your uncle.’
Spike looked away. The bus was gathering speed, driving on the left, a colonialist throwback even Gibraltar didn’t share. Flanking the road, drystone walls gave onto a patchwork quilt of fields, some grazing sheep, others planted with bushy rows of vines. Every thirty yards or so stood lone African men, watching the traffic pass as they chewed on some kind of leaf – khat, perhaps.
A pickup truck had stopped ahead; Spike watched the hirsute Maltese driver beckon from his window to a gangly black man, who detached himself from the wall and climbed over the tailgate. A similar transaction was going on round the next corner: day labourers plying for casual work, Spike thought, remembering photos from school textbooks covering the Great Depression.
The bus turned down a potholed track. A group of young Africans was coming along the verge, dressed in knock-off labels and texting on mobile phones. Still seated, Zahra tied a sequinned headscarf over her shining hair, then pressed the bell. The bus drew to a halt, engine throbbing.
3
Spike followed Zahra along the rubbish-strewn verge. A jumbo jet roared overhead, wheels down like a woodwasp’s legs. Spike didn’t remember this view from the plane window yesterday: the flight path must lie directly above the camps, no doubt to prevent the tourists from seeing what lay beneath their feet. To the right rose a tower marking the start of an airport runway.
Zahra was carrying a laundry sack containing the charity’s meagre clothing donations on one shoulder, her handbag on the other. ‘Let me help,’ said Spike.
‘I can manage.’
The group of Africans approached. The youth in front wore a hooded leather jacket; he muttered something to Zahra in what sounded like Arabic. She threw back a retort, making him stop slack-jawed as his companions gave a whoop of delight.
A chicken-wire fence appeared to the left. Through creeper-entwined mesh, Spike watched some men playing football in the scrub. He heard a collective groan as the ball fired wide of makeshift goalposts.
The undergrowth began to thin, and Spike made out the first tent. He’d been imagining something which could be rolled into a rucksack, but this was an enormous white marquee, four-sided with a lofty, pitched roof. Similar tents stretched beyond; it might have been some kind of trade fair, but for the torn canvas and stink of human faeces. ‘How many inmates are there?’ Spike asked.
‘They’re not inmates; they come and go as they please.’
‘How many?’
‘Seven thousand at the last count.’
‘And the population of Malta is . . . ?’
‘About four hundred thousand.’ Zahra glanced over at Spike as she walked. ‘None of them wants to be here, Spike. They’re all trying to get to Italy. They get blown off course.’
‘It beats prison, I suppose.’
‘That comes first. Between six weeks and a year in detention on the other side of the island. Then they get temporary visas and are moved to the tent camps.’
‘How long can they stay?’
‘However long it takes to assess each case. Some get deported, the lucky few get EU passports.’
‘What are the criteria?’
‘I thought you were the lawyer.’
‘You were my only immigration case.’
Zahra looked down at her shoes, then continued. ‘If they’re economic migrants, they usually get sent home. If there’s a war going on in their country, or a famine, they’re classed as refugees and can stay. The Germans have been taking some –’
‘The Germans?’
‘In exchange for Malta supporting them in the EU.’
Spike saw a cat’s cradle of washing lines strung between the tents. ‘Must be a lot of wars on at the moment.’
‘The Arab Spring.’
‘Still?’
‘The deportations are expensive. You need to charter a plane, enlist two security guards per migrant.’
‘Who pays?’
‘Maltese taxes.’
‘Hence the protests at your office?’
‘The economic climate doesn’t help.’
They came into a forecourt with a Portakabin at one end. Three cars with Maltese plates were parked in front. ‘Wait here,’ Zahra said.
Two separate camps adjoined the car park, one where Spike had seen the football
players, another from which a tall woman in a headscarf was exiting to join a line of youths outside the Portakabin. An older man appeared by the queue, swaying as though drunk. He stumbled up to the youths, who ignored him, except for one who shoved him in the chest when he came too close. Still rocking back and forth, the man began to focus his attention on Spike, then wandered unsteadily over. ‘Fonu,’ he said, moving from foot to foot. An open wound festered in the corner of his mouth.
‘Just English or Spanish,’ Spike said. ‘A bit of Italian.’
‘Té-lé-phone,’ the man said in a French accent. ‘I call to Mali. For my mother.’
‘He is sick,’ one of the youths called over, then made a pelvic thrust, to the amusement of his friends.
Spike delved into a pocket. ‘What’s the number?’
The sight of the phone seemed to sober the man up, and he reached out a hand. His left thumbnail was uncut, curly and opaque.
‘I’ll be back in twenty minutes,’ Spike said, passing him the phone. ‘Keep it brief.’
Zahra was standing in the Portakabin doorway, the sack of clothes gone from her shoulder. ‘I hope that was pay-as-you-go,’ she said as Spike climbed the front steps.
A worn-looking supervisor sat behind the desk. He said something to Zahra in Maltese; her reply suggested she’d already mastered the language.
‘You wanna visit the female camp?’ the supervisor asked Spike.
‘Yes.’
‘ID.’
Spike handed over a Supreme Court of Gibraltar security card. The supervisor slammed it in a drawer without a glance.
‘Has he received medical help?’
‘Who?’
‘That man.’
‘For syphilis?’ The supervisor gave a laugh. ‘It comes and goes.’
‘But a doctor –’
‘Yes, yes,’ the supervisor said. ‘The doctor is here each night.’ He snatched up the phone, coughing into the receiver. A young North African sat in a plastic chair at the edge of the cabin, paper form wilting in one hand; Spike and Zahra walked past him to a side door.
Sign of the Cross Page 4
