Sign of the Cross

by Thomas Mogford

  ‘Remind you of anywhere?’ Zahra asked. ‘What was that square in Gibraltar? Casemate?’

  ‘Casemates,’ Spike said. ‘Casemates Square.’

  She pointed to another deserted-looking island. ‘That’s Comino. Named after the cumin they used to grow.’

  Spike felt another stir of sadness at the thought of Zahra exploring Malta alone. Or worse, with someone else. At last they turned into a car park and he caught a first glimpse of Gozo, rising in the distance from the choppy water.

  2

  The ferry lurched on the cold February sea. Ahead lay Gozo, like a brown stick on the horizon. ‘Looks like a prison island,’ Spike said.

  Zahra was resting her forearms on the balustrade, staring out like a ship’s figurehead. ‘It was, in a sense. Remember Calypso?’

  ‘Is that a bar?’

  Zahra gave a stiff smile. ‘A nymph.’

  Spike scoured his Ancient History GCSE and came up all but empty. ‘She was bad news, I seem to recall.’

  ‘From a male perspective. She seduced Odysseus. He was meant to be sailing home to his true love but he met Calypso and became so infatuated that he lost his way. Spent seven years holed up in her cave eating sweetmeats before Zeus ordered her to release him.’

  ‘And this was where she lived?’

  ‘So they say.’

  Spike stared out at the island. Another cathedral dome rose against the hazy sky. ‘So the only way off Gozo is with the gods’ help.’

  ‘Not always. In 1551, Ottoman pirates kidnapped the whole population. Six thousand men, women and children, all sold into slavery in Africa.’

  ‘What did the Maltese do?’

  ‘Panicked. Dug ditches. Built forts. Laid escape tunnels under their houses. A few years later, the Great Siege took place. Which they very nearly lost.’

  To the right, a dark webbed circle hung in the water. ‘Is that a fish farm?’

  ‘Tuna pens. The Maltese net them out at sea, then fatten them up here. Then they’re flown to Japan for sushi. It’s big money. Last year a migrant boat capsized, and the passengers grabbed onto a passing net. The trawler kept going. The catch was worth a million euros so they refused to stop.’

  ‘Got their priorities in order.’

  Some Italian tourists leaning on the railings beside them deemed the spray too much and went below deck. Patches of Zahra’s cotton dress were navy with seawater.

  ‘You’ve really got your bearings, Zahra.’

  ‘John was keen to show me round, so . . .’

  ‘Do you like it here?’

  ‘The teaching’s tough, but at least it’s useful. I enjoy the court work, but it’s only two days a week.’

  ‘All migrant cases?’

  ‘Any time they need an Arabic translator. It pays for board and lodging. David and Teresa helped me to find a room. They were so kind.’

  ‘In a flat?’

  ‘With a Chinese student.’

  A larger wave crashed against the stern, throwing Zahra against Spike’s flank. She smiled as she regained her balance, then pushed the damp hair back from her face. On her wrist, Spike saw a heavy diver’s watch. ‘Do you miss Morocco?’ he said.

  Her lips grew tight. ‘I try not to think about home.’

  The tannoy requested drivers to return to their vehicles. As the ferry closed in on Mgarr Harbour, Spike looked out at the limestone cliffs. All along this side of the island, they were pockmarked with dark, slurping caves.

  3

  The ferry terminal looked as though it had enjoyed a recent injection of EU funds. The automatic doors parted sleekly to a freshly tarmacked road lined with white Mercedes cabs. On closer inspection, the taxis were all empty, the drivers taking coffee at a pavement café.

  The Italians from the boat were mid-negotiation. As Spike set off towards them, one driver sprang to his feet and met him halfway.

  ‘Where you wanna go?’ he asked, his English better than that of most Gibraltarian cabbies. He peered over at Zahra, who was bending down, dress tautening across her haunches as she knelt to do up a shoelace.

  ‘St Agatha’s Church.’

  ‘Which one?’

  Zahra straightened up. ‘Hello, lady,’ the driver called over. She threw him a look, and he turned back to Spike, briefly chastened. ‘We’ve got 365 churches on Malta and Gozo. One for each day of the year. There’s a few dedicated to Agatha; she’s our patron saint.’

  ‘Our Lady of St Agatha?’

  ‘I take you to the chapel, then.’ He shouted at the other drivers, who were still negotiating, then opened his cab.

  Spike and Zahra got in the back, the driver shunting his seat forward to make room for Spike’s long legs as they climbed the hills above the port. ‘Where you from, lady?’ he called behind, eyes feeding on Zahra in the rear-view mirror. She said something quietly in Maltese, and his eyes returned to the road.

  ‘So this is Gozo,’ Zahra said to Spike.

  It felt like a more rustic version of Malta. Roadside taverns wore blackboards offering varieties of rabbit: stewed, potted, roasted.

  ‘How many Gozoites are there?’

  ‘Gozitans. Thirty thousand.’

  ‘Same as Gibraltar.’

  ‘But ten times the size.’

  They turned onto a clifftop road through villages of decrepit sandstone. Less tourism: less money. A farmer in dungarees crouched in a field, smoking as he checked his cold frames.

  ‘I think that must be the Blue Lagoon,’ Zahra said, pointing through the window to an inlet bisecting the island of Comino. The pale sand that had accumulated in the calmer currents lent the water an azure glow. ‘In summer it’s full of yachts. Amazing scuba.’

  ‘Is that why John gave you that watch?’

  There was a pause. ‘I haven’t taken my test yet. Why don’t you wear a watch, by the way?’

  ‘Makes me feel restricted.’

  ‘Of course it does.’

  A bus passed on the other side of the road. Dull and grey: the Arriva fleet had made it to Gozo.

  ‘You here for the festa?’ the driver yelled back.

  ‘Festa?’ Spike repeated.

  ‘Feast Day of St Agatha. The Blessing of the Loaves.’

  Zahra glanced over. Was that why David had arranged to visit Gozo today?

  They turned down a track towards the clifftop. A single vehicle was parked ahead in a dusty piece of wasteland. Beyond rose the pale limestone of a chapel, its tower crowned by a white cross.

  ‘That’s Father de Maro’s car,’ the driver said as they came to a halt. ‘He’s getting on a bit, but if you talk loudly enough, he’ll give you a history of the church.’

  ‘Can you wait for us here?’ Spike asked.

  ‘I’ve got a booking in Rabat. I can be back in half an hour?’

  Spike paid up.

  ‘Check out the graffiti on the chapel wall,’ the driver called through his window. ‘Knights did that centuries back.’ He drove away, leaving them standing in the breeze by Father de Maro’s rusty Fiat.

  4

  The Fiat had dents in the bodywork from what looked like a series of minor prangs. A sticker on the windscreen read ‘Gozo Curia’. On the dashboard lay a half-eaten tube of Polos.

  Spike walked with Zahra towards the rear of the chapel. Jagged limestone surrounded its walls, cacti sprouting from the crags.

  ‘Have you tried any bajtra?’ Zahra said.

  ‘Any what?’

  ‘It’s a prickly-pear liqueur. Not bad, actually. The knights invented it.’

  ‘Alcoholic?’

  Zahra raised her eyes defiantly. ‘I’m not feeling so religious these days.’

  The chapel’s small barred windows were clogged with sparrows’ nests. Carved into the limestone was an image of a sailing boat, with an inscription below.

  ‘Non gode l’immunità ecclesiastica,’ Spike read aloud. ‘That’ll be the knights’ graffiti.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘That this
chapel refuses sanctuary to criminals.’

  ‘Is it Latin?’

  ‘Italian, I think.’

  They stopped at the clifftop. The Mediterranean’s oily gleam suggested winter’s chill still lurked beneath. Beyond, Spike saw the entrance to the Blue Lagoon marked by a row of sharp triangular rocks.

  A herring gull took off from the cliff edge, a lump of something brown left below. ‘Father de Maro must be a bit of a twitcher,’ Spike said, pointing at the remains of a loaf of bread.

  Zahra was already walking towards the chapel. Spike watched the gull circle above in the updraughts, then accelerated his pace to catch her up.

  5

  Set above the pediment of the chapel was a bas-relief of the madonna. ‘There’s a tradition in Malta,’ Zahra said. ‘Whichever way the eyes of the madonna point is where the knights have buried their treasure.’

  Spike followed the madonna’s gaze to see the herring gull swooping back down over the edge of the cliff. ‘A half-eaten chunk of bird food,’ he said aloud, but Zahra had already gone inside.

  A loose carrier bag lay in the vestibule; littering the floor were a number of broken white candles. Zahra moved to the main door; it was pushed to, the metal tongue of a lock sticking out from the frame.

  Spike followed Zahra inside, the aroma immediately transporting him back home, to Sundays accompanying his mother to Gibraltar’s Catholic cathedral for interminable morning services. The smell had been the only aspect he’d liked – musty prayer books infused with incense. He thought of the gymnasium reek of the oratory and wondered if the Baron hadn’t had a point when he’d accused the Maltese government of selling out the knights’ heritage.

  The interior was small and plain, just a stone aisle with two banks of plastic chairs on either side, the altar a mere table on a stage. What light there was came from the small barred windows.

  ‘Hello?’ Spike called out.

  A doorway lay to the side of the altar. ‘Maybe he’s in the . . .’

  ‘Vestry,’ Spike completed, deciding his churchgoing childhood had not been entirely wasted. He surveyed the walls. A clumsily painted Annunciation, a chocolate-box manger scene. The only decent piece was a Maltese cross in the corner, intricately carved.

  Spike lifted his eyes above the main door. Room enough for a painting, but the space was empty. Outlined on the plaster was a faint oval shape, as though something had been recently removed.

  ‘Locked,’ Zahra called out, drawing her cardigan across her chest.

  Spike was still taking in the ghostly shape on the plaster.

  ‘Come on, Spike. It’s cold. The priest’s not here.’

  He turned and followed her back into the vestibule. As he started to close the door, he paused. Etched into the jamb was a rectangular outline, as though a chunk of wood had been cut out, then glued back in. He tried to press down the metal lock but it was fixed. He pushed the door to, then stepped onto the path.

  The gull was back on the clifftop, pecking at the loaf of bread. Zahra clapped and it flew away. Three more gulls emerged from below, circling on the squalling wind.

  Spike glanced back at the madonna, then followed her eyes towards the cliffs.

  ‘What is it now?’ Zahra said.

  The wind buffeted Spike’s jumper. Waves crashed out of sight. As he neared the rocky edge, he dropped to his knees. Another gull appeared, swooping up on the currents that were rising from the base of the cliffs. Spike might have thought he was closing in on a nesting colony, except he knew that herring gulls nested in May. Febbraio, febbraietto, he said to himself as he crawled closer.

  ‘Be careful,’ he heard behind.

  The limestone powdered the knees of his jeans. One of the gulls made as if to dive-bomb him, defecating into the drop in front. Two outcrops rose on the edge; using them as handgrips, Spike inched his head outwards, strands of dark hair blowing into his eyes. Five metres below, a crag stuck out from the cliff face. Draped over it was a long black figure. A gull was perched at the head, wings arched.

  Spike shouted down but his voice was muted by the breeze. Was this some religious effigy, discarded after a previous feast day? As he leaned out further, his hand crumbled off a piece of rock, which rolled down the cliff face, alarming the gull, which squawked raucously as it wafted away.

  A face stared upwards. Two red, emptied holes were all that remained of the eyes.

  Spike scrambled backwards, elbows scraping the limestone, to find Zahra still standing on the cliff edge. As he got to his feet, he saw a man moving behind her.

  ‘What?’ Zahra said impatiently.

  Spike brushed the dust from his clothes. The taxi driver was walking towards them.

  ‘Not good,’ Spike said. ‘Not good at all.’

  6

  ‘Fancy a coffee?’ Azzopardi said.

  ‘No thank you.’

  After calling a drinks order into the lobby, Azzopardi came back into the interview room. He wore the same navy Armani suit as in the Depot, though newly pressed. ‘The head of the Gozo police,’ he murmured, shaking his head as he sat down opposite Spike at the table. ‘The smallest incident and he calls me.’ He leaned in conspiratorially. ‘I heard a phrase the other day – “If he fell into a bucket of tits, he’d come up sucking his own thumb.” ’ Azzopardi smiled; Spike didn’t smile back.

  ‘So let’s go over this again,’ Azzopardi said, clicking on the tape recorder. ‘You read in your uncle’s diary that he had a meeting scheduled with Father de Maro. You and your friend are curious, and decide to keep the appointment, wondering if perhaps he’d been using the Father as a confessor for his marital problems. Then you find the priest’s body stuck halfway down a cliff face.’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘How did you know the body was there?’

  ‘I saw gulls circling.’

  ‘So you peered down.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘The taxi driver, Mr Fenech – he says he saw you climbing back up. As though you might have pushed the priest off yourself.’

  ‘Why don’t you examine the chapel door, Mr Azzopardi? Someone broke in.’

  ‘You?’

  Spike spoke quietly, trying to curb his frustration. ‘The priest’s eyes had been pecked out. Herring gulls may be fast workers, but they’re not that hungry. You’ve already seen our ferry tickets; we’d only been in Gozo an hour.’ He glanced up at the wall clock. ‘Make that six now.’

  Azzopardi’s sleeve lifted as he clicked off the tape, revealing his striped friendship bracelet, souvenir of some music festival or backpacking trip. ‘My Mobile Squad ran a check on you after you left the Depot,’ he said. ‘Law school in London, paid for by the Gibraltar government. Recipient of a Denning Scholarship, yet still you end up back in Gibraltar working for some no-name local firm.’ He smiled. ‘Nothing interesting until last summer, when you hit the headlines with a case in Morocco. What was it the press called you – the Devil’s Advocate? Five people dead?’

  ‘I protect my clients, Mr Azzopardi. Sometimes people don’t like it.’

  ‘A client who’s currently languishing in a Moroccan jail.’

  ‘I completed my brief. Mr Hassan now has new defence counsel.’

  Azzopardi stood and moved to Spike’s side of the table. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I know this is tough for you and your family. But sometimes when you stare too hard at something, you start to see things that aren’t there.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure the priest’s body was there.’

  Azzopardi clicked the machine back on. ‘Tell me about the girl.’

  ‘We met last year in Morocco. I helped her secure a visa for Gibraltar. She wanted to move somewhere bigger so I found her a job in Malta with my aunt.’

  ‘She’s lucky to have her own personal counsel.’

  ‘I doubt she would agree.’

  ‘She’s a migrant, right?’

  ‘A court interpreter. Working for a wage, same as you. The only difference is her father
didn’t get her the job.’

  Azzopardi stared down coldly. For the first time, his youthfulness took on a menacing quality, like a child plucking the wings from an insect. ‘Get that Moroccan back in here,’ he said. ‘And don’t make any plans to leave Valletta.’

  Spike was already on his way to the door.

  7

  A blue stained-glass lamp protruded from the portico of Victoria Police Station. For a country so proud of independence, Malta seemed to have difficulty throwing off its British roots. At least Gibraltar admitted its colonial status . . . Spike sat down on the steps beneath, mobile phone in hand. ‘Room 201,’ he said once the receptionist had picked up. Twelve more rings, then, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Son! How are you?’

  ‘Fine . . .’ Spike said, ill at ease at his father’s good spirits. ‘But I’m not going to be back till late.’

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘With an old friend. We’re checking out Gozo.’

  ‘Good for you. Take your mind off things.’

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Been out and about with the Baron. We’ve booked a venue for the wake, fabulous little bistro in Valletta, rabbit a speciality.’

  ‘What is it with rabbit here?’

  ‘It’s the national dish. The knights banned the locals from hunting. Eating rabbit was a sign of rebellion.’ Rufus paused to take a bite of something himself. ‘You know, I think we may have misjudged the Baron. He’s been most helpful.’

  ‘He does seem to have been genuinely fond of Uncle David.’

  ‘Lord alone knows why. Anyway, you enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about me.’

  Spike hung up, watching the city’s high street rumble sleepily by. Gozitans seemed to refer to their capital as ‘Rabat’, preferring the old Arabic name to the more colonial ‘Victoria’. Yet more identity confusion . . . He made a second call.

  ‘M’learned friend.’

  ‘Hi, Jess. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, though I seem to be seeing more of your dog than my fiancé. How’s Malta?’

  ‘Bit grim.’

  ‘When are you back?’

  ‘The funerals are tomorrow. We’ll be home the following afternoon.’