Sign of the Cross

by Thomas Mogford

  Seeing another sign for Marsa, Spike swung into the exit, cutting up a pickup coming the opposite way, a painted fibreglass tiger strapped to its back. A moment later the Skoda was speeding along the road which followed the top of the Marsa sea wall.

  7

  Spike walked silently past the warehouses, searching for a sign of the motorbike. Nothing but the shadows of ships’ masts, twitching on the concrete like giants’ fingers.

  He found himself outside the safe house. Blue-and-white cordons criss-crossed the gate; two heavy new padlocks closed the hasp. So much for a police presence. Probably all at Carnival with their kids.

  He turned back to the marina. Motor launches, skiffs, yachts . . . He stopped by the boat marked Falcon Freight. Rust flaked from its broad hull; diesel stains dripped from the fuel cap. Glancing over one shoulder, he moved towards the balustrade and hoisted himself aboard.

  The deck was covered in slimy planks; Spike crept along the left-hand gunwale, one hand trailing the railings surrounding it. Peering in at the roofed wheelhouse, he made out an old-fashioned wooden tiller, cracked glass on the dials. Azzopardi had been right on one front – this marina really was a junkyard.

  The foredeck was wider and higher than the aft. Sunk into the centre was a wooden compartment, open-topped, about the size of a builders’ skip, presumably where the fishermen would empty their catch. A wooden mast rose behind: Spike put a hand to it as he edged around the perimeter of the compartment. A dark shape was propped against the side wall of the wheelhouse. A black, low-slung motorbike.

  A sudden sputtering came from the rear of the boat. The decking gave a shiver as a rumble issued from beneath Spike’s feet. The engine had been switched on.

  Spike’s first instinct was to climb the balustrade and leap onto the adjacent vessel. He started calculating distances, then felt the boat lurch forward. Out of sight, mooring ropes were being loosed.

  He glanced around, then began climbing down into the sunken compartment. It was two-tiered, with large, deep steps. Once at the base, he found a ledge beneath the lowest step, and rolled beneath it.

  The trawler continued slowly out of the marina. Spike saw the reflections of other boats’ rigging passing overhead. As they turned towards the open sea, the shadows changed angle on the base of the compartment.

  He felt for his phone, drawing it carefully from his pocket. The floorboards he lay on were quivering with vibrations; as he raised the phone to his ear, he saw wood which was lighter in colour, less slimy. Picking up the scent of burning cannabis, he suspended his breathing. A shadow spread over the base of the compartment. A moment later, he caught the twirling sparkle of a butt, and the shadow retreated.

  Still lying flat, Spike picked up his phone again and called Azzopardi. The rumble of the engine meant he could talk without detection; it also meant, he realised grimly, that he was unable to hear anything at the other end of the line. Teeth clamped with annoyance, he started to compose a text. A new noise mingled with the engine – rats, scratching at the wood beneath his ear. With painful slowness, he started to type: On board Falcon Freight, moving out to sea. Send . . . he waited for the message to go, watching the signal disappear bar by bar as they pulled further away from Malta. He shook the handset, then covered the LED screen with one hand as the shadow appeared again.

  The figure began climbing down the steps into the compartment. Legs appeared; Spike recognised Salib’s blue canvas trousers. Spike watched him bend down, then lower himself painfully to his knees. In one hand he held a Maglite torch, its powerful yellow beam pooling on the decking. In the other was a screwdriver, which he began twisting into the floorboards.

  Once he’d removed two screws, Salib stood and limped to the other side of the compartment. His injured leg was hampering him; as he hoisted a knee onto the first step, Spike rolled from beneath his ledge, raised his body into a crouching position, then got to his feet.

  In two silent strides, he was behind Salib. He grabbed his shoulders, hauling him backwards. The torch skittered over the decking, light extinguished, as Salib’s head hit the wooden boards with a thud.

  Spike charged forward to kick Salib’s fist. The screwdriver flew into the air, spinning away onto the upper deck. He planted a second kick on Salib’s temple, watching him rotate like a beetle on the slimy decking.

  ‘Where’s Zahra?’ he shouted down, his voice surprisingly clear against the drone of the engine.

  Salib was smiling. Spike moved at him again. This time, as Spike swung his foot, Salib caught the heel, jerking Spike forward so that he landed on his back on the ground beside him.

  Spike tried to spring up, but in a moment Salib was straddling him, sinewy thighs clasping the sides of his chest, pinning down his biceps with his knees. The first punch hit Spike’s ear, sending a sharp ringing through his skull. The next came from Salib’s other fist, connecting with Spike’s mouth. Spike tasted blood seeping between his gums, drenching his throat as the third blow hit his cheekbone.

  Spike was losing strength. He forced his eyes apart and saw Salib still kneeling above him, raising a fist carefully, before bringing the central knuckle down on the bridge of Spike’s nose.

  The stinging pierced the fog in Spike’s brain; his eyes flooded with salt. He felt Salib adjust position, and in that fraction of a second, the pressure on his biceps reduced enough to allow him to twist his right arm free. As the next blow approached, Spike squeezed his index and middle fingers together into the sign of the cross, then jabbed them up as hard as he could into Salib’s throat.

  There was a crunch of cartilage as Spike’s fingers connected with Salib’s Adam’s apple. He felt something give as his windpipe collapsed in on itself, one half clamping to the other through some internal suction mechanism of the body.

  Spike let his arm fall. Salib was rocking back and forth, eyes bulging, jaw opening and closing like a fish as he fought to suck in air. His hand moved to his throat, fingertips exploring the notch where his Adam’s apple had been, like a dent in a Coke can, Spike noted dizzily. Freeing his other arm, he rolled Salib sideways onto the decking.

  Spike’s nose and chin were sticky with blood. ‘Where is she?’ he shouted down at Salib’s pink and flushed face. ‘Where’s Zahra?’

  Salib’s arms and legs were twitching. He blinked upwards, unable to speak, as Spike brought his head in closer, seeing his lips form two distinct words: ‘She gone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She gone,’ Salib mouthed again. Then his lips stretched into a smile and his eyes closed.

  Spike collapsed back onto the steps of the compartment. He found he was sobbing, tears diluting the blood. Leaning his head back against the wood, he decided to close his eyes.

  8

  Spike landed with a judder. Moments later, his body was thrown back into the air, bouncing off a wall before collapsing onto a cold, salty surface. A crunching – part roar, part snapping – filled his ears. He felt himself rise again in the darkness, levitating for an instant before smacking down even harder onto the deck.

  He opened his eyes: he was lying beside Salib’s corpse, which was slumped face down, nose and mouth submerged in an inch of water. The boat shook again as the roaring grew louder, issuing from below, complemented by a high-pitched whistle. With a sudden panicked violence, Spike thrust out his hands and shoved the body away from him.

  Pulling himself up onto the lower step, Spike got to his feet. The boat gave another lurch as he climbed out of the basin, digging his nails into the sodden planks to maintain his grip. Once on the top deck, he stared out in disbelief.

  The bow of the boat was wedged against a sheer wall of limestone. To the left and right gaped dark deep caverns. The crunching came from the hull as it butted the cliff face and was rebuffed.

  Spike gripped the balustrade as the boat lurched again, propelled by its engine, which was somehow still turning. This time a chunk of limestone fell away and the hull started to swivel lengthways against the cliffs.
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  Spike braced himself for the next collision, and was thrown sideways as a wall of water sloshed onto the deck; once the floor had steadied, he crawled towards the wheelhouse and pulled himself inside. The motorbike had gone, swept overboard.

  A light winked on the fuel gauge; three of the dials had needles jammed to the furthest edge, the others hung inert. Spike twisted the key to off, and the engine stuttered to a halt. He grabbed the tiller, but it was stuck solid as the waves drove the hull against the rocks. A momentary silence, before an acrid stench began to waft across the deck.

  Over one shoulder, Spike saw that the stern was now a metre underwater, the bow abnormally raised. Smoke was pouring up from a vent in the rear deck, billowing against the starlit sky.

  He felt in his pocket for his phone, but it had been lost in the struggle with Salib. A grey bin bag was wedged beneath the tiller. Opening it up, he found Mifsud’s worthless canvas inside, carefully swaddled in an oilskin.

  He moved back to the railings, trying to judge the boat’s position, ready to throw himself into the water and swim for the cliffs. Beneath his feet, he heard something tapping against the wood. The last throes of the engine? He glanced back at the wheelhouse: the dials were still dead. The tapping came again, deep below the deck. He withdrew from the balustrade, then dropped to one knee and picked up the screwdriver that was rolling on the deck.

  On the last step down into the sunken compartment, Spike was thrown forwards as the boat hit the cliffs once more. A hollow popping was coming from above, like gas igniting in a jar. Looking up, he saw darker smoke trailing against the moon.

  He lowered his head; in the rosy light, he found Salib’s body jammed beneath its ledge. Beside him lay the Maglite. Spike crawled over, grabbed it and clicked the button on the base. A powerful beam of light appeared.

  A deeper-throated roar echoed from behind; Spike saw flames licking up from the stern, felt heat on his face. Screwdriver in one hand, torch in the other, he knelt to the half-opened section of decking, fingers stiff with cold and shock. A lighter, plywood board was held down by four screws, two of which had already been removed. Holding the Maglite between his teeth, he started twisting the screwdriver into the remaining threads, drawing out the screws with his shaking wet hands.

  Ramming the screwdriver into the edge of the plank, he prised it up and shone the torch down. In the low, cramped compartment, two small faces stared up, black hair soaked with salt water, eyes dazzled by the light.

  The younger girl was dark-skinned, almost Zahra but not. Both were sitting on the wet floor, legs in front, one arm tethered awkwardly behind.

  ‘Hold on,’ Spike yelled down, before rolling back to Salib’s corpse. Running his hands over the body, he wrenched up Salib’s T-shirt, pausing for a moment to take in the heraldic emblems set into the arms of his tattoo – falcon, galleon, evil eye – before dipping into his back pocket and pulling out a bunch of keys.

  The water was rising below deck, but the girls were unable to stand, restrained by their bindings. Spike lowered himself through the hatch, feeling his feet slither across the solid surface.

  The girls’ screams increased as the water neared their chests; Spike knelt beside the younger, Maglite in mouth, keys in one hand, feeling below the water with his other.

  The cold chains of handcuffs; he plunged his free hand beneath the surface and slid the first key into the lock. It wouldn’t turn, so he tried the second. At last he felt the mechanism click, and the younger girl pulled her arm free. She climbed at once to her feet, skidding as she tried desperately to pull herself out through the hatch.

  Spike turned to the other girl and delved again beneath the water. He felt again for the lock, then twisted. The girl withdrew her arm, but remained seated, face impassive and staring.

  ‘Zahra,’ Spike shouted. ‘Is she here?’

  ‘They take her,’ the woman said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The men.’

  ‘When . . .’ Spike began, but a plank of wood in the side of the compartment sprang loose, a plume of black smoke coiling in above the gushing water.

  The younger girl was struggling to pull herself onto the upper deck. She was sobbing now; Spike waded through the water and lifted her bodily up through the gap. The older woman had still not moved, so Spike reached again beneath the water and clawed at her hips, coughing as the fumes began to fill the compartment. She was too weak to climb, but he dragged her towards the hatch, then felt the pressure on his arms reduce as the younger girl started pulling her up from the other side.

  The Maglite glinted beneath the water; Spike retrieved it and shone it around the cabin, refusing to believe that Zahra was gone.

  A shout from above; the water was cascading in now, chillier, as though issuing from a deeper recess of the sea. Spike lifted his arms through the hatch and hauled himself out, slumping onto the base of the compartment, then stumbling up the steps to the top deck, catching his foot on Salib’s stiffening corpse as he climbed up towards the cold air. He found the women huddled together in front of the wheelhouse, arms looped around each other.

  The boat started to list, weighed down by its flooded hold. There was a fizzing as fire met seawater, followed by a bubbling, swarming sound like bees. The younger girl grabbed the balustrade; she stared at Spike with bloodshot eyes as she disappeared, sliding beneath the railings feet first. The bow rose up, rolling Spike backwards. He grabbed the railings and watched the older woman follow her friend overboard, her shriek silenced as she hit the water.

  A brighter, more intense red burned in the heart of the fire. Spike wondered if this signalled an impending explosion, until he made out the sound of a siren, and recognised the flashing light of a police launch.

  He worked his way along the balustrade. Now that the engine had died, the boat had drifted back from the cliffs, revealing the shape of an island beyond, Comino perhaps, with the dark triangular rocks of the Blue Lagoon protruding like teeth from the water. He glanced back, then slid his legs beneath the railings, swinging from the bars and feeling himself fall gracefully through the air until the cool water embraced him.

  She waits. The boat has become a van, the sea a winding road. But he will look for her. She knows he will keep looking, and in this she finds comfort.

  Chapter Eleven

  1

  Spike sat at a table for one on the restaurant terrace. A family of British tourists were standing on the harbourside, the father snapping photographs of the luzzi, the child’s face hidden by a mask in the shape of a falcon.

  Another bajtra ordered, Spike returned to the Sunday Times of Malta. An entire six-page spread was dedicated to the man known as ‘is-Salib’, ‘the Cross’, and his orgy of violence. Initial articles focused on the continuing mystery of his identity: the Prime Minister of Malta insisted there was no record of him coming from any part of the archipelago; Italy, and Sicily in particular, also denied him citizenship. The current hypothesis was that he hailed from the Balkan peninsula, apparently because his unregistered vessel, Falcon Freight, bore certain similarities to ships constructed in the eastern Adriatic. His motorbike, now dredged from the sea, had been reported stolen from an address in St Julian’s ten weeks earlier. A cautionary tale, one commentator said, highlighting the flaws of the Schengen Area, which allowed criminals free movement through Europe.

  No mention was made of Salib’s connection to John Petrovic, nor of the number of times his boat had been seen moored in the Marsa docks. His most recent victims had all awoken in hospital to find themselves fast-tracked for EU passports, their desire to speak about their ordeal fading soon after.

  Spike turned the page. Salib, it was believed, had circulated among the vulnerable migrant community of Malta, offering women the chance of hotel work in Sicily. After luring them to an abandoned warehouse, he had drugged and raped them, awaiting the cover of Carnival to move them to his boat. One girl, Dinah, had managed to escape the warehouse, but been killed in the attempt. Guessi
ng that the police would now be close behind, Salib had scaled down his operation and selected just a few victims to take to his boat, where he had concealed them for three days in appalling conditions.

  Salib was also implicated in the deaths of a parish priest, Father Philip de Maro, and of a middle-aged couple, David and Teresa Mifsud. The stabbing of an art historian, Rachel Cassar, had resulted in the victim being airlifted to a specialist unit in Palermo, where her condition was said to be stable. While the police were still trying to connect these seemingly unrelated crimes, it was believed that Salib had been pursuing a painting by the Maltese artist, Lorenzo da Gozo, The Martyrdom of St Agatha, which was thought to have perished in the sinking of his ship off Comino. Unbeknown to him, the painting was only considered to have been worth a few hundred euros.

  Set into the text below was a headshot of Spike, the ‘Gibraltar lawyer’ who had helped the police locate Salib’s boat and had single-handedly saved the lives of two of his victims. Alongside was a large colour photograph of Zahra, the inclusion of which had been a condition of Spike’s agreement to speak to the press. ‘Seen Zahra?’ asked the caption. ‘Then call this number. Substantial reward.’

  Elsewhere, ordinary Maltese news was already creeping back in. ‘This year’s Carnival “best ever”, claims President’; ‘Calls for referendum on divorce reform’; ‘Five stars for Paceville Hilton’ . . .

  Spike raised his glass but found it empty. The restaurant owner approached. ‘Another?’

  ‘Just the bill, please.’

  ‘It’s on the house, Mr Sanguinetti.’

  Spike walked back to the harbourfront. On the jetty, a group of fishermen were cleaning their nets. One looked over, eyes narrowed between mutton-chop sideburns. Spike looked back, then continued past.