Page 101 of Never Tear Us Apart
Picking up the lantern, I step back to the edge of the chamber and blow it out. The absence of light is immediate and complete, at least until my eyes adjust and I can pick out details in the scant moonlight that filters through from above.
Sal is self-conscious and uncertain at first. His song begins with a hymn, but gradually I hear it peel away from what is familiar and safe and spiral into the sound of his heart and soul. Slowly, the stone under my feet begins to vibrate and seems to glimmer and glow.
The darkness around Sal intensifies as his song does. His voice multiplies a thousand times, echoing and reverberating into a symphony of hope. The sound builds, becoming so loud I can’t believe the people in their houses can’t hear it or feel the shaking of the ground, and then . . .
He is gone.
The temple is silent and still, and Sal is gone. No sleeping remnant of him lies crumpled on the ground; no trace of him at all. Wherever he has gone, he has gone entirely.
Relighting the lamp, I walk over to where he was. There is no sign of him and no way he could have exited the chamber without me seeing him – at least, no conventional way. It seems foolish that having made this journey myself, I am finding what I just saw – or rather didn’t see – hard to believe. In truth, I’d hoped to see an opening portal or moments of time encapsulated like raindrops cascading down.
But all there was was the song and then silence.
Perhaps that’s all there ever is.
Chapter Seventy-One
Thursday 13thAugust 1942, 6 a.m.
The journey back to the half-house without Sal is long and weary. My sore feet guide me to the broken place that has become my home, but it feels like less of one without Sal. I long to lay my head on the sofa, close my eyes and visit oblivion.
I have slept since I returned to 1942, but I haven’t dreamt once. I feel as if I never will again – that I used up all my dreams to get here, and now my sleep will be as untroubled and quiet as the light years between stars.
When I reach the house again, it is morning, and Danny is sitting on the doorstep. He looks up when he sees me coming and opens his arms. I run to him and fall into his lap. He pulls me tight against him, burying his face in me.
‘What happened?’ I ask. When I look at his face, I see grey exhaustion under his tanned skin. ‘Come inside.’ Getting up, I pull him to his feet. He doesn’t speak, just lets me lead him inside, where he collapses onto the sofa.
When he looks up at me, I see so much sorrow in his eyes I can hardly bear it.
‘What happened?’ I ask him again. ‘There were no raids last night.’
‘No raids,’ he says. ‘But the recon boys were up. And they ain’t come back.’
‘Warby?’ I whisper, thinking of Christina.
‘Yeah,’ he nods, dropping his chin. ‘They sent me out to tell Christina, but damned if I know how to.’
‘It will be another one of his pranks,’ I say. ‘He’s probably gone to Gibraltar for an adventure. You know how bored he gets.’
‘Maybe,’ Danny replies, pulling me against him.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘I think he went dark over Italy, and that’s not good,’ Danny says. ‘I don’t want to be right; I never want to be right when it comes to this. But sometimes you can feel it, you know? Like a light has gone out.’
‘Oh, God – Christina.’ I never thought to look for their names, to see if they made it. If I had, then maybe I could have done something. Could I still? All these millions of lives lost in this war, and I am only trying to save three, including my own. Guilt washes over me, and I turn my face into Danny’s neck.
‘Save your tears,’ Danny tells me gently. ‘Christina will need her friends to carry her through.’
‘I should have done something,’ I mutter half to myself.
‘What could you have done?’ Danny asks me.
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
‘One thing I’ve learnt is that you can’t fight this war planning to save the whole world,’ Danny says. ‘Not even one corner of it or all your friends and comrades-in-arms. There ain’t no one person in the whole world who can do that. You fight for your life and the lives of the people you love, and you fight knowing that you might not make it. You don’t have to accept it. You don’t have to believe it. But you do have to know it. Adrian Warburton knew it better than most. That man took risks that few would have the courage to. He rolled the dice; he hoped he’d always win. He always knew he might not.’
‘So many,’ I say. ‘So many lives gone, and for what?’
