Page 62 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘Well, what did you read?’ I ask him. ‘Whendid 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 namewasin 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 14thAugust 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 14thAugust, right?’
Sal nods. ‘Yes. The convoy arrives on 14thAugust and the ships finally make it through to the harbour on the 15th.’
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.’
