Sign of the Cross

by Thomas Mogford

  ‘Relieved to hear it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Hamish has landed a new job. Heard of Caledonian Capital?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor had I. But apparently it’s tremendously exciting. He has to relocate to London so we’ve moved the wedding forward.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘I’ve been looking into a transfer to the Met.’

  Spike grimaced. ‘Sounds tremendously exciting.’

  ‘Ha ha. Anyway, we’re following in the footsteps of John and Yoko. And Sean Connery.’

  ‘The Gibraltar quickie marriage? Don’t forget Mark Thatcher.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to. We’d love to have you as a witness.’

  ‘It’d be an honour.’

  ‘Tenkiu, Spike.’

  He glanced round: Zahra was coming down the steps of the police station. ‘Got to go,’ he said.

  ‘Someone more interesting?’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  He got to his feet as Zahra shook her head wearily. ‘They’re typing up my statement. Did you have to give fingerprints?’

  ‘And a DNA swab.’

  ‘Christ.’

  Spike turned to see a motorbike cruising along the road. The driver wore a black helmet. It slowed by the police station, then revved away.

  8

  The ferry to Malta was empty save for a few melancholy lorry drivers staring into space. Zahra took a table on the lower deck as Spike paced the gunwale outside, profiting from a brief inclination to make phone calls.

  Galliano was at the office; he confirmed that the cocaine-smuggling case was as good as dead. At least Harrington had paid all fees and expenses. ‘Unlike that Hamish fellow. He hasn’t even returned my calls. The pipeline’s looking a bit thin, Spike.’

  ‘I’ll be back at work next week.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before.’

  Next came Drew Stanford-Trench. The background hum made Spike yearn for a moment to be home in Gib. ‘Spikey . . .’ Stanford-Trench began, before remembering the nature of Spike’s trip and retreating to a quieter corner of whichever pub he was in. They talked for a while about the drug-smuggling case, able to speak freely now that the trial had collapsed.

  ‘So you really think Harrington was talking Serbian?’ Stanford-Trench said.

  ‘Sounded like it.’

  ‘I didn’t think he had it in him; he seemed so . . . dull.’

  ‘And were you close to tracking down the owner of The Restless Wave?’

  ‘Ish. I subscribed to a website called Yachtfinder which listed the name of the holding company for the boat. The address given was a PO box in Belgrade. The surname Radovic had been taken from a stolen passport. Then the trail went cold.’

  ‘Well, whoever Radovic is, I’ll bet you he’s had dealings with Harrington’s asset management company.’

  ‘Maybe, Spike. Anyway, remember that English girl I met?’

  ‘It’s hard to keep up.’

  ‘The one I took to the Tunnel. She’s coming back to Gib next month. And guess what? She’s bringing a friend.’

  Spike heard Stanford-Trench call out, ‘Same again . . . actually, with a top,’ then resume: ‘I’ve just seen a photo. Long legs, dark hair, in need of a bit of rescuing. Right up your strasse, I’d say.’

  Spike ended the call and went back inside.

  9

  Zahra raised her dark glassy eyes. ‘Sorry. It’s just . . . finding the body. Brought back a few memories.’

  ‘I’ll get you a drink.’

  The ferry bar wasn’t serving alcohol so Spike zigzagged back with two cups of tea.

  ‘Thank you,’ Zahra said as she pulled off the plastic lid. She blew on her drink, eyes on the misty perspex windows of the ferry. ‘You know what some of the migrants do?’ she said. ‘Before they get picked up?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Throw away their ID. Passports, papers. Dump their whole lives into the sea.’

  Spike waited. Experience had taught him that it was wiser to let her talk it out.

  ‘It means they can tell Maltese immigration they’re from any country that suits. If Burkina Faso is at peace, they can say they’re from Ivory Coast, which is at war. You follow me?’

  Spike raised the weeping eyelet to his mouth.

  ‘Of course, sometimes it’s too obvious. A Somali has a certain look. Long neck, copper skin. But generally it works.’

  ‘Sounds sensible.’

  ‘Some of the names we get: Zinédine. Pelé. That’s boys for you. The detail the women like to change is their age. A hell of a lot of eighteen-year-old girls wash up on Malta.’ She raised the cup to her mouth, then put it down without drinking. ‘Except Dinah. I found the records of her visa application. Dinah Kassim, thirty-four years old. Her little boy is called Saif. He’ll be four weeks old now.’

  ‘What about the father?’

  ‘Not on the scene.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Dinah’s visa application was turned down. She and her son were due to be repatriated to Somalia next week.’

  ‘So they found another way to get to Italy.’

  ‘I spoke to her friends again. They’ve heard nothing. No texts, no calls.’

  ‘She’s keeping her head down.’

  ‘But she was always on her phone. Loved sending picture messages of Saif. The light of her life, she called him. Her reason for living.’

  ‘Maybe she ditched her phone on the crossing.’ Spike glanced across at the grey-green Mediterranean, wondering how Odysseus had felt when finally escaping this island. ‘What was that drink you mentioned? With the prickly pears?’

  ‘Bajtra.’

  ‘Yes. We should get us some of that.’

  10

  Spike and Zahra sat at a table for two on the waterfront. A railing divided the restaurant from the coast road, along which the occasional fish delivery truck trundled, followed by bicycles or courting couples arm in arm. Beyond lay Marsaxlokk Harbour – Marsa-shlock, Zahra had pronounced it – a horseshoe-shaped inlet where a flotilla of fishing boats bobbed in the evening breeze. The boats’ yellow-and-turquoise hulls were as garish as Malta’s buses once had been. Painted on the side of each was an eye, almond-shaped like Zahra’s, with a black pupil and open lashes on either side. Whatever the type of boat, the eye seemed to be the same size, giving them a spookily living quality, as though they all belonged to the same species at different stages of growth. Eyes of Osiris, Zahra had called them, introduced to Malta in Phoenician times to ward off evil spirits.

  A fisherman on the nearest jetty rattled up his anchor chain in advance of an evening sortie. With his thick neck and swollen chest, he resembled one of the protesters Spike had seen outside the charity office. Spike looked away, then saw the owner watching them from inside the restaurant; the only other customers had left half an hour ago.

  ‘Time for those prickly pears?’ Spike said.

  ‘It’s more a digestif,’ Zahra replied, easing a grey flake of fresh tuna onto her fork.

  Spike was reminded that there were certain pleasures to dining alone. You could eat quickly, enjoy your prickly-pear juice whenever you –

  ‘What do you want out of life?’ Zahra suddenly said.

  Spike looked up, apprehensive.

  ‘If you could script it. Make it how you wanted.’

  He straightened his cutlery, which the owner took as a cue to swoop. ‘Grazzi,’ Zahra said in Maltese as he collected their plates. Spike assumed this would mark the end of her line of questioning, but she was still looking at him intently across the table. He sighed. ‘God, I don’t know, Zahra. Same as most people, I suppose. A reasonable amount of happiness. Health and well-being for friends and family. World peace. Why, what do you want?’

  Zahra smiled. ‘I knew you wouldn’t answer properly.’

  ‘It’s not a very interesting question. You play the hand you’re dealt. It’s like asking what colour you want the sun to be apart fr
om yellow.’

  ‘The sun’s a million different colours.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t.’

  The owner returned, pad in hand. Spike raised an eyebrow, and Zahra spoke again in Maltese; a moment later the owner reappeared with an unlabelled bottle and two ice-filled tumblers. After cracking off the top, he retreated, leaving the bottle between them.

  ‘Looks promising.’

  ‘Same old Spike,’ Zahra said. ‘Get the booze in when your father’s not around.’

  Spike decided to ignore that. Reaching for the bottle, he felt her hand touch his, the skin as smooth and warm as he remembered. ‘Uh-uh,’ she said. ‘You’re going to have to buy a shot.’

  ‘I was hoping to pick up the tab.’

  ‘Not money. Answers. One answer buys you one shot.’ The smile found her eyes but her tone was sharp.

  ‘You’ve got to let me try some first,’ he said, feeling her squeeze his knuckles. ‘Check out the exchange rate.’

  She took the bottle with her other hand and poured out a syrupy drop of liquid. Over the ice cubes, it changed from golden to a lurid purple. He put it to his lips: sweet cough medicine with a hint of earthiness. ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Liar.’

  He waited for the burning in his oesophagus to ease. ‘Potent.’

  ‘The truth at last.’

  The owner had given up on them now, cashing up at a window table with a strongbox and a bottle of Cisk beer open before him.

  ‘Well?’ Spike said. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Same question. Your life. If you could script it.’

  ‘Can I bring people back from the dead?’ Spike asked with a throwaway laugh.

  ‘Sadly not.’

  Out to sea, fifty painted pairs of eyes stared back. ‘Peter Galliano and I . . . you remember Peter? We’d structure a hedge fund in Gib which went nuclear. In return, we’d get a small percentage of the profits . . . nothing major, just enough to refurbish the house in Chicardo’s and employ a full-time nurse for my dad. A governess type with a love of Italian literature who would mysteriously melt under his charm and fall in love with him.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t have to worry about him.’

  ‘Do I get a drink for that?’

  Zahra raised the bottle, then put it down. ‘But what about your life?’

  ‘Me?’ Spike said. ‘I’d buy one of those old Genoese houses on the eastern side of the Rock. Just above the beach in Catalan Bay: wrought-iron balcony, white-painted facade. Then every summer I’d pick a Mediterranean country and spend two months exploring. I’d do the occasional piece of lawyering, pro bono, just to keep my hand in.’ He shrugged. ‘And that would be it.’

  Zahra poured out two purple fingers, which Spike gratefully knocked back. When he looked up again, he caught a flash of disappointment on her face. ‘So all this happens alone?’ she said.

  ‘That’s a separate question.’

  She refreshed his glass, then placed her palm on the top.

  ‘I forgot you were a stickler for the rules . . . No, not necessarily. But there’s a risk if it’s with someone else.’

  ‘Why?’

  She kept her hand on his glass.

  ‘Something could go wrong. You could get . . . stuck.’

  ‘Stuck? Interesting choice of word. What about children?’

  ‘What about them?’

  She poured out a drop more.

  ‘The world’s overcrowded enough as it is,’ Spike said. ‘It’s hardly crying out for more Sanguinettis.’ He drained his glass, then gave his head a shake, feeling his eyeballs rattle in their sockets like marbles. ‘But enough of me. One drink, one question. The common market.’

  Zahra let him fill up her glass; remembering she was relatively new to alcohol, he showed some restraint. ‘What do you want?’ he said.

  She planted her elbows on the table, resting her delicate chin on her hands. ‘I’d meet someone. Fall in love. Earn enough money to be comfortable. Have a baby, two maybe. Bring them up speaking English and Arabic, then, when they were old enough, take them to Morocco to see my parents’ graves. That’s about it.’ She sipped her drink; it was unclear if the sheen in her eyes came from the booze. ‘Maybe some bookshelves,’ she added, smiling.

  ‘On their own?’

  She blushed. ‘A house with bookshelves. And a view of the sea. Yes, that would be good.’

  The owner re-emerged.

  ‘Thank the Lord,’ Spike muttered. ‘Do you want me to . . .?’

  ‘I bring machine.’

  Spike topped up both glasses. Half the bottle was gone. ‘Last question,’ he said. ‘Why did you leave Gib?’

  ‘You’ve already answered that.’

  ‘Have I?’ He sensed her eyes searching his face, but could not drag his own up to meet them.

  ‘There is hotel bar on next corner,’ the owner said, proffering the Visa machine.

  ‘We could grab another drink,’ Spike suggested.

  ‘Or a cab back to Valletta,’ Zahra said, glancing down at her wristwatch as Spike tapped in his pin and paid.

  11

  The flat, boxy roof of the Duncan Guest House gave a vaguely North African feel. It stood in the lee of yet another church, a few yards shy of the harbourside. The terrace was closed for the night, chairs on tables; Spike held open the door for Zahra and they entered the lobby bar.

  A well-oiled elderly couple sat with guidebooks and Irish coffees beneath a faded scuba-diving poster advertising the Blue Lagoon. At the desk, the receptionist checked the time, then heroically mustered a smile.

  ‘We wondered if we could order a taxi,’ Zahra said.

  ‘They have to come from Valletta,’ the receptionist replied. ‘Twenty minutes.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Spike said. ‘We can order a drink while we wait. Zahra?’

  ‘Mineral water.’

  ‘Two of those, please. And some ice.’

  The receptionist glanced down at the bottle of bajtra in Spike’s hand, then dipped into the fridge below the bar.

  Zahra chose a table a few seats away from the elderly couple. Spike positioned himself beside her, placing the bottle of bajtra by the chair leg.

  ‘In Malta, nothing is ever more than twenty minutes away,’ Zahra said.

  The couple smiled over; Spike gave a nod back, then ran a hand through his hair, feeling it already dampening in the stuffy heat of the bar. They sat for a moment in silence.

  ‘Were you close to your uncle and aunt?’ Zahra said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Teresa told me she hadn’t seen you in years.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Spike muttered. ‘You’re really going for it tonight.’

  The barman brought over a bottle of water and two glasses. When he was gone, Spike picked up the bajtra and poured a purple slug into each, topping up with a nominal dash of water, then taking a long slow sip. ‘I suppose it was my fault, really,’ he said at last. ‘After my mother died, my uncle and aunt came over to Gib for the funeral. David said something to me about my dad. Suggested he was in some way responsible for her death. That he should have looked out for her more, cut off the booze, something along those lines. This from David Mifsud, who never visited, barely phoned . . .’ Spike looked up. ‘Enough?’

  ‘Do you miss your mother?’

  He downed his drink.

  ‘Do you think she’d be happy with how you’ve turned out?’

  He poured another glass. ‘By the time she died she was so depressed she genuinely believed we’d be better off without her. But if she was back to her old self . . . Maybe.’

  ‘What wouldn’t she like about you?’

  Spike cast his mind back. ‘I think she worried I didn’t take life seriously enough. Just sailed through, took the easy road, never questioned things. “You have to make some positive contribution to the world,” she used to say, “however minor.” So these days, I try and ask questions. Do the right thing.’

>   ‘Was that why you helped me in Morocco? Because it was the right thing?’ Her face was fixed on his. He felt like a child again, unexpectedly berated for saying something flippant. He tried to measure his answer, then gave up. ‘I felt excited when I was with you.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That alarmed me.’

  ‘Why?’

  The phone was ringing at the desk. ‘Taxi’s coming,’ the receptionist called over.

  Their eyes locked. ‘I think you’re scared,’ Zahra said. ‘You don’t want to take a risk because it hurts to be left.’

  His voice was sharp now: ‘Spare me the psychobabble, Zahra.’

  The couple gestured goodnight as they picked up their guidebooks and hobbled through the inner door.

  ‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ Zahra said.

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well . . . look at you. Your mother dies in childbirth. Your father is murdered. The rest of your family never wants to see you again because you cost them their livelihoods. You’ve experienced more abandonment than I’ll ever know. But you’re not scared of opening up, or taking a risk. Bereavement doesn’t close a person off. It’s too simplistic.’

  ‘You think I’m not tempted to push people away? That I don’t have to make an effort to trust people?’

  Spike half stood for Zahra as she headed to the Ladies, then went to reception and paid. A clatter came from the corridor, followed by the low murmur of voices. Spike followed the sound and saw Zahra crouching to pick up some guidebooks the old couple had dropped. She said something as she rose and the couple laughed. She held open the door for them to go up to their rooms; as soon as they were gone, her face fell, heavy with sadness.

  ‘Zahra?’

  She turned, and he placed his hands on her shoulders, putting his mouth to hers. At first she resisted, but then the tension seemed to drain from her body. Her lips were soft and warm.

  ‘Your taxi . . .’ came a voice. ‘Oh.’

  12

  They lay opposite one another on their sides. The room gave onto the harbourside, street lamps gleaming through half-open curtains. The occasional passing car arced headlights over the ceiling.

  Spike had the palm of one hand beneath Zahra’s neck; with the other, he traced the contours of her body: shoulder blade, ribcage, hip. The smooth brown skin of her thigh and calf. On their return journey, his fingers dipped to the two small dimples he remembered above her buttocks.