Sign of the Cross
Authors: Thomas Mogford
for Jack and Molly
For beauty is but the beginning of terror.
We can barely endure it
and are awed
when it declines to destroy us.
Every angel is terrifying
Rilke,
Duino Elegies
Contents
The woman’s eyes are raised heavenwards. Her arms hang by her sides; her dress is pulled down to her waist. Deltas of blood criss-cross her pale stomach. Two neat, flat circles on her chest reveal where the breasts have been sliced from her body.
‘David?’
Mifsud pulls his gaze away from the statue. The dark, empty streets of Valletta stretch ahead. ‘Sorry, my love. You were saying?’
‘Just that I’ve reached the point when I’ve –’
‘Had enough,’ Mifsud completes, taking his wife’s hand, which slots neatly into his.
Teresa Mifsud’s high heels echo on the flagstones. Her once black hair is a silvery grey. For years she dyed it, but now Mifsud has grown accustomed to its natural colour. Tonight she wears it tied into a chignon, revealing almost Slavic cheekbones and dark, thoughtful eyes.
Mifsud stops, cups a hand behind his wife’s head and leans in to kiss her. The vintage claret from dinner is still seeping through his veins.
‘What’s got into you tonight?’ Teresa asks, face brightening for the first time that evening.
‘It’ll be all right; trust me.’ Mifsud smiles, then glances back at the statue, his eyes drawn by the marble halo carved around St Agatha’s head. Teresa gently pulls him on. The street lamps create distant pools of yellow in the darkness.
‘The Baron was in his element tonight,’ Teresa says.
‘All part of his ceremonial duties.’
‘I think he was showing off to you. He was staring at us as we left.’
The proximity of Freedom Square to the bus terminus yields up the usual group of stragglers. Mifsud releases Teresa’s hand, and she walks towards a tall, elegant woman in brown robes and a headscarf. The woman holds a baby strapped to her front in a sarong. Teresa leans in to kiss her hello, then steps back to peer at the baby’s face. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Saif.’
‘David,’ Teresa calls over, ‘this is Dinah. And this sleepy little angel is Saif.’
The woman bows her long neck at Mifsud, who nods back. He hears a discreet ‘tut’ as a smartly dressed Maltese couple hurry by.
‘David?’
Mifsud looks round. ‘Goodbye, mister,’ the woman calls out.
‘One of yours?’ Mifsud asks as they walk away.
‘Used to be. They’re moving her to the family camp now she’s had the baby.’
‘Libyan?’
‘Somali.’
The city starts to empty out again on the other side of the piazza. They pass the shell of the Valletta Royal Opera House, bombed by the Luftwaffe, still not rebuilt. Mifsud finds Teresa’s hand again, and she returns the pressure.
Turning onto Triq Sant’Orsla, Mifsud sees the windows of the Baron’s palazzo still dark. They walk beneath his covered, overhanging balcony, then stop outside their own front door. The three locks are a legacy of the Baron’s overcautious forebears: this flat once served as staff quarters. Mifsud follows his wife inside, then deadbolts the door behind them.
Placing the keys in the dish on the hallway table, Mifsud imagines Teresa next door, freeing her hair, pulling the sleek satin of her dress over her head. ‘Nightcap, darling?’ he calls through.
‘Yes, please,’ he hears as the shower starts to drip.
His features reflect back from the oval-shaped mirror above the mantelpiece, the tanned skin rendered darker now by the salt-and-pepper of his beard. Beneath his hooked nose – a touch of the Ottoman pirate, as Teresa likes to say – his lips twitch up at the corners. He is smiling; he cannot help it. He moves into the sitting room, passing the collection of baroque oils without a glance before entering the kitchen.
Lemon in the fridge, rum in the cupboard; spectacles on, Mifsud draws a carving knife from the block, running the blade up and down the metal sharpener, then clipping off the warty nubs of the lemon and quartering one half. The remaining half he wraps in cling film, replacing it in the fridge, wondering if they will retain these parsimonious habits once everything has changed. Probably not, he thinks, smile broadening further.
The kettle clicks off, steam curling from its spout. Mifsud takes out two china mugs, one decorated with a monkey and a ‘Gibraltar Rocks!’ logo, a long-ago present from his late sister. He spoons a measure of brown sugar into each, then follows up with a generous slosh of rum. Checking the shower is still flowing, he raises the bottle to his lips, reasoning that they are celebrating, in a sense. A creaking comes from behind: just their ancient boiler, straining away. Humming to himself, Mifsud hammers the stopper back in the bottle, then hears the noise again. He turns his head. A man is crouching by the side of the kitchen table. Mifsud stops humming.
The man straightens up, takes three paces across the floor and picks up the carving knife. From the bathroom, the dripping of the shower falls silent.
Mifsud closes his eyes. This is not possible, he thinks. How did he get in? When Mifsud opens his eyes, the man is holding a fingertip to his lips. Over his hands he wears white surgical gloves.
Teresa lets out a scream as she appears in the doorway. Her turban towel unravels in slow motion. Her hair is dark with water, comb grooves still visible.
Mifsud stands with his back to the kitchen wall. Through misted spectacles he watches as the man beckons to Teresa with the knife. She turns to Mifsud; he nods, and she crosses the floor, tightening the belt of her blue towelling dressing gown as she moves.
The intruder stares at her appraisingly. He wears an oil-stained white T-shirt, blue canvas trousers and flip-flops. A pink, incongruously feminine mouth sits in a powerful jaw. He points the tip of the knife at Teresa’s abdomen. ‘The cord,’ he whispers, with a lingering roll of the ‘r’.
Teresa glares at the man with such contempt that Mifsud wonders for a moment if they have met before. Even now, he thinks, the woman cannot hold her temper. Slowly she draws the cord from its eyes, then thrusts it towards him.
Folding the material over the blade, the man flicks upward. ‘You,’ he says to Mifsud. ‘Arms out.’
Mifsud’s hands hang protectively by his groin. He raises them up, aware of his tired old heart thumping as the soft towelling nooses his wrists.
‘Sit down. Feet in front.’
Mifsud slides slowly down the wall, pushing out his legs as the man crouches before him, black brogues still beautifully polished for dinner. As the man binds his ankles, Mifsud wonders if he should kick out – Teresa could grab the knife, they might . . .
‘Please,’ Teresa whispers. ‘We have jewellery. A little money . . .’ She flinches as the man springs to his feet. In one swift, fluid motion, he draws his T-shirt up over his head. The muscles on his stomach are grotesquely defined, reminding Mifsud of Renaissance crucifixion scenes. Where was that altarpiece they saw in Sicily last year? Agrigento?
Mifsud snaps back to attention: the man is slicing his T-shirt in two. A wishbone of muscle contracts on each flank as he works the knife. ‘Over there,’ he says to Teresa. ‘More to the side. Stretch across. Further . . .’
Teresa leans over the kitchen table, and the man squats by her head, using a strip of T-shirt to tie her wrists to the table leg. He has a tattoo on his back, Mifsud sees, rippling from his shoulder blades to the base of his spine. A black, eight-pointed Maltese cross.
The man swivels to Mifsud. ‘Where is it?’
Mifsud catches a herbal reek on the man’s breath. He glances at Teresa, who is lying with her cheek on her outstretched arms. She stares back, a soft arc of pale breast visible within the opening of her dressing gown.
‘Where’s the painting?’ the man says.
‘Painting?’ Mifsud echoes. ‘Take all of them, anything at all . . .’ He is speaking quickly, voice nasal and flat.
The man raises the knife to Mifsud’s neck. ‘The valuable one.’
For the first time Mifsud hears uncertainty in the man’s voice. The cool metal chills his throat. ‘Next door,’ he gasps. ‘Above the desk.’
Lowering the blade, the man reaches for Mifsud’s foot and yanks it upwards, wedging it between his bound wrists. Then he steps bare-chested into the sitting room.
Slumped on one side, Mifsud stares up at his wife. ‘I love you,’ she mouths, lips doing their best to smile. On the countertop above, steam still rises from the kettle. Mifsud tries to reach towards the knife block but his ankle is jammed between his wrists. Sweat blurs his eyes; he uses his forearm to feel in his trousers for his phone. His fingers are free; he manoeuvres them to his pocket . . .
‘
David
,’ Teresa hisses, and Mifsud looks round again. She shakes her head, and he nods back, spectacles slipping down his nose.
The next sound Mifsud hears is the rapid click-clack of flip-flops on the terracotta floor. Something in their rhythm quickens his heart still further. There is a clang as the knife is slammed down on the draining board. Picking up the bottle of rum, the man rears above. For a moment Mifsud thinks he is going to drink, but then he brings the bottle crashing down on the crown of Mifsud’s head.
A wailing reverberates in Mifsud’s ears. Wetness embraces his scalp. Somewhere Teresa is screaming. Surely the Baron or his wife will hear? Call the police? Then Mifsud remembers they are still at the dinner.