Sign of the Cross (5 page)

The smell of disinfectant hit him as soon as he opened the door. The decor looked unchanged since his last visit: Japanese paper shade in the hallway, dark-spotted mirror above the mantelpiece. Spike had yet to read the Mifsud wills but the beneficiaries were unlikely to be retiring to Monaco.

After gathering the utility bills from the mat – they would need to be settled by the estate – he headed into the kitchen. Everything seemed tidy: chairs tucked neatly against the table, blistered Le Creuset pots hanging from a rack, green and yellow sponges left on the work surface – accidental spoor of the industrial cleaner.

Gradually the photos Spike had seen at the Depot began to superimpose themselves on the room. He imagined drunken yells, Teresa attacking Mifsud with a bottle before he threw her onto the kitchen table and ran a knife across her gullet. The knife turned on himself . . . His Uncle David?
Really?

The far wall was covered with a gloss of fresh paint. He checked for bloodstains on the terracotta tiles: nothing. Next door, a dated-looking ball gown had been laid out on the bed. Feeling a sudden sting of sadness, he moved to the sitting room.

The same collection of oils in their chipped giltwood frames, the same low, round table, fanned now with documents relating to the Mission of St John Hospitaller, the NGO his aunt had worked for: teaching aids, flyers requesting donations. On the desk sat a silver photo frame: David and Teresa on their honeymoon, he already middle-aged and bearded, she with jet-black hair and a toothy smile, standing proudly in front of a ruined temple as though they’d been the first to discover it.

A dampness came to Spike’s eyes. He blinked it away, then reached for the desk drawer, feeling the tremor in his hands once again. Inside lay an address book and a pile of academic diaries. The top diary was for the current year; as he started to flick through, seeing the entries in his uncle’s fine italic writing, he heard a knock. He waited, motionless, until the knock came again. Slipping the diary into his pocket, he turned out the lights and returned to the hallway.

5

There was no spyhole in the door, so Spike cautiously undid the latch, pushing the heavy oak frame outwards. Nothing but dark, empty street. He stuck his head out further. An old man was standing a few yards away on the cobbles.

The man’s tailored blue shirt was tucked into pressed charcoal slacks. Filaments of faded blond hair were teased back over his head. A clipped, almost military moustache retained the darker shade the rest of his hair had lost. ‘Is that . . . Spike?’ he said.

Spike stared back.

‘My good God, it is.’ The man lowered a bulky mobile phone and slid it into the pocket of his trousers. ‘I heard a noise downstairs,’ he said in an educated, faintly European accent. ‘I was about to call the police. It’s Michael, Michael Malaspina. Don’t you remember?’

‘The Baron?’

The Baron smiled indulgently. ‘Just Michael.’ His eyes glinted with a youthful intensity, at odds with the liver-spotted brow. Close up, he was a good foot shorter than Spike. ‘But won’t you come in? No, you’re not in the mood. I can see that.’

Spike motioned behind with a thumb. ‘I’m doing an inventory. Itemising the contents of the flat.’

The Baron’s moustache twitched in bemusement.

‘As executor of the wills.’

‘Of course,’ the Baron said, ‘you’re the lawyer. David was so proud.’ He lowered his gaze, lost for a moment in reminiscence. ‘But won’t you come for supper?’ He raised his bright eyes. ‘Tomorrow perhaps?’

‘Tomorrow would be great. I’m here with my father . . .’

Spike thought he saw the Baron flinch. He was used to that when Rufus was mentioned.

‘Even better,’ the Baron recovered with a smile. ‘It’s been far too long.’ He peered round Spike’s shoulder to the open doorway, where the post was now piled on the hallway table. ‘You’re not staying
in
the flat, are you?’

‘Hotel.’

‘Quite right . . . Natalya will be thrilled. Eight for eight thirty?’

Once the Baron had shuffled round the corner to the main entrance of the palazzo, Spike turned back to the hallway. The musty, charity-shop smell began to nauseate him, but he forced himself back inside and continued his work.

6

It was past midnight when Spike returned to the hotel. The night porter was struggling with a sudoku puzzle in
The Times of Malta
. Spike asked him to check again if there were any single rooms, and received the same reply as on arrival: Carnival next week, the whole island fully booked.

He started up the stairs, his tiredness offset by the quiet satisfaction at having completed a task. The twin room he was sharing with his father was on the second floor; as he opened the door, he expected to see Rufus’s scrawny frame enshrouded in the nearest bed. He flicked on the lights. The room was empty.

Turning back to the landing, he slammed the lift button, before abandoning it for the stairs. Three flights led up to the roof terrace; he shouldered open the fire door and scanned the flat, moonlit space. In the centre rose a covered dining area, already laid for breakfast, perspex windows providing a cloudy protection from the breeze. Around the outside, wooden tables were positioned to admire the view. At the furthest, silhouetted against the night sky, sat his father. Spike set off towards him.

Rufus was staring over the railings at the glittering tongue of the Grand Harbour below. The breeze fluffed out his white, shoulder-length hair. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s you.’

‘Were you expecting someone else?’

He turned back to the railings. ‘You can see the dockyard from up here. They were loading a ship.’

Spike placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, feeling the shoulder blade jut beneath his cotton shirt, the bone as light as balsa wood. ‘Come on, Dad. Let’s get you back downstairs.’

His father remained seated, so Spike pulled up a chair. Beyond him spread the skyline of Valletta, its towers and cupolas alight, their ornate splendour an insult to the stolid practicality of Gibraltar.

‘I’ve been thinking about your uncle David,’ Rufus said.

‘Me too.’

‘He told me something once. That he would never take his own life. Under any circumstances.’

‘Because of what happened to Mum?’

Rufus’s blue eyes flashed, giving Spike a glimpse of the man he’d once feared. ‘This has nothing to do with your
theories
about your mother,’ he retorted. ‘No,’ he went on, ‘because of his religion. They all make a song and dance of it out here, but David was the real deal. A staunch Roman Catholic, far more devoted than your mother. Those religious paintings he loved . . . He really
believed
in their message, that suicide is a cardinal sin. And who would choose to go to hell?’

Someone who was already there, Spike wanted to say, but didn’t.

‘And as for what they’re claiming he did to Teresa. His beloved Teresa . . . It’s an abominable slur.’

‘Perhaps he was ill.’

‘David was one of the sanest men I ever met. To a fault. Always such a
planner
,’ Rufus continued, shaking his head. ‘Working on his catalogues, plodding along. David wasn’t spontaneous. Bloody-minded, yes. Delusions of grandeur, maybe. But
this
?’ Spike felt his father’s dry, bony fingers squeeze the back of his hand. ‘You’ll look into it, won’t you, son? You’ll find out what happened.’

‘Yes, Dad. Now come on. I’ll run you a hot bath.’

7

Spike checked the temperature of the bathwater, then turned back to the open door. His father was propped up in bed in a white hotel robe, devouring a club sandwich with the sort of rapacity which sometimes made Spike wonder how ill he really was. Spread over his knees was a tourist magazine that had come free with the room. ‘Listen to this,’ Rufus said, folding a fistful of fries into his mouth. ‘On 15 April 1942, the entire civilian population of Malta was awarded the George Cross for enduring 154 days of continuous German and Italian bombardment.’ Rufus lifted up the magazine. ‘This is page four, son. We had the Great Siege on page two, when Malta apparently saved the whole of Europe from Muslim rule. Not shy in coming forward, are they?’

Spike glanced down at his father’s empty water glass. ‘Have you taken your beta blockers?’

‘How many sieges has Gibraltar withstood?’ Rufus asked, picking up the bottle of water.

Spike smiled. ‘Fourteen.’

‘Fourteen sieges,’ Rufus said, swallowing down two pills. ‘Moors, Spaniards, U-boats . . . You don’t hear us crowing, do you?’

‘Never.’

After steering his father to the bathroom, Spike stripped down to his boxers, staring out at the wooden balcony which protruded over the small city square below. What was it with the Maltese and balconies? Something to do with medieval times, Spike seemed to remember, when the Arabs had ruled the islands – allowing well-born women to observe street life unseen. ‘Do you remember Michael Malaspina?’ he called through.

‘Who?’ Reclining in the bath, Rufus resembled a skeleton soaking in acid.

‘Michael Malaspina,’ Spike repeated.

Rufus’s silver mane of hair was dampened back, pale blue eyes blinking, like a nocturnal animal torn from its burrow. ‘You mean the Baron?’

‘He’s invited us to dinner.’

‘Then we must go,’ Rufus said, dipping his head back into the water.

Back in the bedroom, Spike picked up his uncle’s diary and lay down. Just one week before David died, he’d been to Gozo, Malta’s smaller sister island, visiting Our Lady of St Agatha – a church by the sound of it. He turned the page. The day after David’s death, he’d scheduled a meeting at the Co-Cathedral of St John with the chief curator. A receipt was stapled to the page: photographs awaiting collection. The next week, an appointment with someone called Olsa . . .

‘Son?’ came a voice from next door. ‘I can’t seem to get the cap off this.
Son?
’

Cursing to himself, Spike closed the diary and stood.

The man lies bare-chested on the bed. From the street below come the sounds of cars, restaurants, chatter. The man stares upwards. The display on his new sound system casts green lozenges of light on the ceiling. He feels his ribcage rise and fall; soothed by the rhythm, he dares to close his eyes.

Beneath his lids, the parade of faces begins again. The women emerge one by one through a curtain. Once at the centre of the stage, they turn their heads, their expressions the same: bored, neutral, until they blink, and their eyes grow larger, black as night, blood seeping from the corners, dripping down painted cheeks. An older woman appears. She wears a blue dressing gown. Clutched to her chest is a baby . . .

The man snaps open his eyes. The ceiling is darker, the voices outside louder; he hears female laughter carry up on the breeze. He touches his forehead. Warm and sticky; fumbling for the lamp he finds not blood, but perspiration.

Rolling out of bed, the man picks up the remote and switches on the music, waiting for the hard, thrash metal to cleanse his thoughts. Head clearer, he steps forward to the full-length mirror which hangs on the bedroom cupboard. Looping a hand over one shoulder, he twists his neck, admiring his tattoo. The inky skin is taut and smooth. He straightens up, then dresses carefully for the evening ahead.

Chapter Three

1

A posse of men loitered outside the charity office, each holding a hand-painted placard. ‘Close All Tent Camps’ read one. Another was more direct: ‘Blacks Go Home’. The men’s chests were swollen with a heavy, filled-out look which might have been fat or might have been muscle. As they shook their placards at Spike’s approach, their biceps suggested the latter.

The charity office door was emblazoned with stickers – Red Cross, Salvation Army, Save the Children – like a mid-market restaurant advertising its modest success. Inside, Spike made out a figure in the gloom, standing with folded arms. He knocked on the glass with a knuckle. The figure moved towards the door.

Spike turned to the protesters – ‘Don’t panic. He appears to be Caucasian’ – as the door opened to a young man in khaki chinos and a white Brooks Brothers shirt.

‘
Pulizïa
?’ the man said in Maltese, and even Spike could tell he was not a native speaker.