Sign of the Cross by Thomas Mogford Read Free Book Online

centres on the island,’ John said, relaxing into his chair and his subject. ‘The first was founded in Marsa, on the site of an old technical college. That’s all male. Then, when that reached capacity, they opened a new one at Hal Far, in a former British army barracks. The number of women increased, so they opened a dedicated female block. Then nature took its course and we got a family centre up the road.’
    ‘And Teresa only taught at the women’s centre?’
    John nodded. ‘English and cultural orientation.’
    ‘Can I go there?’
    ‘Not without clearance.’
    ‘Can you take me?’
    ‘I’m on housekeeping,’ John said, looking down at the remarkably uncluttered desk.
    ‘Is there anyone else?’
    ‘Our two full-time teachers are on holiday, the only one left is –’
    There was a rap at the glass. ‘Right on cue,’ John said with a smile. He got to his feet and unlocked the door.
    Another snatch of protest from outside as the door closed. ‘Fucking Neanderthals,’ came a familiar husky voice. ‘Hey, you,’ John said, pecking the new arrival on each cheek. Spike heard the sound of a handbag dumped on the floor.
    ‘This is Teresa’s nephew,’ John said. ‘Name of –’ He broke off, sensing something in the atmosphere.
    ‘Hello, Spike,’ Zahra said.
     
    2
    Spike’s dislike of Malta’s newfangled buses intensified as he found tourists were charged double the fare. Taking a seat in an empty row, he glanced across the aisle at Zahra. Her hair was cut in a sleek black bob, hooked behind her elfin ears. Her narrow eyes and the dark sweep of her cheekbones caused Spike a familiar sense of turbulence. He dug the edge of his hand into his stomach to chase it away. ‘Unusual guy. What is he, Mormon?’
    Zahra turned towards him. ‘I’m so sorry about Teresa, Spike. And your uncle.’
    Spike looked away. The bus was gathering speed, driving on the left, a colonialist throwback even Gibraltar didn’t share. Flanking the road, drystone walls gave onto a patchwork quilt of fields, some grazing sheep, others planted with bushy rows of vines. Every thirty yards or so stood lone African men, watching the traffic pass as they chewed on some kind of leaf – khat, perhaps.
    A pickup truck had stopped ahead; Spike watched the hirsute Maltese driver beckon from his window to a gangly black man, who detached himself from the wall and climbed over the tailgate. A similar transaction was going on round the next corner: day labourers plying for casual work, Spike thought, remembering photos from school textbooks covering the Great Depression.
    The bus turned down a potholed track. A group of young Africans was coming along the verge, dressed in knock-off labels and texting on mobile phones. Still seated, Zahra tied a sequinned headscarf over her shining hair, then pressed the bell. The bus drew to a halt, engine throbbing.
    3
    Spike followed Zahra along the rubbish-strewn verge. A jumbo jet roared overhead, wheels down like a woodwasp’s legs. Spike didn’t remember this view from the plane window yesterday: the flight path must lie directly above the camps, no doubt to prevent the tourists from seeing what lay beneath their feet. To the right rose a tower marking the start of an airport runway.
    Zahra was carrying a laundry sack containing the charity’s meagre clothing donations on one shoulder, her handbag on the other. ‘Let me help,’ said Spike.
    ‘I can manage.’
    The group of Africans approached. The youth in front wore a hooded leather jacket; he muttered something to Zahra in what sounded like Arabic. She threw back a retort, making him stop slack-jawed as his companions gave a whoop of delight.
    A chicken-wire fence appeared to the left. Through creeper-entwined mesh, Spike watched some men playing football in the scrub. He heard a collective groan as the ball fired wide of makeshift goalposts.
    The undergrowth began to thin, and Spike made out the first tent. He’d been imagining something