Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(19)

Rachel had always said that LeBrac was easier to hate because she was young, educated, attractive.

“And Arab,” Bish would remind her.

“How many years does one’s family have to be in this country not to be a foreigner?”

Bish couldn’t answer that. His family had achieved it by wiping out any traces of his grandfather’s culture. All Bish knew about his late grandmother was that Lily Worthington had been a headstrong young woman who joined the army as a nurse at the outbreak of World War II. Her first posting was Alexandria, where she soon fell in love with a young Egyptian interpreter named Bashir. They were married soon afterwards and had two children. Lily died of cancer when Saffron was five and her brother ten years old, which prompted the Worthingtons to retrieve the children from Alexandria and bring them up in England. It was the early 1950s. Bashir Nasrallah had no way of fighting his wife’s wealthy family and could not afford to fly to England to see his children, and so a connection was lost. What Bish’s family history had instilled in him, according to his ex-wife, was an attraction to all things Arab.

“You’ve got a thing for Arab women,” Rachel told him one night in the dying days of their marriage.

“Yes, that’s why I married a redhead from Cornwall.”

“You married a redhead from Cornwall because you wanted to make your father happy,” she said softly. “He told me at our engagement that the family was worried you were going to end up with one of those foreign types.”

“I married a redhead from Cornwall because I was in love with her.”

And he had been. Rachel was bolshie and gorgeous and he made her laugh. But he realized early on in his marriage that she was more what he wanted than what he needed. Then the kids happened and they were both in love with being Bee and Stevie’s parents. Their son’s death forced them to acknowledge that wasn’t enough.

“When Arab women are brilliantly smart, you’re threatened by them,” she said, “and when they’re beautiful, you love them. And when they’re both, you’re antagonistic towards them.”

“And you have the facts to back this up?”

“Fact: when they’re beautiful you love them—Yasmin Le Bon.”

“Well, her family’s Iranian, so not exactly Arab. Any more of these facts?”

“Fact: when they’re beautiful and smart you despise them—Noor LeBrac. In your eyes she was guilty from the day they arrested her.”

“She confessed to building a bomb that blew up twenty-three people, Rachel.”

“She didn’t confess for six months. Noor LeBrac got to you from the very day she was arrested. What did she do to you that was so unforgettable?”

It was more what he had done.



He identified himself at the Holloway Visitors’ Center, which was run by a children’s charity organization. A woman whose name tag identified her as Allison asked Bish if it was his first time visiting and if he required an information package. She told him that most of his possessions, including his phone, were to be placed in a locker; the only articles he could take with him were his ID, his locker key, and his visiting form. When he explained that he didn’t have a visiting form and had been sent by the Home Office, a few phone calls were made. Instead of directing him to the visits hall, she took Bish to another checkpoint deeper within the prison. Two guards sat in an office behind a serving window.

“Next time, he sees LeBrac in the visits hall like everyone else,” the older guard told Allison.

“Next time, he sees LeBrac wherever the acting governor says he sees her,” she said.

Bish was asked to follow the older guard, the aptly named Officer Gray. He was led to a small interview room and buzzed in.

“Knock on the door when you’re finished,” Gray ordered. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

Inside, Noor LeBrac was seated at a table, dressed in tracksuit pants, a T-shirt, and a cardigan. Her dark stare followed Bish the moment he entered the room and he dared not look away. He sat down and found himself trying not to focus on the freckle on her lower lip. If he were to set up any sort of dialogue, he couldn’t come across as distracted. Or hostile.

She was still striking, despite her face being drawn and thin. Her dark hair was in a thick loose plait. There was a coarseness to it, unlike the sleekness on the day of her arrest. The LeBracs had been an attractive couple, and back then Bish could tell she was a little vain about her appearance. Now he couldn’t help but think how small and helpless she was, this monster who had built a bomb. But the fragility was revealed to be a facade the moment she stood. Bish hadn’t realized she was holding the tabloid until she threw it down in front of him. Violette’s photo was plastered over the front page. It had been taken at the campsite, from the outside of the dining hall, looking in. Bish had managed to get himself photographed standing behind her.

“I just wanted to look into the face of the man who locked my daughter in a cupboard and called her a whore to the world,” she said.

Her voice was clipped and polished, and jail had done nothing to soften her arrogance.

Noor LeBrac walked to the door and knocked twice in a way that seemed to suggest she was in charge. She was buzzed out and taken away.





8



After his short stint as the connection between Noor LeBrac and the British government, Bish spent the rest of the day returning calls from parents he had met at the campsite. Their questions were mostly the same. How were the injured kids? Had he found out any more about who was responsible? Was his daughter having nightmares as their kids were? Very few had come from the same town, so there was no place to meet and talk. Social media was all they had; their grieving was done online—collectively but disconnectedly.