Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(2)

Bish didn’t need to be told twice. He’d have to let Rachel know, and he wasn’t sure how. His ex-wife was eight months pregnant, and if Calais came across on some news feed she was following, it wouldn’t be good. But a phone call from Bish while their daughter was away would alarm her. He knew he had to do the right thing, regardless of the fact that the man who’d replaced him was the last person Bish wanted to speak to. He rang before he could change his mind.

“It’s Bish.”

There was a moment’s hesitation.

“What’s wrong?”

Good. No pleasantries.

“Listen, you need to prepare Rachel. There’s been a bombing outside Calais. A tour bus of British kids.”

“Oh f*ck. Fuck. Fuck!”

Maybe not such a good idea to tell the second husband.

“I haven’t heard from Bee yet,” Bish said. “Tell Rachel to keep off her phone. Bee may try to ring her. Tell her I’m driving there now and I’ll ring the moment I’m at the campground.”

“Bee doesn’t cope with the tunnel,” Maynard said. “So drive her back on the ferry.”

Bish hung up. His daughter. His claustrophobia she’d inherited, thank you very much. He couldn’t think of anything worse than going through the Channel tunnel, but he didn’t need to hear that from the man who stole his family.

Twenty minutes later he was on the A2 heading to Dover. He’d exhausted every radio station, all regurgitating the same facts or predicting the worst. August in France meant the campsites were packed with kids on tours and families on holidays. He turned down the volume when the talk switched to how many British kids traveled to Europe each year. Next they’d be calculating possible death tolls.

Bish’s phone rang and he fumbled to see whose name appeared on the screen. His heart sank.

“Bish darling, do you know anything?”

His mother had never been much of an alarmist, but he could hear the fear in her voice now.

“I’m on my way there,” he said.

“If you haven’t passed the turnoff, let me come with you.”

Saffron Ortley lived forty minutes out of London and en route to Dover. Bish was tempted to lie, to say he was long past the turnoff, but his head felt like jelly, and lying took effort.

“Please, Bish. I don’t want you going there alone.”

Three hours later they were sitting on the ferry, sailing towards a nightmare of uncertainty. Saffron, though, had the look of cool practicality that came from years of being a diplomat’s wife. She was the person people noticed when she entered a room, and now, in the ferry lounge, two elderly sisters on their way to visit a niece in Bruges asked her if she’d be a dear and get them a pot of tea. She had already rearranged the seating between them and a couple of backpackers who thought their packs needed a seat of their own. All without a fuss.

“Who could stomach a beer on a Channel crossing?” one of the sisters said, watching the activity at the bar, where Saffron was buying the teas and shortbread.

Bish could. He could stomach a drink anytime.



Rachel rang just as they were about to drive off the ferry.

“I spoke to Bee a minute ago,” she said.

The relief made him dizzy and he rested his head against the steering wheel, waiting for the spinning to stop. He felt his mother’s hand on his.

“Bee’s okay,” he told Saffron.

“She’s pretty shaken, but not hurt.” Rachel’s voice sounded small. “Who’s with you?”

“Mum,” he said. “So was it Bee’s bus?”

He couldn’t hear her reply. Only her crying, so he figured the answer was yes.

There had been a moment of absolute clarity on the M20, between Maidstone and Ashford: if his daughter was dead, Bish would end it all. He’d already identified the body of one of his children. He couldn’t do that twice in his lifetime.

“I’ll ring you the moment I see her,” he said. “I’m putting Saffron on.”

His mother took the phone and pointed to the other side of the road.

“Darling, we’re in France now. Hug the right.”

The campsite was thirty minutes’ drive from the port, just outside Boulogne-sur-Mer. It was set within a couple of hundred acres of wooded land. On a non-heinous day, when a bus carrying teenagers hadn’t been blown up and helicopters weren’t hovering overhead, it would have been a perfect place for quietude. But with no CCTV and no eyewitness on every corner, Bish knew the investigation would be a painstaking one. Halfway down a gravel road that would barely allow the girth of a bus, it already looked like a single-file car park, packed with press vans, cop cars, paramedics, and desperate local parents. Bish pulled over, knowing it was futile to drive any further.

Walking the track, they could see a large crowd of journalists ahead. Arguments with police were already breaking out, cameras were held overhead in an attempt to catch a glimpse of anything. At the barricades two young uniforms weren’t letting anyone through. Bish grabbed his mother’s hand and pushed through all the same, finding his way to the front. There must have been a different sort of desperation on both their faces, because one of the French uniforms gave them the time of day. Bish’s mother spoke to them in French and managed to get a slight gesture from the younger of the pair.