Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(24)

She met his eyes across her daughter’s empty bed. “Who would do this to our children, sir? Who would be so cruel?”

Bish had been asked that question too many times over the years, and could never find the right response.



They spoke for a little while longer about the other students before he left to look in on Fionn Sykes. Bish had found out a little about him from Bee, and the papers had profiled all the injured kids. Despite losing part of his left leg from the knee down, his injury was simple compared to Manoshi’s and Lola’s, and he seemed to be healing better than the others. Bish had no idea how the boy was faring mentally, except that, according to Sadia Bagchi, he was pining for his mother.

Bish knocked at his door. “I’m Bee’s father,” he said. “She sends her best,” he lied.

“She’s not hurt, then?” Fionn asked.

“One of the lucky ones.”

“That’s a relief.”

He was a plain kid. Quiet, unassuming. Fionn seemed to have an old soul, which would have made him an outcast among the likes of Crombie and Kennington.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” Bish said. “Just thought I’d say hello.”

“I haven’t really spoken to anyone in days,” Fionn said. “The nurses and doctors are kind but it’s hard to communicate.”

Bish figured it was an invitation to stay, so he sat down in the chair beside the bed.

“Can you tell me about the others, sir?” Fionn asked, a flicker of pain on his face. Bish didn’t know whether it was physical or from the memory of what happened. “I know about Mac and Serge the bus driver. They won’t bring me newspapers or a TV yet, but I know someone died here on the first night. I can’t understand much because they speak so fast, but I saw one of the nurses crying.”

Bish nodded gently. It seemed an insult to deny the deaths. “Michael Stanley and Astrid Copely,” he said. “And a Spanish girl called Lucia Ortez.”

Tears sprang to the boy’s eyes and he gave a ragged sigh, composing himself. “They were younger than me, Michael and Astrid. Fifteen I think.”

“Did you know them well?”

“No, but I remember that his great-grandfather was buried in the Bayeux War Cemetery. Michael played the last post there on his harmonica. Astrid was getting her braces off when she got back from France. I heard her telling him one day.”

Fionn Sykes took notice of people in a way that others, including Bee, didn’t. Just five minutes in the boy’s presence, and Bish was already a fan.

“Lola and Manoshi are just down the corridor, of course,” Bish said.

“Yes, their mothers have popped their heads in once or twice. And I worked out that if I was here, anyone sitting close to where I was would be too. How bad are they hurt?”

“Manoshi lost a hand, and her left eardrum has been severely damaged. Lola’s lost an eye and has a broken arm.”

“Lola and Manoshi were like those two guys in the Muppets. A running commentary on everything.” Fionn looked guilty. “Everyone thought they were pretty annoying.”

Is that how Bee felt? Guilty that people she didn’t like or who annoyed her had ended up with such horrific injuries?

The phone buzzed on the bedside table. The boy reached for it awkwardly and put it down again.

“It’s the newest iPhone,” he said. “An anonymous donation with a two-hundred-quid credit so I can get to speak to my mum whenever I want.”

“Have you seen her?”

Fionn shook his head.

“Will she be arriving soon?”

“We’re from Newcastle way.” He grimaced. “We can’t afford this. Private rooms and all.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about hospital fees for the time being, Fionn.”

“And if my mum was to come, she’d have to find a place to stay near the hospital and that costs money too, and she doesn’t speak a word of French. She’s never traveled outside our village.”

Bee had never had to worry about where the next fiver was coming from. As a barrister, Rachel earned more than Bish, and they’d lived comfortably.

“She doesn’t drive,” Fionn mumbled.

Bish regretted mentioning his mother. The boy was forced to make excuses and it was none of his business. “What do you hope to do with yourself after next year?” he asked to change the subject, although he’d hated that question more than any other at Fionn’s age.

“It’s between reading history or theology at Cambridge. I’m going for a scholarship.”

“Theology?”

The boy seemed amused by Bish’s reaction. “I get all the criticism about religion, you know, Mr. Ortley. But the thing is, you can’t take it away from people and not leave something else of substance. That’s what your generation will be remembered for. Taking so much away and replacing it with so little of worth.”

Seventeen going on seventy.

“I don’t want to hit you when you’re down, Fionn,” Bish said, “but I think your generation is going to be known for being the least useful at anything except ticking likes on Facebook.”

“Cruel words, sir,” Fionn mocked. “Only this morning the nurse let me look at my Facebook page on her iPhone. I was feeling heartened by the hundred and fifty likes for the words ‘Get well soon.’”