Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(81)

Bish had to talk Saffron out of taking him straight home. The trip to Ashford and then over to Calais needed to happen sooner rather than later.

“Could you drive me to Bee’s?” he asked. “I’ll work out how to get around from there.”

“You need to see a doctor.”

“One that will tell me what I already know. ‘Drink plenty of fluids and rest.’”

“Bish…”

“I don’t really have a choice,” he said. “Sorry. I feel as if I’ve stuffed up your day.”

She put on her indicator and turned illegally. “I was wanting to visit Sadia and Katherine and the kids in Dover,” she said, “so nothing ruined about my day.”

“I can’t believe you just did that,” he said. “Double lines.”

“Are you going to give me a ticket, darling?”

Her phone rang and when she answered it Bee’s voice came through on the Bluetooth. “Rachel wants an update on Bish.”

He looked at his mother. “Did you have to let them know?”

“I can hear you,” Bee said.

“Daddy’s fine, sweetheart,” he called out.

“Then what’s going on?”

“I’m coming down to see you.”

“Why?” He heard the alarm in her voice.

“I’m fine, Bee. I’m not dying. I just want to talk to you and Mum.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Listen,” he said before she hung up. “Did you take a photo of Lola and Manoshi dribbling while they slept on the bus the night before the bombing?”

“No, Bish. I’m not thirteen! Why?”

“I’ve found three versions of the same photo on three separate Instagram accounts. Just curious. Maybe you took one as a joke.”

“Why would I think that taking a photo of people dribbling is funny?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Why would the others?”

“Because they’re thirteen! Aren’t you listening to me?”

She hung up and Saffron glanced at him. “Why don’t you close your eyes and have a bit of a sleep?”

“No, Saffron. I’m not thirteen!”

She laughed. He couldn’t help laughing himself.

“I’ll come down to the hospital if you don’t mind dropping me off at Bee’s on the way back,” he said.

It was a pleasant drive down to Dover. They talked politics—local, national, and international—TV and films. His mother had an awful habit of not being able to contain herself when it came to revealing endings. They shared a love for Game of Thrones, and though he was two episodes behind, he already knew who had died in the past two weeks.

“Between you and Elliot, I’ve never had a cinematic surprise. He used to give away the cliff-hangers; you’d tell me about the deaths.”

“Well, I wanted to prepare you for the worst.”

They were both quiet after that. Because nothing had prepared his family for the worst.



At the hospital, Iqbal Bagchi was playing cards with his daughter, and Sadia and Katherine had gone for a walk in town. When they returned twenty minutes later they looked animated but exhausted, the sort of exhaustion that comes from living out of a suitcase. The friendship that had developed between them was on the surface surprising, but Bish figured the two had more in common than first appeared. Katherine’s husband may have had all the money in the world and Sadia’s very little, but both women were controlled by the roles they played as wives. Not that they allowed their husbands’ hostility towards each other to affect their budding friendship. Saffron had filled Bish in on a couple of arguments she had witnessed between the two fathers. One blamed everything on Islam, the other blamed the problems of the world on Western dominance.

Bish ended up in the cafeteria with Sadia and Katherine, drinking bad coffee and eating almond biscuits made by Iqbal’s aunt.

“Would it be possible to see Lola’s and Manoshi’s photos from the trip?” he asked.

Sadia told him that Manoshi wasn’t allowed on social media yet. It meant that all her photos had been stored on her phone, which was destroyed in the blast.

Katherine retrieved her iPad. “Most of Lola’s are very silly, so I don’t think they’ll be much help.” She logged into an Instagram account and showed Bish.

“Don’t you think it’s strange that the French haven’t asked for them? Or even British intelligence?” she asked.

“I’m presuming they don’t have to ask,” Bish replied. “Not if they’re investigating a terrorist attack.”

“We’ve been able to collect some photos of Astrid and Michael to send to their parents,” Katherine said. “Not much of a consolation, but those kids were very happy.”

Bish flicked through the screen while the women chatted. “Katherine and I have set up a blog,” Sadia told him. “It’s been such a big job keeping everyone up to date otherwise. Family, friends, the other children on the tour, their parents. We even get letters from people on the foreign buses who were at the campsite that day. Everyone is desperate to know how Manoshi and Lola and Fionn are coping.”

Looking at the photos, Bish was even more convinced that the kids on the Normandy tour had enjoyed it, regardless of what Lucy Gilies had implied. Lots of tongues in ears. Pouts. A few Blue Steel Zoolander poses. Perhaps there may have been a touch of antagonism, hostility, indifference, but these shots showed a connection among the kids before the bomb went off.