Sarraf was alerted to his presence by one of the old guys, and Bish saw fear cross his face. He knew it wasn’t fear of him, but of what he might have to tell him about his niece. And nephew.
“Violette and Eddie are fine,” he said straightaway. “She rang yesterday.”
Sarraf wasn’t going to express thanks for the news, but he looked relieved all the same.
“Has she contacted you?” Bish asked.
“I’ve had my phones tapped by your people for the past week and a half. If she had rung me, you’d know about it.”
“No, you’ve probably had your phones tapped by the French,” Bish said. “I can’t imagine them letting the Brits in for a listen.”
“Thanks for correcting that assumption,” Sarraf said.
“Those kids have managed to stay hidden this long, but I don’t know how much longer their luck will hold out.”
“Luck?” Sarraf’s laugh had little to do with humor. “My niece is the daughter of two incredibly smart people. That’s why no one’s found them yet.”
“Can we talk somewhere private?” Bish asked.
“No we can’t.”
“Even if it’s in Violette’s best interest that we do?”
“I don’t trust that you have Violette’s best interest at heart.”
“But Violette does, so you’re going to have to accept that the daughter of two incredibly smart people chose me to trust.”
“Somewhere private” was a bar on Rue du Duc de Guise. Sarraf wasn’t going to let Bish into his flat above the gym. The barman placed a pot of tea in front of Sarraf and gestured at Bish with a raised chin and a look at Sarraf that meant either “What does he want?” or “Who is he?” Bish insisted on ordering his own coffee in his best French, which didn’t seem to impress anyone.
Once or twice someone clapped Sarraf on the back as they passed him by, and there was a brief exchange of handshaking and small talk. Those who stood at the bar for their coffee were out within minutes. Others sat and were served wordlessly. Familiarity: Bish missed it. He missed being known. He had spent the past three years avoiding the sort of regularity that invited conversation. Had gone from having one local pub to a few, so as not to draw attention to being rat-arsed every second night.
“I want you to speak to your sister,” he said after he finished his coffee. “You need to put your heads together to bring these kids in.”
“Five-minute conversations on two-pound phone cards don’t exactly allow for a shitload of communication between Noor and me.”
“I’ll give you half an hour with her,” Bish said. “Face-to-face.”
Sarraf stiffened. He stared at Bish with disbelief. Or was it fury?
“What are you playing at, Ortley?”
“Go get your passport,” Bish said. He put five pounds on the counter and heard an irritated sound from the barman. Sarraf swapped the pounds for euros and gave him back some change.
“This better not be a joke,” Sarraf said.
“Lost my sense of humor when someone put a bomb on my daughter’s bus.”
28
Bee sees them as soon as she steps out of Mile End tube station. Violette, Eddie, and that annoying Gigi Shahbazi. They’re across the road, standing in front of the bus stop. Bee hasn’t realized until now how much she’s been hoping Violette and Eddie will turn up in her life again. She hasn’t known them for long but she’s felt bereft without them. Violette is wearing a sundress, of all things. She’s cut all the blonde out of her hair and Bee can’t get over how short and dark it looks. Eddie is dressed in skinny long shorts and expensive runners. They could be a couple of rich kids out on a sunny London day.
Bee crosses the road and Violette’s watching her all the way. Eddie grins when she reaches them, and Bee sees her own brother sitting next to him. She sees Stevie everywhere these days.
“Lots of CCTV around here,” she tells Violette, while eyeing Gigi. It would have been her dumb idea to pick Mile End tube station.
“Yeah, but also a lot of people who look like us, so we don’t stand out.”
Gigi gives Violette a droll stare. “We do not look like these people.”
“What’s with the dress?” Bee asks. Up close, she notices that Violette is wearing a small satchel purse across her body. No backpack. She wore a canvas bag in France that said: WORLD CHANGE STARTS WITH EDUCATED CHILDREN. Bee googled it when she got back to Ashford.
“What’s wrong with the dress?” Gigi wants to know. So it’s hers, Bee thinks. Eddie’s and Violette’s upmarket clothes make more sense now.
“Where are you guys heading?” Bee asks Violette, ignoring the question.
When Eddie goes to speak, Violette nudges him to silence and Bee hates her for it. Brainless Georgette Shahbazi, who caved after a minute of interrogation, can be trusted, but not Bee.
The poser in question does that ridiculous thing that vain, vacuous girls do with their hair. Bee recognizes her own Arctic Monkeys T-shirt. “I can’t believe you gave that to her!” she tells Violette.
“I can’t believe she gave you my skirt,” Gigi says to Bee.
“I can’t believe you sent it to me, Geej,” Violette says. “Did you honestly think my grandmother would let me wear that around the farm?”
“It doesn’t look bad with UGG boots, like she wore the other night,” Gigi says.
“That’s a Gigi compliment, Bee,” Violette says. “She knows her stuff.”
The poser nods in agreement. Of course she would.
“My mum and Aunt Layla have only one fashion rule: as long as they can’t see arse cheeks.”
Bee doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of saying it’s her mother’s rule as well.
“I’d better go before everyone at home has a cow,” Gigi says to Violette and Eddie, as if Bee isn’t there.
“Is it true your dad split her parents up?” Eddie asks Bee.
“And she called me Beirut Barbie.”
“Gigi’s three-quarters Persian,” Violette tells Bee, “so you should have gone for Tehran Barbie.”
“Barbies are banned in Tehran,” Gigi says. She kisses Eddie and Violette, all noisy and dramatic.
“I’m going to get some chewy,” Eddie says. “You want some, Violette?” She nods and he’s off across the road with Gigi, following her into the tube station.
“I can’t believe you’re friends with her,” Bee says.
“She’s loyal. In my family that counts for everything.”
They’re awkward with each other. Some nights on the trip, when there was no Charlie or Eddie, they stayed up talking until God knows what time.
“What will you do when your cash runs out?” Bee asks. “They’ll find you the moment you use an ATM.”
“I don’t do ATMs. Not even back home. Still got a piggy bank.”
Violette is the weirdest person Bee has ever met. Who doesn’t carry plastic in their wallet, especially when they’re traveling?
“I saved ten thousand Aussie dollars back home,” Violette says. “For thirteen years. Money from relatives. Pocket money. Working on the farm. Didn’t spend a cent of it until I bought that airline ticket.”
“Please tell me all that cash isn’t on you now,” Bee says.
“As if.”
“Where’s your gear?”
“Gigi’s next-door neighbor’s garage. They’re in Turkey for the holidays. Gigi’s brother has to feed the fish.”
“You’re sleeping there?” Bee says. Shahbazi was a fantastic liar.
Violette is offhand. “We’re laying low before we can take off. Gigi just got her license so she’s been driving us around when she can.”
They fall silent for a while. A couple of police officers are hassling some kids their age wearing hoodies.
“Don’t worry,” Violette says, seeing Bee’s reaction. “They won’t come near us dressed like this.”
She seems to have it all worked out, but there’s sadness in her eyes.
“You sor
t of look like shit,” Violette says.
Bee shrugs. “Haven’t been sleeping.”
“I wanted to say thanks,” Violette says. “You didn’t have to help us get out of France.”
Bee doesn’t know what to say.
“Do you ever think of them?” she asks after a moment.
“Always,” Violette says. “About ten times a day.”
“Same.”
“Eddie wants to talk about them all the time. He reckons Michael Stanley gave him his email address and told Eddie to send a playlist. Eddie says he’ll do it, regardless.”
“Did you see anything?” Bee asks.
“Manoshi. And that Reggie kid from Brighton. He had blood all over his face, but I read online that he only needed two stitches. What about you?”
Bee nods. “Michael. I think Charlie saw some bad stuff and he’s screwed in the head now.”
“Crombie was screwed in the head to begin with.”
“Did you hear he’s locked up in Strood?”
“Yep. Eddie and I have rewritten the NATO phonetic alphabet in honor of him. Arsehole. Bastard. Charlie. Dickhead. Excrement. Fuckwit…”
Bee can’t help laughing.
“Have you heard from your girlfriend?” Violette asks with a nudge.
“She’s not my girlfriend. It was just snogging.”
Violette rolls her eyes. “Seriously, Bee, don’t tell me you’re still sitting around waiting for her to make the next move?”
Bee has forgotten about the lisp thing. It disappears sometimes and then it’s there, reminding her that Violette can’t control everything.
“My mother saw the photos from that last night in Calais,” Bee says. “She said you and I are probably descendants of two sisters who lived in Mesopotamia thousands of years ago.”
Violette gives this some thought. “Yeah, that sounds right.”
Eddie reappears from the tube station and his face makes Bee ache. Anyone who reminds her of her brother makes her ache, but she can’t say so to her mum or dad. All those mornings her mother wouldn’t get out of bed. She doesn’t want that happening now that the baby is coming.
“You need to take him home, Violette,” she says.
“I can’t force him to go. Something happened there.”
“Like, domestic stuff?”
“Like, stuff here,” she says, pointing to her heart.
“So where are you heading?”
When Violette is silent, Bee feels anger rising again. “You won’t tell me because you’re scared I’ll tell my dad! But it’s okay to trust Cosette, the poser.”
“Georgette,” Violette corrects, and then she laughs and Bee can’t help laughing herself.
“I won’t tell you because I know you’ll keep it from your dad, and I think that will hurt him. I would never keep anything from my dad if he was alive.”
Bee wants to say that’s because Violette’s father didn’t live long enough to disappoint her. Although throwing himself off a rock and leaving Violette there alone was a pretty shit thing to do. Bee would never forgive her dad if he did something like that.
“Is he someone we should be worried about?” Violette asks. “I only met him for a moment but he looked like he was good at his job.”
Bee sighs. “He’s been drinking up a storm this year and I think the Met suspended him a couple of weeks ago. Now he’s got nothing better to do but visit blown-up kids in hospital and search for terrorists.”
They watch Eddie as he waits to cross the road. Bee can sense Violette looking at her, and turns.
“He’s my brother,” Violette says softly.
“Who, Eddie?”
Violette nods. “And that’s the biggest secret I’ve ever told anyone outside the people who already knew, so don’t accuse me of not trusting you again.”
Bee can’t help thinking what an idiot she is. Idiot. Eddie crosses the road and a cab misses him by an inch. How bloody obvious is it that he and Violette are related? She reaches out and takes Violette’s hand.
“I’ve just got two more things to do, okay?” Violette says. “And then I’ll take him home.” After a moment she asks, “Does your dad think I did it?”
“No. I told him that if you were going to put a bomb on the bus, you’d have chosen Charlie Crombie’s seat up the back. My dad’s beginning to understand why.”
Eddie arrives and offers them a stick of chewing gum.
“I’m going to bash Crombie when I see him,” Eddie says. “I’ve learnt some moves.” He does a bit of shadowboxing for Bee and it makes her laugh.
“Can I trust him?” Violette asks. “Your father, I mean. He’s everywhere. Who’s he working for?”
“I think he’s working for you, Violette. I think my dad wants to save every kid in England because he couldn’t save his own.”
29
There wasn’t much talk on the preboarding lane at the port of Calais. Absolutely none at French border patrol. And only an intake of breath by Sarraf once they reached the UK Border Force. Bish handed over his passport and watched the officer process the information in his computer. A moment later the man looked up, not quite suspicious, but whatever he had read seemed to demand a silent stare. First at Bish and then at Sarraf. Wordlessly the officer held out a hand for Sarraf’s passport.
“Jamal,” Bish prodded, and saw beads of sweat on Sarraf’s brow, the strange pallor of his skin. He looked as though he was about to have a meltdown. Was it the memory of having been here all those years ago and being told he wasn’t allowed back into his country?
When Sarraf finally handed over his passport it drew another raised eyebrow. This time the officer beckoned a senior operative in the next lane, who was giving a carload of lads a hard time over their duty-free booze allowance. Bish and Sarraf were now under double scrutiny. Then the senior officer walked away and made a phone call. Bish saw plenty of nods. A resigned sigh. More staring in their direction.
“Welcome back,” was all the man said upon his return. Having been out of the country for approximately fifty minutes, Bish figured he wasn’t the one being addressed.
Sarraf swallowed hard as Bish started the ignition.
“You’re working for Home Office,” Sarraf said.
“What makes you think that?”
“Visa and immigration answer to them. I should know.”
“I’m not working for anyone,” Bish said as he drove onto the ferry.
On the A2, his passenger seemed to be in his own world and Bish didn’t attempt much conversation. When they reached London, he wondered what was going through Sarraf’s head. The working-class pockets of the city had been so different all those years ago. While many argued that gentrification had brought about much-needed improvement to some boroughs, others believed it had destroyed communities, especially those of the immigrants who could no longer afford to live in the areas they had been forced into on arrival so many years ago. As they drove through Shepherd’s Bush, though, Bish heard a sound of disgust.
“It’s Westfield shopping mall,” Bish said. “Biggest in the northern hemisphere.”
“What the fuck?”
At Holloway, Sarraf stared at the walls around him as they walked through the gates. He was only a bit older than Bee when he was arrested. One month shy of his eighteenth birthday. Which was how he ended up in Belmarsh and not a place for young offenders. Bish could see the memory of it on his face now.
“I should have brought her something,” Sarraf said quietly.
“They won’t let you bring anything in, and I’m thinking she won’t notice anything but you.” Bish was hoping Grazier had carried out his other instructions and that they weren’t about to have another confrontation with Gray and his lot.
Bish went into the interview room first, without Sarraf. There was more of a guard presence today. One outside, one inside. By the looks of things, a reunion between Noor and her brother was treated as a security risk. She was seated, as usual, but handcuffed. She made no eye co
ntact this time. Handcuffs on her wrists had changed her composure. Her countenance.
“Have you got a key to those things?” Bish asked the guard. He was young. Bish had seen him once before, with Gray. His name tag identified him as Farrington.
“I don’t have the authority to remove them,” Farrington said.
“Then can you ask your friend outside to find someone who does?”
The guard walked to the door and poked his head out. Bish could hear the talk between the two guards.
“What’s going on?” Noor asked, looking at him at last.
“Your brother’s outside. You two need to talk and work out how to bring Violette in.”
He saw the disbelief first. Then the tears that sprang to her eyes, contained, as if she dared not hope too much.
The guard finally returned and removed her cuffs while Bish went to get Sarraf. When her brother entered the room, Noor stood and walked into his arms. There was no talking. No theatrics, just their bodies racked with quiet sobs. They had talked on the phone and exchanged letters but had not felt the beat of the other’s heart.
After a long while, Sarraf let out a breath. “You’ve shrunk,” he said, standing back to look at his sister.
She gave a throaty laugh. “And you haven’t.”
The guard was hovering. “That’s enough, now,” he said.
Bish would have given them a couple of minutes more.
LeBrac led her brother to the table and they sat holding hands tightly. She cupped his face and Bish could see he was overwhelmed.
“No more touching,” the guard said, and when Noor spoke to Sarraf in Arabic, Bish said, “No Arabic.”
She glanced at him and the mixture of savagery and joy in her expression quickened his pulse. He looked away. Couldn’t bear the idea of feeling anything for her. She began to speak in French. Sarraf thought that was funny.
“English,” Bish warned. “Or we leave.”
“Did you know his name was Bashir?” she said to her brother, a quirk of a smile on her face.