“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.