Free Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil by Melina Marchetta Page B

had met at the campsite. Their questions were mostly the same. How were the injured kids? Had he found out any more about who was responsible? Was his daughter having nightmares, as their kids were? Very few had come from the same town, so there was no place to meet and talk. Social media was all they had; their grieving was done online, collectively but disconnected.
    His mother rang in the evening. Bish felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t rung to check on her.
    ‘How was Bee when you left her?’ he asked.
    ‘Back to angry and withdrawn. She went for a run this morning, before they dropped me home. Rachel made David go with her.’
    Just what Bish wanted to hear.
    ‘Any news about the missing kids?’ she asked.
    ‘Afraid not.’ He looked down at the front page of the newspaper sitting before him. Two images: an unsmiling Violette placed beside a joyful Astrid Copely. No context, just a headline: EVIL HAS TAKEN OUR GIRL . No guesses who Evil was.
    ‘I’m praying nothing’s happened to them,’ Saffron said.
    Later, restless and desperate not to have a drink, Bish scoured the news online. The Guardian , Al Jazeera , the New York Times . The Australian media hadn’t made up their mind how they felt yet. At the moment they were identifying Violette as ‘the British-born French-Arab LeBrac, who went by the name Zidane, which belonged to her Algerian grandmother’. Bish couldn’t think of how many more hyphens and details they could use to distance themselves from the world’s least favourite teenager. That was another point being argued on social media. What country did Violette LeBrac Zidane belong to? On Twitter, @princec2 was the most eloquent. ‘She’s Australian, you fuckers.’
    When Bish had exhausted the media outlets he found himself studying the file Grazier had given him. Noor LeBrac’s life was as productive as prison allowed her to be, but her contact with the outside world was limited. She hadn’t attempted an appeal for six years now. Grazier had included phone records of the past year. Until a fortnight ago, LeBrac had rung the same number every day between ten and ten thirty am. In Coleambally Australia. The next most dialled number was in Calais, once a week. Her daughter. Her brother. Every day. Every week.
    Perhaps it was because Bish had nothing better to do, or because searching for Violette’s whereabouts gave him some purpose, but whatever the reason, he found himself crossing the Channel again first thing the following morning. If Noor LeBrac spoke to her brother every week, then he must know something.
    Calais seemed like another world today. Three days ago Bish had just wanted to get to Bee. Now he noticed the reality. Migrants lined the road alongside the port, because Downing Street had promised generous benefits to those displaced from wartorn countries. It had resulted in Calais becoming the place for them to get across the Channel any way they could. An eleven-mile fence and a 21-mile stretch of water stood in their way, and for all its promises, the UK was dragging its feet dealing with the intake. Even if someone succeeded in getting over the Ring of Steel, as it was called, from there they’d have to be desperate enough to attach themselves under a lorry, or better still, get into a refrigerated vehicle where the heat sensors at customs wouldn’t detect their presence. Those lucky enough to get through the tunnel were met by sniffer dogs at customs on the other side, which still counted as French soil. Once caught, it was straight back across to Calais, only to try again the next day.
    The extreme right wing maintained that those who wanted to get into the UK were economic refugees, taking advantage of handouts. But who, Bish wondered, would live like this and take such chances if not out of necessity and desperation? With no assistance from the French government, these people were surviving on the goodwill of a small group of retirees who handed out food and clothing.