Bish’s phone beeped. He read the message aloud. ‘Convent school in Calais. Why?’

Sarraf rammed his foot on the accelerator, dodging cars as he turned onto Boulevard Victor Hugo. ‘It’s about two kilometres out of town,’ Sarraf said. ‘But what if we’re wrong?’

‘Then a bomb goes off on a train heading to London and we’re fucked either way.’

Bish pressed Attal’s number again and held up the phone. Sarraf left another message, then picked up even more speed.

It was Bish’s idea of hell, sitting in the passenger seat on the wrong side of the road at this speed. He shouted out more than once, remembering too late each time that Sarraf had driven on French roads for years now and knew what he was doing.

‘Just close your eyes and shut up, Ortley. Okay?’

At 3.59 they sped through the school gates of what looked like a fifteenth-century convent. Three minibuses sat in a closely confined turning circle. They were marked with their destinations: Calais, Desvres, Étaples. Bish was out of the car while Sarraf was still pulling up and he hit the ground running, hammering at the door of the Calais bus.

‘Ouvrir. Ouvrir. Open the door! Open!’

The driver stared at him in irritation.

‘There’s a bomb on your bus. Bomb.’ Bish made a ridiculous bombing gesture with his hands but the idiot driver didn’t move. Then Sarraf was behind Bish, shouting at the man in French. The driver’s irritation turned to alarm and he opened the door. Just as the school bell rang. The first of the kids came spilling out of the buildings surrounding the turning circle. Bish dragged the driver out of his seat and onto the kerb. Sarraf had already taken off in the direction of the students and Bish could hear him shouting, ‘Rentrez! Rentrez!’ and suddenly everyone was screaming. And then Bish was in the driver’s seat, crashing into the bus in front, crashing into the one behind, before swinging left and mowing through the rose garden at the centre of the turning circle, knocking down a statue of the Virgin Mary and narrowly missing a cluster of kids who were being ushered into the chapel by two teachers.

Hail Mary full of grace, I’m so bloody sorry.

The turning circle had two exits. One where Sarraf had entered, the other leading to a meadow where Bish could see a grotto in the distance. He scrunched the gears and charged in its direction. Statues and grottos could be repaired. Replaced. People couldn’t. He had to get the bus as far from the kids as possible. Perhaps there was no bomb and he was just some mad Brit causing chaos across the Channel. Desecrating a shrine dedicated to the Virgin Mary and ruining a fifteenth-century rose garden. But he thought of the body of the Spanish girl that night in Calais. A distance away from the bus, but still a victim. There could be no more dead kids. He would give his life never to see a dead kid again. The time on the dash read 4.04. He hit the brake, almost falling out of the bus. Ran.