sucks in time with Becca’s gentle rocking.
Don’t move a muscle.
“What’s in the syringe, Becca?” I’m trying to keep my voice quiet, my tone light so as not to frighten Sophia, as though we’re talking about the weather, about Becca’s studies, about nothing of any consequence. I’m trying, but the words bleed into one another. I hear an echo of my own voice in my head, and every few seconds, my vision blurs. A second outline of Becca and Sophia stands beside the first, as if I’ve taken a photograph before they’ve stood still.
“Insulin.”
Insulin? My dad had diabetes. He wasn’t good at managing it. Several times a week, he’d get hypoglycemic, sweat breaking out across his brow as he fumbled for a glucose tablet. Sophia doesn’t need any more insulin than her body naturally produces; even a small dose could cause her body to shut down.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
I think I detect a tremor in Becca’s voice behind the quiet bravado, but her face gives nothing away. My body is locking down; I can feel a numbness creeping over me, as though I’m crawling into bed after a double shift and a nightcap. “Why?” I manage. I inch one foot forward. Grandmother’s footsteps. What’s the time, Mr. Wolf?
“The world needs to wake up and see what’s happening.”
My veins fill with ice. My eyes flick between Becca’s cool, unwavering stare and the tip of the needle, hovering over Sophia’s pure-white skin. Is Becca on drugs? By definition, you don’t spend a lot of time with babysitters. Five minutes either side of the handover, and the rest of the time, they’re on their own with your kid. They could be doing anything. They could be anyone.
“For every battle won, there have to be sacrifices.”
There’s something robotic about her voice, as though she’s repeating a script. I’m reminded of a training session I attended at work, on radicalization of teenagers across the UK. The kids on the video spoke like this: spewing out words force-fed by Islamic extremists. Groomed and cultivated, then used as cannon fodder.
What do we really know about Becca? She’s looked after Sophia a couple of dozen times since Katya left. Her mum always picked her up on the corner of the main road—didn’t like the potholes on our farm track—so I’d get back from work, and Becca would shove her textbooks in a bag and—
I’m twenty-three actually.
She’s played us right from the start. Textbooks, A-level angst, arguments with her mum about which uni course to pick… All a pantomime to make us think she was just a kid. To make us trust her.
Katya told her we might be looking for someone to take care of Sophia after school.
Neither of us checked out Becca’s story. How could we? Katya didn’t leave any contact details; we couldn’t have asked her about Becca even if we’d wanted to.
Sophia’s breathing has slowed. Her legs, which were clinging, limpet-like, to Becca’s waist, now dangle limply by her side. She’s falling asleep, lulled by Becca’s swaying and her monotone speech.
“We have to act now to prevent a mass extinction.”
Mass extinction? I fight down the fear in my chest. She’s insane. She could do anything. I shuffle my feet forward another inch. “Okay…” Another inch forward, my eyes keeping Becca focused. Look at my eyes, not my feet. What’s the time, Mr. Wolf? My brain can’t make the links I need it to, my thoughts like stepping-stones across a rising river, the space between too far to jump.
“What’s that got to do with us, Becca?” Use their name, always use their name. Build up a rapport. I can do this. This is my job. I think of the jumper I talked down off the ledge, the kid crouched in his room with a knife to his wrists. Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking.
I should be three steps ahead, planning our route to the door, searching out my keys, a weapon. Making a plan. But my head is thick with pain and drugs, my limbs dragging me down to the floor. I feel wet on my chin, raise my hand clumsily, and wipe away drool.
“Your wife could be fighting for the cause, but instead she’s on a fucking plane!”
I struggle to catch up. Someone’s tried to recruit Mina? To radicalize her? This is ridiculous. Insane.
“She’s on a plane because it’s her job.” The words slide into one another.
“Exactly!” Becca is triumphant, as though I’ve given her the answer she wanted instead of looking for one myself.
“You want her