looked between her lines for the truth and was horrified by what I found. He had successfully isolated her from her friends. He controlled their finances, what they did, where they went. She was completely trapped.
—I run a climate action group, I told her. There are thousands of us all over the world, but just a handful who organize things behind the scenes. You should join us.
—I wouldn’t be any help. I couldn’t pour water from a boot even if the instructions were on the heel, my husband always says!
—You’re always coming up with solutions in the Hacks group. You’d be a really valuable addition to the team.
—My husband wouldn’t like it.
—Don’t tell him. It’s all online. I’ll give you a pseudonym. It’s a great group. I know the others are going to love you.
That was the clincher. What she needed, more than anything else in the world, and it was so simple. She just needed someone to love her.
—Okay then! Thank you so much xxx
Later, she told me she thanked her lucky stars that I happened to message her right when she needed someone to talk to, but there was no luck involved. No fate, no fortune. We are conductors of our own orchestras and can choose who plays in them.
I did feel responsible for Sandra, though. I was the only person she’d told about her husband’s abuse—how could I not help her? She was deeply insecure, but beneath the lack of confidence, I saw a thoughtful, compassionate woman who cared about the environment. I saw a woman at rock bottom. A woman whose crippling self-doubt made her grateful for every crumb of praise. Someone so used to having her own thoughts replaced with someone else’s that she could be sculpted into exactly what I needed.
I saw an opportunity.
To the shepherd, his sheep.
TWENTY-NINE
6 HOURS FROM SYDNEY | MINA
The woman who calls herself Missouri is wearing a hand-knitted jumper in chunky, green wool.
The fear pulsing through my body begins to abate—this is not the terrorist I expected. This is someone’s grandmother. We are a long way from safe, but if the others are like her…
It’s clear that I’m not the only one to have this thought, because those passengers who are standing begin to move toward her as if by some prearranged signal. My mind begins to race, thinking ahead to when we have her on the floor. There are plastic restraint cuffs in the crew lockers, and however many of them there are, there are more of us. All we have to do is—
But then Missouri lifts up her green sweater, and everything changes.
The swell of passengers shrinks back. Beneath the jumper are four plastic bags taped to a wide belt strapped around her chest. The bags are black, the contents pliable enough that the corners of each bend slightly, and two thin wires snake from each one and disappear up beneath her jumper.
“Sit down.” Missouri moves to stand at the front of the cabin, by the entrance to the galley. Slowly, every passenger returns to their seats. The terrified silence is broken only by Lachlan crying and by the anxious voices of the passengers at the back of the plane, oblivious to this latest development. I make out the voice of a flight attendant from economy, assuring someone that everything is under control, and sweat trickles down the small of my back. Everything is far from under control.
There’s a bomb on the plane.
Everyone complains about the security queues. You hear them all moaning as they take off their shoes, see them legging it to their gate because they haven’t left enough time for checks. Do I look like a terrorist? they say, cross when they’re pulled to one side for a search. But terrorists come in all shapes and sizes, and this one wears a green hand-knitted jumper.
“She’s bluffing,” Cesca whispers. We’re in the aisle on the same side as Missouri, a few rows back from where she’s standing. I want her to pull her jumper back down, as though not seeing the explosives will make any difference to the likelihood of her detonating them.
“Maybe. Do you want to risk it?” It’s a rhetorical question. Neither of us is going to risk it. Airport security systems are rigorous, but no system is infallible. A bottle of hair bleach will be confiscated, but a travel-sized shower gel bottle filled with hydrogen peroxide can slip through the net. You can’t bring a knife, but you can bring knitting needles, sewing