Hostage by Clare Mackintosh

TWENTY-TWO

10 P.M. | ADAM

There’s a pale moon at the nape of Sophia’s neck, where her thick plait has fallen to one side and where the needle now hovers above her skin.

Don’t move, Sophia…

I can see the corner of her right eye, the lashes dark on her cheeks. Her thumb has found her mouth, which 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 to give up work, is that it?” My head spins. I wonder if Becca is part of some obscure cult, some outdated organization that believes women belong in the home. “Okay. She’ll give up.” Never make promises, that’s what they say at work. Fuck that. This isn’t work; this is my daughter. I’ll promise the world if it keeps her safe. I will dance to Becca’s tune.

Sophia stirs, her hair brushing against Becca’s hand and the needle so close to her neck. “Mummy!”

“Don’t touch her!” My arms reach out without my telling them.

Becca screams at me, “Stay where you are!”

“Mummy! Mummy!” Sophia twists in Becca’s arms, startled and scared. She’s struggling to get free, crying out in confusion as Becca clutches tighter.

“Sophia!” I shout. “Don’t move!”

“Daddy!”

I take a step forward, letting go of the counter and feeling the room spin about me. Becca brandishes the syringe. They’re less than six feet away—I think; they keep moving, or I’m moving, or the room’s moving. All I have to do is grab the arm holding the syringe. If she drops Sophia, it doesn’t matter; it’s not far to the ground, and it won’t hurt her, not like the insulin. How much is there? What will it do to her?

“Don’t come any closer,” Becca says. “I’ll do it. I will. I’ll do it!”

The repetition gives me hope. She’s frightened. She’s trying to convince herself she’s got what it takes. I make myself speak slowly and calmly.

“This isn’t the right way to convince people to share your beliefs, Becca.”

“We’re forcing people to have the conversation. That’s the first step.”

We.

Becca’s still young—if not as young as she made out. There’s someone else pulling the strings.

“Who’s making you do this?”

“No one’s making me. I can see it for myself. It’s everyone’s duty to act.”

“Who’s in charge?”

Becca laughs. “Typical copper! It’s all about hierarchy for you lot, isn’t it? The establishment. The powers that be. When will you see that it’s the establishment that’s fucking everything up?”

Sophia is crying. She’s trying to get free, but Becca’s grip is too strong. They’re both panicking, both fighting against each other, and any minute now, that needle’s going straight into Sophia…

“If you inject her with that, she’ll die, and you’ll go to prison for murder.”

Sophia screams, and it kills me to be the cause, but I have to get through to Becca before it’s too late. Fog swirls around my head, suddenly too heavy for my body. If I pass out, what will happen to Sophia? Where will Becca take her?

“If Mina does the right thing, I’ll let her go.”

Everything is fuzzy. Nothing makes sense. Mina won’t be home for days; is Becca planning to keep Sophia like this till then? “Mina’s on a plane. She can’t—”

“If she does what she’s told, the tracking app will show her plane changing course, and you’ll be free to go.”

“What…? Do you think—?” I can’t formulate a sentence, can’t even work out what this means. Mina can’t make the plane change course—unless… Realization dawns on me.

Unless she’s being threatened too.

“And if the plane doesn’t change course?”

Becca makes the smallest of movements with the hand holding the syringe. At the end of the needle, a bead of clear liquid hesitates for a second before dropping onto Sophia’s neck. My vision blurs, a dark tunnel between me and my daughter, nothing else around us. Nothing else matters. I have to get to Sophia, have to just snatch her, and if Becca presses the needle in, I’ll need sugar I’ll call an ambulance I’ll call 999 I won’t let Sophia down won’t let her down… I tell my legs to run forward and they move but not fast enough and I see the ground coming up to meet me and a thick black fog wraps itself around me as everything goes quiet.