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were talking about someone else. Emma had a vague memory of shouting things at a crowd of people, but it didn’t seem real. She felt so dim and underwater now, it was hard to believe she’d been like what the nurse said. She struggled to wake herself, to free her brain from the rolls of cotton wool wrapped around it.
    The policeman took out a notebook.
    â€œWould it help,” he said, licking his finger, “if I repeated back to you what you told the paramedics at the scene? Clarify what we’ve managed to gather so far?”
    â€œPlease,” Emma begged him. “Please do.”
    The policeman flipped through the notebook until he came to the right page.
    â€œYour name,” he said, “is Emma Turner, and you are aged twenty-five?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd Richard—Ritchie—your child, is one?”
    â€œYes. Last month.”
    â€œGood. So. You met this woman . . . Antonia?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd you were talking to her in the café, and then you went to the bathroom and when you came out, she and the child were gone?”
    â€œYes. Yes.” The cotton wool lifted. She was there, in the café, and Ritchie was holding his arms out to her, smiling and saying: “Muh.” It was so real she almost cried out, lifting her hand to touch him.
    â€œNow, if I could just clarify.” The policeman tapped his notebook. “Because this is where things become a little confusing.”
    He cleared his throat and looked at Emma. “Whose child was it that the woman took?”
    Emma gaped at him in astonishment. “Mine.”
    â€œYou’re quite sure about that? You’re sure the child didn’t belong to the other woman?”
    â€œOf course I’m sure.” Bewildered, Emma looked at the nurse for help. Why was he saying this? “There were witnesses. Ask them.”
    â€œWe already have, Ms. Turner. This is where their version differs from yours. The general impression from the witnesses we spoke to in Mr. . . . er . . . Bap’s seems to have been that this lady and the child came into the café together, and that you approached them .”
    â€œNo.” Emma struggled to sit up in the bed. “That’s wrong. We’d met each other already. In the tube station.”
    â€œYes, that is correct. You had previously approached this lady and her child at Whitechapel station. A staff member witnessed that, a guard at the barrier—”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou went to the guard and reported to him that you had lost your bag. When you spoke to him, you were on your own, no child, no buggy . . .”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œ. . . You then left him and approached a woman at the entrance to the station who was with her child. You seemed to be asking her for money, and she gave you . . . Please, Ms. Turner. I’m just summing up what’s been said. She gave you some money, then she left you and went into the café. Some minutes later, you were seen to approach her again. At this point, there was some kind of argument. You went to the bathroom, and the lady left with her child.”
    He looked up.
    â€œIs that what happened?”
    â€œNo!” Emma cried. “It is not what happened. Ritchie is my child.”
    â€œAll right, Ms. Turner. Try to stay calm. I’m here to hear your side of the story.”
    Emma’s breathing was harsh and rapid. She couldn’t control it; it was like she was having an asthma attack. Her mouth was filled with saliva. She couldn’t swallow. The spit was dripping out of her, onto the pillow. The nurse put a bowl in front of her.
    â€œBreathe slowly,” she advised, rubbing Emma’s shoulder.
    Emma spat into the bowl, smelling bile and plastic. She forced herself to breathe properly. Everything was coming back to her now, the cotton-wool veil over her mind split by great, jagged