“Some of my lecturers at university were activists,” I said. “I always hoped I’d have been one too. But by the time I was a student, it was our first free election. Then Mandela became president.” I stopped; I wanted to show where my allegiances lay but not sound virtuous.

Sabine was watching me. “You can be an activist today. If that is what you want?”

The train windows became mirrors as we passed through a tunnel.

“I haven’t got any wings,” I said.

“Never mind,” she said. “My friend is bringing body paint. She is a gifted artist. We can make you brilliant silver. Or—green?”

The train drew into Shadwell station.

Sabine touched my arm. “Call in sick. Say you caught the bug from me.”

I laughed and got up.

“À tantôt,” she called, as I went through the doors.

Changing platforms, I could feel the pressure of Sabine’s touch. Why was I always such a good girl? It was crazy, going in to do both our jobs. À tantôt was a Belgian expression for “see you soon.” I could turn around, go back, make it true.

On the District Line, I kept thinking: get off, switch platforms. But . . . How could I explain? This foreign activism would be wrong for me—laughable, too easy. I’d be an imposter on its high moral ground. I changed trains and changed again until I got to Ilford.

At work, the offices were empty. I thought back to when I was four, my first day at kindergarten. My mother had instructed me never to go anywhere with strangers. When our teacher said we were going for a walk, I told her I couldn’t go. She locked me in the classroom. The scent of pine trees blew in through the high windows. I could still see the disintegrated tissue in my hand as I sat in front of my brown cardboard suitcase waiting for everyone to return.

After starting up my computer, I went to Sabine’s side of the desk. I sat in her chair. Her workspace was clear: no pens, no coffee mug, no cutlery. Nothing was pinned to her felt board. She wasn’t untidy but there were usually a few CDs or pieces of fruit lying about. For a moment, I wondered if she’d come back. What if next week she called in with another illness and then disappeared, like she did with the bakery job?

Staring at her drawers, I recalled my mother snooping among my things. The drama that had followed. Don’t, I told myself.