He rolls his eyes clockwise. ‘I would put it a little more elegantly, if you let me finish. Annual and most Leapling DNA didn’t work. But GIFTED Leapers . . . it worked like magic. Simple gene editing. We did a cut-and-paste with the sheep gene and the Leap gene and came up with a winner. What do you think we called it, Elle?’

I shrug my shoulders. ‘Sheepling?’

Le Temps smiles, moves his finger like he’s writing the word in the air.

I try again. ‘Shleep?’

‘Close. You’re a natural.’ He pauses a few seconds. ‘We called it sheap. With an “e” and an “a”.’

He raises his eyebrows, like he expects me to speak. I stare back at him until he taps something into his computer and faces me again.

‘Thought you might appreciate the wordplay, Elle. It’s our bestselling product on the Black Market. It’s eaten by people all over the world. Those who can afford it.’

‘I only eat white food, so I’d never eat it.’

‘I’m not asking you to EAT it. But you’d make us a fortune in marketing. Or you could run the factory. Your choice. Of course, sheap’s the code, not the brand name. The public never need know.’

And it’s then I remember the leap day barbecue, the guessing game. We couldn’t guess the mystery meat because it was a new invention. That explains why Le Temps gave Big Ben the bull’s-eye when he guessed sheep.

‘The barbecue . . .’

‘Clever girl. Ben nearly guessed on the night. There’s only a subtle difference in taste. We use DNA from young truants, if you’re wondering. Leap criminals. I treat them better than they deserve. Give them work, food, clothing.’

‘Criminals? YOU’RE the criminal. You’re a monster!’

Kwesi. Noon. Too many Leaps gone missing.

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

‘The devil incarnate.’

‘I prefer Carnivore.’ He sits down at the computer, logs in and swivels his office chair around. ‘Work for me, Elle. You’d have a top salary, all the white meat and fish you could eat.’

‘I’d rather projectile vomit,’ I say and move towards the door.

Le Temps clicks his phone. The door won’t open. He makes a sad face.

‘Elle Bíbi-Imbelé, you’re so clever, you’re stupid. Do you know what’s REALLY clever? Surviving when you haven’t got The Gift. Having to work till your hands bleed. Making money. That’s life, Elle! And you, with The Gift and the brains, refuse the chance of a better life.’

‘Better for you, not for me. Let me out!’

‘To tell everyone my business? I don’t think so. But I’m enjoying our little chat. Very much.’