99 Red Balloons. Elisabeth Carpenter
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lifting the wide brim of my hat.
‘Oh, hello, Sandra. Didn’t see you there.’
She’s holding an enormous golfing umbrella that’s emblazoned with Benson & Hedges. Do they even sell those any more? A fat drip of rain from it lands on my hand and splats onto the top of my trolley.
‘I’m not surprised,’ she says, ‘with that thing you’re wearing.’ She regards my hat as though it smells of rotten eggs. She shouldn’t pull that expression; someone should tell her it makes her look even older. ‘And you didn’t hear me either. I’ve been shouting you for the past ten minutes.’
Sandra’s a big fan of hyperbole. I don’t reply; she doesn’t notice.
‘How are we this afternoon?’ she says, her head tilted to the side. ‘I said to my Peter, I know I’ll see Maggie this afternoon ’cos it’s Monday. And every Monday she—’
‘Got to run, Sandra.’ I pull the brim of my hat over my eyes and start walking. ‘I’ve got an important appointment later.’
I need a new routine. If I bump into her again I might actually scream in the street – or jump in front of a moving car.
After a few minutes of walking, I’ve left Sandra behind. She’s probably going to tell her Peter that I’m a miserable old crone, but I don’t care.
The rain pauses.
I hear Sarah’s voice.
I look up to see if the face matches the sound. From behind she has the same brown hair in a bob on her shoulders. I can’t stop myself. I walk faster until it’s a light jog. My shopping trolley trips over the cracks in the pavement. I haven’t run for at least ten years and it shows. I slow to a walk before my knees give up, and I’m only a few feet away from her.
She laughs.
It’s Sarah’s laugh. I can’t help myself, again.
‘Sarah,’ I shout.
A passing bus splashes a puddle that misses me by inches.
I tap her right shoulder.
She stops in front of me. She turns round slowly and I know before I see her face that it’s not her at all.
Her eyes meet mine; they’re blue. Sarah’s were brown.
‘Sorry. Wrong person,’ I say, before she says it for me, like others have before her. She looks at me kindly, whoever she is, and smiles. No doubt she sees me as the ridiculous old lady that I am.
‘That’s okay.’
She turns back round and crosses the road. Probably to get out of the path of the crazy woman. I might actually be crazy, I don’t know. Of course that wasn’t Sarah. It could never be Sarah, and I should know that by now. Sometimes I think I could die from this loneliness, but I carry on. It’s torture. It’s too hard being the only one left. Being happy seems such a faraway memory. Why did everyone leave me?
The rain starts again, which is a good job because I’ve reached the butcher’s. The water disguises my tears. It’ll never do to be crying in the street.
The detectives have gone. PC Nadia Sharma, the Family Liaison Officer, is opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen, too polite or too considerate to ask where the cups are.
My eyes feel red raw and twice their normal size. Emma’s gripping my hand so hard it’s numb, but it doesn’t matter. Her eyes are glazed and fixed on the carpet. She hasn’t spoken for nearly half an hour. I can’t ask if she’s okay, because I know she isn’t. I can’t ask her if she wants a drink because her mind won’t care what her body needs. I release the hand she’s holding and put my arm around her shoulders.
‘They’ll find her soon, Em,’ I say. ‘She’ll walk back through the front door, you’ll see.’
It’s almost cruel to say it, but it feels like Grace will come home. Any minute now.
Where is she? She’s eight, but she’s not a street-smart eight. Perhaps she’s had an accident, fallen somewhere and can’t get up. She tries to be brave when she’s hurt, especially if she’s in front of Jamie. She fell off her bike last summer. Jamie helped her into the house, her knees and elbows grazed. I’d carried her up the stairs as Jamie watched from the hallway, biting his lip. As soon as we reached the bathroom, the tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘Mum should be here in a minute,’ I say. ‘But with me and Jamie being here, there might not be enough room for us all to stay the night.’
‘I want you here,’ she says, her eyes still focused on the carpet. ‘All of you.’
I reach into my bag and check my mobile. It’s been almost an hour since I managed to get hold of Mum. She said she’d been in the bath when I’d called. I had to tell her about Grace, otherwise she might not have come.
‘But I’ve already dressed for bed,’ she said. ‘She’ll have gone to a friend’s.’ She sighed when I told her that none of Grace’s friends had seen her since she went into the shop. ‘I’ll have to get some proper clothes on then and wait for a taxi. She’ll probably be back by the time I get there. You girls were always home late from school.’
‘But we weren’t eight,’ I said.
Mum only lives ten minutes away – traffic can’t be that bad. I don’t know how she stayed so calm. If it were my granddaughter, I’d run as fast as I could to get here.
Matt can’t keep still. He sits in his chair for only a few seconds before going to the window.
‘I shouldn’t be here doing fuck all. I should be out looking for her.’
‘I ought to know where she is.’ Emma’s voice makes me jump. ‘I’m her mother, I should be able to sense it. I keep trying to picture where she is, but I can’t.’ She turns to face me. ‘Why can’t I picture it?’
The tears betray me and trickle down my face.
‘I don’t know.’
I wish I knew.
‘She wanted French toast with Nutella for breakfast this morning,’ she says. ‘Don’t be silly, I said. That’s a weekend breakfast. Coco Pops I gave her.’ She starts rocking back and forth again. I’m rocking with her, my arm across her back. ‘Shit. Why didn’t I just make her the French toast? Fucking work. Rushing out of the door every morning to make it there on time. Why do I work? If I stayed at home, I would have made it for her. And then maybe she wouldn’t have gone for sweets after school.’
Matt strides over and crouches at her feet.
‘How can it be about that? How can she have vanished just because you work in a fucking office?’
He’s almost shouting. He stands while fresh tears pour down Emma’s face.
I wish he hadn’t snapped at her, but then who am I to monitor his behaviour when their child has just disappeared?
‘What is it?’ he says, to himself rather than us. ‘What are we missing? Perhaps she has met someone on the internet – maybe a friend from school told her which sites to go on.’
He looks around the room and walks towards the computer desk.
‘Where’s the laptop?’ he says.
Emma doesn’t move, just stares at the carpet.
‘Did you see them take it?’ he says to me.
I shake