Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

She reaches into her rucksack and pulls out an iPad. She swipes it and places it on the kitchen table.

‘Do you recognise either of these people?’

I lean over, as do Mum and Emma; our heads touch as we look at the screen.

‘It’s really blurry,’ I say. ‘You’d think they’d have better quality images these days.’

Mum gives me one of her glances and sighs. I can’t say anything right.

‘It is rather fuzzy,’ she says, after a minute. ‘How are we meant to tell by looking at their backs? They could be anyone.’

‘Do you recognise any items of clothing on the child?’

‘But it’s a boy,’ says Mum, rubbing her temples.

Emma looks up at Nadia.

‘Do you think this child might be Grace?’

‘We’re not sure yet,’ says Nadia, always talking in the collective, as though she has no opinion of her own.

Emma picks up the iPad.

‘But I can’t see the legs. This child has trousers on. And that coat – it’s too big. Grace’s only little, she doesn’t eat much, you see. I try to get her interested, but she’s not at all. The most food she’ll eat is at breakfast. She’d rather listen to One Direction, or read books, or play on the console, or—’

She drops the tablet onto the table. My chair flips over as I rush over to her and pull her head into my arms.

‘Oh, Steph. What am I going to do? I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough. If anything’s happened to her I won’t be able to go on. I can’t bear it.’

I stroke her hair and whisper in her ear. ‘You are strong. You can do this. I’m here for you.’

She wipes the tears from her face with the heels of her palms.

‘Where’s Matt?’ She pushes me aside as she gets up from the chair, and walks out of the kitchen.

Mum and I are still scrutinising the CCTV image when Matt walks in.

‘Let me see,’ he says, swiping it from under our heads.

Mum opens her mouth, but closes it again. Obviously she can bite her tongue when it’s someone else.

Matt looks like shit. He slept in the same jeans and T-shirt he’s worn for days, bar the press conference. He only went to bed in the early hours of the morning after drinking the best part of two bottles of wine.

‘Can’t see a fucking thing,’ he says. ‘Haven’t you got a clearer picture?’

I glance over at Jamie. Usually he smirks if an adult swears in front of him, but his lips are tight; he’s staring at the table. I don’t think he’s heard Matt swear before.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Nadia. ‘We don’t.’

Matt rubs his eyes with one hand, and looks again.

‘Jesus, it could be anybody. Do you think this bloke has dressed Grace up like this? Have you got any more pictures of them? Surely this can’t be the only one of these two from the cameras in town.’

‘We’re working on it.’

‘Are we?’ he snaps. ‘Well this is no bloody use to me.’ He throws the iPad onto the table. ‘Get back to me when you’ve got more than this shit.’

I sit down next to Jamie at the table.

‘You okay, love?’

He nods. ‘Do you think…?’

‘What?’ I say, but he’s looking down at the floor. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I know it’s Friday tomorrow, but do you think it would be okay if I went back to school?’

I’ve been selfish keeping him here – making sure I can see him, so I know where he is. I should’ve realised that being here would be uncomfortable for him. His dad texted last night saying Jamie could stay there, which might not be a bad idea – if Neil didn’t work all the time.

I put my hand over his. ‘Of course it is.’

I stand outside the bedroom door. I hardly ever open it, but I feel as though Sarah’s telling me to go inside, to remember. I almost don’t want to. The everyday thoughts are bad enough – those pangs I feel in my chest when it catches me by surprise, when I think I’ve buried it enough to go about my day. But it never goes away. I’m meant to be sad. Nothing will change that.

Sarah and Zoe moved in with Ron and me six weeks before Zoe went missing. Missing – it sounds so flippant. She was taken from us, murdered, vanished. They are the dramatic words that should belong to Zoe, because we don’t know what happened to her. No, they’re not the only words. She was kind, even at five years old, so kind. Yes, she could be challenging, but only because she was so bright – not that we said so at the time.

Sarah’s husband, David, had been made redundant, but they’d been arguing long before that. She and Zoe moved in with us to give Sarah some space to think. But Zoe missed her dad.

Pull yourself together, Margaret . My mother’s voice is tingling in my ears.

Easier said than done, Mother.

I turn the handle and push the door open. I always leave the curtains tied, so it’s never dark. There’s not as much dust in here this time. What is dust, anyway? I once heard that it was about seventy per cent human skin. No one comes in here, so there can’t be much. I wonder how many of the little particles left behind are from Sarah and Zoe. I want to gather them all up and bring them to life.

Next to Sarah’s single bed is Zoe’s little camp bed. Her three teddies are still on her pillow. One of them, her favourite pink elephant, Wellie (she couldn’t say Nellie when she first got it, and it just stuck), is almost standing upright. The clothes they arrived with are still in suitcases under the bed. I couldn’t bear to unpack, to look at them, to touch them, to smell them. Mother had a point when she said that some things are best left buried – it feels too painful to unearth them.

I still wonder if things would’ve been different if Sarah hadn’t left David. They lived over twenty minutes away, so Zoe would never have gone to the sweet shop on the corner. I used to blame David for driving Sarah away, but that has lessened. I haven’t seen him in over ten years.

I don’t want to look to the left; I know what I’ll see. The mahogany chest of drawers that Ron and I bought from a car boot sale in Blackpool. On top of it will be a twelve by seven photograph of Zoe in a beautiful carved frame; there’ll be a box that contains a lock of Zoe’s hair from her first trip to the hairdresser’s; the candle, burned only once from her christening. There will be angels made from porcelain, plastic, wood; a stone Zoe picked from St Anne’s beach; a jar of perfume she made with roses and Ron’s aftershave; the conker she pickled in vinegar and made me bake for seven hours.

I know all those things are there and I can’t look at them.

I stroke the cover of Sarah’s bed – the place where my beautiful daughter died, and back out of the room.

Our secret has been easy to keep from Emma, as we’d only communicated through email. Emma, famously to everyone who knows her, never uses email outside of work, or Facebook, or any of that – she seldom even texts. She says she prefers to hear a person’s voice.

Matt hasn’t mentioned it since the text the other day. We can’t talk about it here. It wouldn’t just betray Emma, it would hurt Mum too. Somehow, I’ve got to access Jamie’s laptop and delete whatever we put online. But I can’t now – I’m frozen on the sofa. Matt is watching every news report about Grace – as is Mum, who’s sitting in the armchair opposite me. Sky News has been running almost twenty-four-hour coverage since she went missing on Monday. It’s now Friday. How has it got to the end of the week without her being found? Grace’s face is everywhere; if someone saw her on the street, would they recognise her? Perhaps they’d ignore the feeling that they’ve seen her somewhere before.