Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

I try not to imagine what that man in the CCTV image wants with her – even though it might not even be her in the picture. But if it is, and their picture is everywhere – on television, in the papers – then the man won’t go out with her in public, he’ll hide her away. We might never see her again.

There are reporters in town, and camera crews everywhere – interviewing the police spokesperson and the residents. It’s like it’s not real, that it’s happening to someone else in a different town.

‘I need to go and look for her,’ says Matt. ‘I should be out there, helping everyone else. They probably think I don’t care. If I could just see a picture of this man’s face – the man who was holding her hand… then I’ll find him, find her.’ He keeps saying the same things. He walks over to Nadia, who’s perched on a dining chair near the door leading to the kitchen. She’s been here every day, from early morning until late at night. ‘Please let me help.’

Nadia has that same look on her face, the same tilt of the head she always uses to address him. ‘Nearly the whole town is looking for her, Matthew. The whole town. We need you to be here in case we find her.’

‘But what if it’s not her in that photograph – what if someone didn’t take her and she’s trapped somewhere? She’ll be waiting for me to come and get her. I’m letting her down just sitting here. What kind of fucking father am I, who just sits watching everyone else while they look for my daughter? It’s my job, I should be there. It’s been nearly four days. She’s going to be really cold.’ His voice is barely a whisper. Tears are streaming down his face. ‘It’s freezing at night.’

She guides him back to the sofa and I just watch, useless, an outsider looking in. It’s the first of October tomorrow; the temperature might start to fall. I can’t think about Grace being cold. I can’t think about her being scared. My fears and my hopes are intertwined: I hope someone has taken her, but that they’re looking after her, keeping her warm. It’s wishful thinking, but better than what my imagination is trying to show me: the worst possible things that don’t correspond with my lovely Grace. My thoughts trigger a rage I’ve never felt before. If anything happens to her, I will kill whoever did it with my bare hands.

The same thoughts go over and over in my head.

I sit up quickly.

Jamie.

Mum looks over at me.

‘He’s at school,’ she says. It must be the first time she’s ever read my mind. ‘Do you want me to ring the school again – check he’s okay?’

I look at Matt – he’s not listening. Every time I talk about Jamie, I feel like I’m rubbing his nose in the fact that my child is safe.

‘How many times have we rung?’ I say.

‘Three.’ She’s staring at the television now.

Three times? I can’t remember the first time. Thank God it’s Saturday tomorrow. When I escorted Jamie to the taxi this morning, there were flashes from the reporters’ cameras. I wish I’d had a blanket to cover his face. Then whoever has Grace won’t come for Jamie.

‘Get me a drink, will you, Steph?’

I stand up automatically and grab the cup at Matt’s feet.

‘Not tea. Something stronger.’

I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece – it’s twenty past one. I look to Mum. She raises her eyebrows and shrugs her shoulders. This from the woman who says drinking before six o’clock makes you either too rich or too common.

‘Do you think it’s wise at this time of day?’ I say. ‘What if…’

I don’t know what to say – no one is listening to me anyway.

‘There’s some vodka on top of the fridge,’ says Mum.

How does one person know where every single thing is in every house she visits?

I walk into the kitchen. My heart jolts when I see Emma at the kitchen table with Jamie’s laptop in front of her.

‘How did you guess the password?’ I say, grabbing the vodka off the top of the fridge.

‘I didn’t guess it, did I? How the hell would I guess that? Jamie gave it to me.’

I don’t even know his password. I stop my mouth before it opens and actually bite my tongue. I hate it when she goes behind my back like this, like she can do as she pleases, like she’s— shit, stop it, Stephanie. I want to slap myself. Grace is not here and I’m thinking about myself.

I get a tumbler and pour the vodka halfway.

‘What does Matt drink with his vodka?’ I say.

‘I wouldn’t know these days.’ Emma’s eyes don’t leave the screen. My heart beats faster at the thought of what she might be reading. ‘You’d know better than I do.’

I say nothing and stride into the sitting room, offering the glass to Matt.

‘Am I supposed to drink it neat? What the fuck is wrong with you? Did you not see the coke in the fridge?’

I just stand there. I can’t believe my hand isn’t shaking. I don’t know if I’m more upset than angry. I hear a noise behind me.

‘Don’t you ever, ever talk to my daughter like that!’

Mum is standing next to me and has her right fist held up. The tears well up in my eyes. Matt has never spoken to me like that; Mum has never stuck up for me like that. The air is charged for what feels like minutes. I look to Nadia; Mum’s looking at her too.

‘Perhaps now is not the time to get angry with your family, Matthew,’ she says.

I can see the venom in his eyes as he looks at me. When he shifts his gaze to Nadia, his expression softens.

I’m shaking as I walk back to the kitchen and sit at the table next to Emma.

‘What are you looking at?’ I say to her.

She glances at me as though I’m a nuisance. Did she hear what just happened? Her eyes are bloodshot and there are tiny red blisters under them.

‘That psychic on Grace’s page on Facebook. I’m doing some research on her.’

‘Oh.’ I relax a little into the chair. ‘I didn’t know you knew your way around Facebook.’

‘Just because you don’t see me on the laptop at home, doesn’t mean I don’t use it all day at work.’

I should’ve realised – she’s on a computer all the time at the recruitment agency. She didn’t look at me when she spoke, but paranoia tells me that there was an undertone. What else has she been hiding from me?

‘I’ve got to keep an open mind about these things,’ she says.

‘I guess.’

She tuts. ‘My daughter is missing, Stephanie. Wouldn’t you consider every possibility if it were Jamie?’

‘Of course. I’d consider every possibility for Grace too.’

She glances at me and purses her lips. It’s her way of saying we’re friends again.

‘Bring your chair nearer to me. You can help me look.’

She clicks onto Deandra Divine’s Facebook page. I say nothing about the name. The profile photo is what I expected: a black and white shot of a woman in her fifties, black straight hair framing her face in a centre parting, her gaze off camera. Emma and I would have laughed at it any other time.

‘I’ve read about other missing person cases she’s given readings about, cases from years ago. She’s been right most of the time.’

If she were the real deal, surely she’d be right all of the time. It’s a thought I keep to myself.

‘I’ve emailed her, Steph. If I manage to get an appointment with her, will you come with me?’

I pause for a second. ‘Of course.’

I couldn’t relax until Jamie was back from school. I didn’t know how long it would take him to get here. At home he’s usually back at 3.45 p.m., but I booked him a taxi to pick him up – no doubt he was mortified in front of his friends – and he didn’t arrive until 3.55 p.m. In those ten minutes I experienced only a fraction of what Emma and Matt are going through. He’s upstairs in his usual place now, in the spare room.