Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

‘She’s always been like that.’

Emma’s wearing sunglasses; I can’t see the expression in her eyes.

‘Has she? I don’t think I’ve ever noticed.’

Because she was always nicer to you, I want to say.

She leans over and presses the button on the stereo. She pushes each channel until she finds a golden oldie station. ‘I don’t want to find anything out from the radio.’

Why are we driving so far away? What if Grace comes back and we’re not there?

A song by Nena sounds on the radio.

‘Emma, you used to sing this all the time. Do you remember? You used to sing it in German.’

She looks out of the window. ‘Did I?’

‘Yes. Even Grace knows some of the words.’

Emma just hums in reply. Perhaps the Valium is still in her system. She’s not herself today, but then that’s not surprising. It does, however, make me wonder how long Mum has actually been on the tablets. I’m not sure I want to know.

There’s a sound coming from Emma’s handbag in the foot-well – a mobile phone vibrating.

‘Aren’t you going to get that? It might be urgent.’

She bends down, and reaches into her bag for the phone. ‘It’s just work. I wish they’d leave me alone.’ She throws the phone on top of the bag.

‘They’re probably just wondering how you are, Em. I think they might have been trying to contact you on the landline as well. It’s rung a few times, but no one’s been on the other end.’

‘Really? Who uses a landline these days?’

‘Someone who’s not having much luck with your mobile I imagine.’

She shrugs.

We drive for a few minutes before Emma breaks the silence.

‘Steph?’

‘What?’

‘Do you think the police know more than they’re telling us?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That they know everything about us – all our secrets.’

My heart starts to beat faster. Does she know what Matt and I did? Does she know about her mum? Has she been in contact with her without telling us?

‘I’ve no idea,’ I say. ‘If I stopped to think about everything I’ve ever done, I’d go mad.’

Emma lifts up her sunglasses and turns to look at me. ‘You’re not worried?’

‘No. Why should I be?’

She puts her glasses back on her face. ‘No reason.’

If I wasn’t driving now, I’d probably be sick.

I’m on the bed near the window, sitting upright with my hands hugging my knees. It’s bigger than my room at home, though Catherine doesn’t like me mentioning Mummy or Daddy. She starts to cry and it makes me feel bad. The curtains are blue, the walls are blue and the bed sheets are blue. Dark blue. The cover on the bed opposite is the same colour. It’s the strangest-coloured bedroom I have been in, though I haven’t been in that many. The girl who normally lives in here must really like blue.

There aren’t many toys: three teddy bears, two Sindy dolls, and a house that looks like a teapot. In the corner on a wooden table is a pretend record player with plastic records. I want to play with it, but it might be too loud; Catherine hasn’t said if I can touch anything yet.

The sun is rising, but I’ve been awake for hours. I’ve never felt this tired – like I haven’t slept for days. What are Mummy and Daddy doing now? Are they worried about me? Do they think I’ve disappeared – or do they even think I’m dead? I don’t ever want them to think that. I don’t want them to ever stop looking for me.

An alarm sounds in the other room.

My tummy feels a bit sick, and a bit sore, but I daren’t use the toilet in this house. What if they listen at the door? What if they’re spying on me? I look around the room, but I can’t see any cameras. Though they can be pretty small – the size of the tip of my finger, Daddy said.

I can hear someone moving in the room next door – or is it outside this one?

Tap, tap, tap.

It’s outside this one.

Am I supposed to say anything?

‘Hello?’

‘Ah, you’re awake.’ It’s Catherine. I don’t think she’s looked in the mirror today, as there are black lines down her face from her eye make-up. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘Okay.’

She walks on tiptoes to the side of the bed and kneels down on the floor. She’s still in her nightclothes; her housecoat is dark pink with bits of lace around the edges. Mummy would never wear anything like that, not unless it was to a fancy-dress party. She wears Daddy’s old t-shirts at night-time. I wish I had one of them with me; I’d wear it and smell of her.

‘Seeing as you didn’t want one yesterday, shall I run you a bath now? Well – when Michael’s finished in the bathroom. He’s got to be at work for eight.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I can put some Mr Matey in – I think we still have some of that. And maybe some bath salts.’

‘No, thank you.’

She frowns and tilts her head to the side.

‘You can have a bath on your own. I won’t be there. I can get some clothes ready for you and put them on the chair next to the bath. I’ll make sure the towel’s nice and warm on the radiator. Does that sound better?’

I nod.

This makes her happy.

‘Then after that,’ she says, ‘I’ll make you some nice bacon and eggs.’

I nod again, and she almost skips out of the room.

Bacon and eggs and it’s not even a Sunday. At least I think it’s not. I can’t actually remember what day it is.

Catherine was right, I do feel a bit better after that bath. I don’t smell as bad now. Their dining table is dark wood and really big. Michael is sitting at the opposite end, reading the paper.

When Catherine pours his tea, she says, ‘Anything?’

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t speak.

‘Probably won’t be for a few days,’ she says. ‘And certainly not if we cancel the English papers.’

Michael lowers his paper to give a nasty look to Catherine. I know those stares well, because I do them to Thomas Babbington when he pulls my plaits. Michael’s hair doesn’t look long enough to pull on though – I wonder if Catherine put salt in his tea instead of sugar.

He closes his paper and looks up at me.

‘So. How are you enjoying your holiday so far?’

‘It’s okay.’ My mouth is full of toast. ‘When am I going home?’

He dabs his mouth with a cloth and stands up. ‘In a few days I should think. Don’t worry about it. I’ll try to get word to your—’

‘To who?’

Catherine is standing at the door to the kitchen with her hands on her hips.

‘She can’t stay here, Catherine. How on earth would we explain that? And what about her poor parents? How could you do that to someone else?’

They don’t realise I know they’re talking about me. Michael might ask George to take me home again, though I’ve not seen him since the other day. We won’t be able to tell Catherine about it. I think she’d be upset if I left, though sometimes she likes me; sometimes she doesn’t.

Catherine throws the tea towel she was holding onto the table, and follows Michael out into the hallway.

I can only pick up little bits from there, Catherine’s voice is the loudest. ‘Posting… authorities… that you knew all about it.’

The front door slams. It’s nearly all made of glass. It could have broken into a million pieces. Catherine walks back into the dining room with a wide smile – her eyes are wide too.

‘Who are these photographs of?’ I ask her, pointing to the two in frames on the wooden dresser. There are three more of the same girl in the living room. ‘Is she your daughter?’

She looks at them, as though she’s never seen them before either. She looks the same age as me, the girl in the pictures. She’s got blonde hair too.