Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

‘She’s very pretty,’ I say.

As she walks back into the kitchen, she pats me on the head. ‘That’s very kind of you to say.’

She’s sniffing in the kitchen. I think she’s crying because Michael shouted at her.

I dip my last bit of toast in my egg. As I’m chewing, I notice the picture on the tea towel is of Big Ben. That’s near where I live – well, nearer than where we are now. Maybe Michael wasn’t telling lies. Maybe I will be going home in a few days.

I swing my legs under the table and stab a piece of bacon.

I’d better make the most of it. I wonder if they have bacon and egg every day here.

We pull up outside a white cottage – the only house within a mile. It’s surrounded by farmland and it has a cattle shed at the side filled with rusting machinery. The clouds look heavy with rain or even snow, and the white-topped Yorkshire moors in the distance give the place a dramatic, almost eerie atmosphere.

‘If this is what you can afford working as a medium, then I’m in the wrong business,’ I say, getting out of the car. My role as a team leader in the soulless call centre feels so far removed – so insignificant – from where I am right now. My boss has given me compassionate leave this week – I just hope she remains as understanding with my having time off if we don’t find Grace soon.

‘It might be rented,’ says Emma, taking off her sunglasses and placing them on her head. She rubs the tops of her arms. ‘It’s freezing cold here. It’s like we’re in a different country.’

‘Have you ever been to one of these people before?’

‘Course not. I’d have told you if I had.’

A few months ago she would have. I feel sad for that time, a pang of nostalgia. It’s funny, the little things we take for granted.

I take in a deep breath. It’s so pretty here in the middle of nowhere. I could imagine losing myself in a place like this, in the open space.

The red front door of the cottage opens. The woman looks less intimidating than her profile photo. I expected her to be wearing purple velvet and no shoes, but she’s wearing jeans, long boots, and a red chenille jumper. Her long hair is twisted up in a scrunchie at the side of her head.

‘Come in out of the cold,’ she says in a soft northern accent.

We do as she says, and she stands aside as we go in.

Inside, it’s exactly how I pictured a little country cottage to be. The ceilings are low and the carpet in the hall is red with mustard-yellow flecks and grey swirls. She leads us through to a sitting room that’s deliciously warm. Crammed bookcases line the back wall, with extra books stuffed in every available space. To the left is a real open fire that’s crackling with burning logs.

‘Please, come sit.’ She holds her arm out to four armchairs, three of which are made from the same material as the hallway carpet. I’m guessing that the slightly grander, but threadbare gold chair is hers, so I push Emma gently to the seat nearest the fire. She hasn’t stopped shivering since she got out of the car.

‘Are you okay?’ I mouth, as we shake off our coats.

‘I don’t know,’ she mouths back, her eyes wide.

She’s scared. I’m scared.

‘I’ll just get you two girls a nice cup of hot chocolate. Won’t be a sec.’

I rub my arms and look around. Under the window to our left is a mahogany sideboard. On the top of it are twenty, maybe thirty, photographs of people in various-sized frames.

How did we get here? What are we doing here? Even Matt doesn’t know what we’re doing. He doesn’t believe in all of this spiritual stuff, especially after reading what this woman wrote on her Facebook page about Grace: I believe that Grace is still alive, but she is being kept somewhere . ‘It’s too general,’ Matt said. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. These people are vultures, preying on the vulnerable.’

Where has Emma told him we are?

I turn to her and she still has a panicked look on her face.

‘Are you okay, Em? We can leave if you’re not sure about this.’

‘I don’t know what to do. This is the only thing I’ve done for days. I can’t think straight.’

Deandra walks backwards through the door and turns round with a cup in each hand. She puts them on the small coffee table in front of us.

‘So, shall we get straight to it?’ she says. ‘I know you must be extremely worried about Grace.’ She sits forward in her chair and takes hold of Emma’s hands. ‘I have a gentleman here, a father figure.’

Emma glances at me from the corner of her eye. ‘Our dad?’

Deandra narrows her eyes, as though distracted. ‘It would appear so. He’s showing me a poster.’

‘Is Grace with him?’ says Emma, her words tumbling out. ‘Please say she isn’t. Tell me that I’ll find her.’

The medium tilts her head slightly, still holding on to Emma’s hands.

Why isn’t she replying? The wait is agonising. The wood in the fire sounds as though it’s hissing at us. My whole body is shaking. If I weren’t sitting down, I’d have sunk to the floor.

I want to grab the woman by the shoulders and shake her. This isn’t some sort of game – this is our lives; this is our family!

‘She’s not,’ the woman says eventually.

‘She’s not what?’ Emma almost screams the words.

‘She’s not with her grandfather.’

‘Oh my God.’ Emma pulls her hands away from the medium’s and covers her face. ‘Oh my God. Oh God. This is unbearable.’

Deandra plucks a tissue from the box on the table. When Emma drops her hands she takes it and wipes it across her face.

‘I know you might not believe in my work, but Grace’s grandfather is showing me some images. Can I share them with you?’

Emma nods, her left knuckle white as she grips the tissue.

‘Firstly, I’d like to give you some facts about Grace, so that I can… authenticate, if you will, the information I am receiving.’

Just get on with it, woman.

‘I can see a picture on a wall. Is it a pop band? I’m not familiar with them, but one of the faces has been crossed out – or perhaps covered with something. Did Grace dislike this person?’

‘Zayn,’ I say, quickly. ‘Zayn left One Direction. Do you remember, Emma? She scribbled his face out with a black felt tip.’

More tears are streaming down Emma’s face, down my face.

‘I remember. She was so upset when they split up.’

‘I’ve got another strange image, but do bear with me on this one. It’s of Grace, and a boy… I don’t know if this is right… but they’re dressed as cats and eating out of a bowl on the floor? I know it sounds strange, but—’

‘That’s right,’ says Emma. ‘That’s completely right.’ Emma narrows her eyes. ‘You haven’t been in our house, have you?’

Deandra shakes her head. ‘Only through your father.’

‘Where is Grace now?’ I can’t help myself. This is why we came here after all.

The medium looks to the side of us again, nodding at thin air.

‘He’s giving me the picture of a cottage – bigger than this one – in a small village. Not a northern one, perhaps it’s in the Cotswolds, the stone of the houses is light – they’re all the same colour. There’s a little face at one of the windows – the curtains are a light blue colour. There’s a car parked in the front, on the gravel. It’s a Volvo, also light blue.’

Deandra sits back as though exhausted and closes her eyes.

‘So what do we do with that information?’ I say. ‘It’s not much good if we can’t do anything with it. We can’t drive to the Cotswolds and check every little village – there are too many.’