Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

‘Give over.’

I watch Jim as he takes control of the computer, opens the internet screen and goes straight onto a site called Whitepages.

‘You’re quite the expert, aren’t you?’

‘I’m a member of a few of these sites now. I’ve got to pass the time somehow. And anyway, there’s a few people I’ve wanted to get in touch with recently – you know, just to have a catch up.’

‘Like who?’

‘No one you know.’

He leans closer to the screen, squinting through his glasses.

‘Where did you say he lived last?’

‘At Her Majesty’s Pleasure – in Manchester.’

He types in Manchester, and his year of birth. Scott Taylor is a common name, but he’s the only one with Beckett as his middle name in the area.

‘Well I never,’ says Jim. ‘I didn’t think it would be that easy.’

I shuffle forward in my seat. ‘But what if he’s in prison again?’

‘He can’t be – it’s got 2015 on here. If he were in prison, he wouldn’t be on the electoral roll, would he?’

‘What if he’s been in trouble since?’

Jim turns to me. ‘What are you scared of, Maggie? That it’s best not to know? Look, I’ll google his name and see if we get any results.’

I hadn’t expected this search to be so fast. I thought we would have to scroll through rolls and rolls of film – what do they call it? Microfiche. That’s how they do it in the films. They don’t just type in a name and find it like this.

Jim clicks on the button called news.

I’d expected No results – that Scott’s learned his lesson after years of being in prison, but the headlines were, Manchester’s Most Prolific Petty Criminal and Manchester Man’s 100th Offence .

‘Bloody hell,’ says Jim. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

‘How could all of this be available, yet I’ve never heard of it? Did you type in the right name?’

Jim clicks on one of the articles and a photograph pops up of a man: unshaven, in a white, grubby t-shirt. It’s him. It’s Scott.

Career criminal Scott Taylor has today been sentenced to eighteen months for assault with intent to resist arrest. This conviction marks Taylor’s 100th offence. His previous crimes include driving while disqualified, possession of a sharp object in a public place, and being drunk and disorderly. The most serious of his offences – aggravated burglary – was in 1989 when he was jailed for seven years.

Before his most recent sentencing, Taylor told the judge residing at Manchester Crown Court that he was planning to ‘retire’ from a life of crime as he was ‘getting too old for it’. A Ministry of Justice spokesperson said: ‘Reoffending in England is at an unacceptably high rate – rehabilitation in our institutions needs to be overhauled.’

I touch the screen of the computer and run my finger down the side of his face. How did it get to this? How did I let him down so badly? Scott didn’t have to become this broken person.

‘A long time ago,’ I say to Jim suddenly, wanting to recount the memory, ‘I was laid up with this awful stomach bug – I couldn’t move for the sickness I felt. Scott must’ve only been about ten or eleven and had to make his own sandwiches for tea – he even made Ron’s.

‘I had a bucket next to me – sorry to be so descriptive – and little Scott didn’t half look worried. Can I borrow fifty p? he said. I didn’t have the energy to question what for. I felt guilty I couldn’t cook his dinner, so I just pointed to my purse. He took the money and ran out of the back door. I thought to myself, Well, he’ll be gone for a while then . But he came back five minutes later. He placed a bottle of Lucozade next to my pot on the floor.’ My hands grip the arms of the chair. ‘Oh, Jim. Why do things have to change? It must be my fault he’s turned out the way he has.’

‘Don’t torture yourself,’ he says, like he’s read my mind. ‘What he did to you and Ron was shameful. There’s not a bad bone in your body, Mags. There’s no way he learned that behaviour from you.’

‘Do you think the whole village knows what’s become of him?’

‘Do they heck. It can’t be the first secret they’ve ever kept – we’d have heard about it. Well, I would have heard about it at least.’

I stare at the photograph. What type of person is he now? Does he have a wife? Has he turned his life around? Is he still alive?

‘Jim, what’s the latest date on the article?’

‘2012.’

‘That means he’s had time to change his ways, doesn’t it?’

Jim doesn’t look at me. ‘I don’t know, Maggie.’ He gets out a notepad and jots down Scott’s last known address. ‘I know it’s not the quickest way, but given that we don’t have his email address this is the best we’ve got.’ He hands it over to me. ‘Do it today, will you, Maggie?’

Since when did Jim get all savvy with emails and the internet? I look at the computer and press the button next to the green light. I suppose it’s too late for me to start.

Jim puts his hands on his knees and turns to me. ‘Can I show you something?’

I can’t help but frown. ‘It can’t be anything as bad as seeing my son has become the most prolific criminal in Manchester, can it?’

He shrugs, leans over to the keyboard, and instantly a page called MissingKids is on the screen.

‘ One every three minutes ,’ says Jim, reading the headline.

‘There never is.’ My hand goes to my mouth, the other rests on the desk. ‘It can’t be that many.’

‘I know. I started looking the other day. When you were so affected by—’

‘Grace.’

‘And I found this…’

Jim types in a name, and there she is.

A picture of Zoe. In her school uniform. The light from the sun makes a halo on her fair hair. It’s a photo I could recall without looking at it – a picture I can see when I close my eyes.

‘How did they get Zoe onto the internet?’ Both of my hands support my chin, my fingers touching my lips. ‘So anyone in the whole world can see her?’

I look to Jim and he nods, slowly.

It makes the world seem a little smaller. If Zoe were alive and saw this picture, would she recognise herself? She might question where all her baby photos are; or the thought may not have even crossed her mind.

Last seen in Bilton, Preston. Age now: 36. DOB: 5th January 1980.

It’s so hard to read the age she would be now. Somewhere, our Zoe could be thirty-six years old, with her own husband, children, family, and not know a thing about us. I used to think I’d be okay if I just knew she was safe, if I knew she wasn’t dead. But now, looking at the screen, I just want her back with me.

‘Hey, Mags, I’m sorry.’ He puts his arms around my shoulders and hands me a tissue. ‘I never meant to upset you. I just wanted you to know that in some place… even cyberspace… people are still looking for her. Her face is still out there.

‘But that’s not all I found. I’ve been looking at these sites for days, hours. As you can imagine, missus over there has given me free rein, so I’ve sort of taken advantage a bit. Well, this… I had to email it to myself, just to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.’ Jim clicks on another page, and another photo fills the screen. ‘This!’ Jim leans back and holds up his right hand to the screen.

I lean towards it. ‘It looks just like her.’

Jim’s nodding. ‘It’s not there for coincidence, Mags. We were meant to find it.’

I lean in closer. I don’t believe in all that superstitious nonsense.

‘But who else has seen it?’

My heart sinks as I open the front door: the phone is ringing. I had wanted to contact Scott first – to show him that he didn’t have to make the first move, that I – as his mother – was interested in him too.