Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

‘No.’

‘What a bumpkin,’ he says. ‘I bet you’re not even from England.’

I see a yellow-coloured bottle on the blanket and pass it to him.

‘In England, everyone loves this.’

He reaches over and squirts it into his mouth. I have to cover mine as he spits it out.

‘Bloody hell!’ He wipes his tongue. I’ve never heard a boy that young say a swear word, but I suppose he’s allowed. His mummy makes him call her by her first name. ‘That’s goppin’.’

The girls next to me laugh, which seems to make him happy.

‘You eat it then.’ He’s holding out the bottle to me.

I grab the bottle from him. ‘All right.’ I get one of the rolls and split it open with my fingers, like Mummy does. I place a hot dog inside it then squeeze a line of yellow along it. I take a bite.

‘Mmm,’ I say. ‘Mmm, mmm, mmm.’

Mark picks up a roll and throws it in my face.

‘Blah, blah.’ He smiles at me. ‘I bet you have to wear a uniform at school. And I bet you don’t have harvest festivals. Where you can make your own bread. And butter.’

I throw the roll back at him. ‘We have harvest festivals.’

‘Everyone all right here?’ It’s Catherine again. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Harvest festivals,’ says Mark.

I smile at him, because he hasn’t said about the mustard.

‘What about them?’ asks Catherine.

‘They have them in England,’ he says.

The smile on her face is still there as she turns to look at me.

‘Is that right?’

‘Mark asked if we had them. That’s all. That’s all I said.’

‘ We? If we had them?’

I use the smile that I use when Daddy isn’t feeling well, to make him think that everything is all right.

‘We. Me and you and our family, Auntie Catherine.’

I remembered what she’d said to me in the car. Auntie Catherine .

She looks at me with one of the stares she must have practised from Michael, and I make my smile go away. I’m not going to be allowed to play outside ever again. She thinks I’m too naughty to do anything fun.

Why have all the grown-ups in the world turned mean?

I fell asleep on the settee again. My dreams these past few days and nights have been so vivid. This afternoon, I was chasing Sarah, like I did a few days ago, but when she turned round, she had Zoe’s face. A child’s face on an adult body. Obviously I was running faster than I can in real life. Why can’t it have been Sarah? It’s not as if it were real.

Last night I dreamt of Scott. It was possibly a memory. We were walking back home from playschool, just him and me. He must’ve only been three or four.

‘I’ve just learned skipping,’ he said, hopping on each foot.

‘I’m glad they’re teaching you all the important things,’ I said. ‘How else would everyone know you’re happy as you walk?’

He giggled, his little eyes squinting from the glare of the sun.

‘Can I stay with you tomorrow, Mummy, instead of being at big playschool?’

I loved the name he called it. I didn’t tell him it was Saturday the following day; that would’ve spoilt it.

‘Of course you can, Scottie.’

He skipped off into the distance – too far away. He disappeared into the bright sun on the horizon.

The dream had ended too quickly, as anything good does.

My heart physically aches when I remember him as a little boy. I want to go back to then, and start again. If I could dream of Sarah, Ron, Scott and Zoe every time I went to sleep, I’d never leave my bed.

Since little Grace Harper’s disappearance, my life has been shaken up, and not for the better. I’ve seen photos of someone who looks like Sarah, contacted Scott, and been telephoned by David. What is happening? I feel like it’s building up to something I’m not ready for.

The sun is warming my ankles from the window. The weather doesn’t suit my mood, but I suppose it can’t rain every day, can it?

I push myself up. David. He’s coming here the day after tomorrow. He has some news he wants to tell me face to face – news he didn’t sound happy about. If it were about Zoe, the police would’ve told me. Otherwise, I can’t think of anyone else alive that I care about. Unless it’s about Scott. I care about him as a son, but as the twenty-one-year-old lad he once was.

The last time I spoke to David was two years after Zoe disappeared. Obviously he and Sarah were separated before, which was why she and Zoe were staying here, but he used to come round every day to ask for news, even though he knew we would have contacted him if there were any. We liked David then – he hadn’t had an affair or anything, they just didn’t get along.

That day, he came round as usual – at the same time, nine thirty. Sometimes Sarah would still be in bed after being awake until the early hours of the morning. She never came down if she heard him arrive. I suppose I didn’t blame her. Seeing the face of Zoe’s father, reminding her of the child who was lost. Zoe looked so much like him – her dark eyes and blonde hair. But when I looked at Sarah, I could see Zoe in her as well.

He was carrying a folder – a pale green one, I remember. When he sat down on the settee, he opened it. There were all sorts of things in it – pictures, maps, newspaper articles. The file looked a little grubby round the edges already.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I said. He used to have tea: strong, three sugars.

‘Not today, Maggie. Thanks.’ He took out a notebook – orange. It clashed with the green folder. ‘I’ve listed all the sightings of Zoe. See.’

I looked to Ron, sitting in his armchair next to the fire. He frowned. After a year, the police had stopped telling us about sightings of Zoe; they always came to nothing: Ireland, Germany, Cyprus – even one as far as Australia. It seemed that if anyone – usually from England – saw a blonde girl about Zoe’s age, they would report it. One even took a photograph of some unknown child – it didn’t look anything like her up close. There weren’t cameras on phones in those days. Perhaps if there were we might have found her. That’s if she were alive.

His list was long. It included countries and cities that I’d never heard reports of.

‘How have you got all of this?’ I said.

‘From the library. I’ve gone through nearly every newspaper that they have microfiche for.’

‘Leave it to the police, lad,’ Ron said. He called everyone younger than thirty lad .

‘But the police aren’t interested any more. There have been too many sightings, too little evidence. What am I meant to do? Just sit and wait?’

‘It’s a crazy idea,’ said Ron. ‘How on earth are you going to pay for it? You’ve no job, no money.’

David put the notebook back in the folder.

‘I’ve got a couple of hundred saved – that should get me into Europe. Then I could get work when I’m there. I’ve worked in bars; I could pick fruit.’

Ron sat back in his chair. ‘Pick fruit!’

‘I’m serious, Ron.’

Ron looked at him, his eyes narrowed. ‘I know you are, son. That’s what worries me. You going all across Europe on a wild goose chase. You haven’t been well as it is.’

Not being well. That’s what Ron called David’s depression. It was what he was signed off work with. But this was the most animated I had seen David for years. He had a purpose.

‘Will I fetch Sarah down?’ I said.

‘Don’t bother her,’ said David. ‘I’ll write. I’ll try to phone when I can.’

Ron got up to see him to the door. Just before he closed it, he said to David, ‘I’m proud of you, son.’