Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

‘Of course I will.’ I take a look around Jim’s flat and all of his memories in photos and pictures. ‘It would be an honour.’

Catherine isn’t happy with me. She never seems to be happy with me. It’s not my fault I’m here – it was her idea. That’s what I heard Michael say anyway.

We left the barbecue early because she said I had a tummy ache, even though I didn’t. She drove really slowly back to their house. She said she was being careful in case anyone stopped the car. I didn’t tell her that George drove really fast and no one ever stopped us, because nothing I say is useful.

I’ve been sent to the bedroom to think about what I’ve done. I am trying really hard to think of what I’ve done, but I can’t remember. When she asks, I’ll just say I’m sorry.

It’s my favourite place by the window anyway. It’s been sunny every day since I got here – I wish I could go outside more.

There’s a person in the garden opposite. It’s a woman. I lean on the windowsill and press my nose against the window. She has the same hair as Mummy. I try really hard for my eyes to see better. She doesn’t have the same clothes as Mummy, but I don’t have the same clothes as in England either. It’s Mummy – I’m sure it is.

I knock on the window, but she’s too far away.

I try to unhook the lever on the window, but it’s got a lock on it – I can’t find the key.

I knock harder, but I’m scared the window will break.

‘Mummy!’ I’m not loud enough. I cup my hands around my mouth – they do that on the telly. ‘Mummy!’

She still can’t hear me.

‘What the hell is going on?’

Oh no, it’s Catherine. She’s still holding the handle of the bedroom door, but her face looks angrier than I’ve ever seen anyone.

‘Why are you shouting? Are you trying to get me into trouble?’

I shake my head.

‘Why were you shouting mummy ?’

I point outside. ‘My mummy’s over there.’

Catherine frowns and sit down on my bed. She narrows her eyes to look better, like I did. I can’t stop my body shaking. I think I need a wee, but I daren’t move.

‘You silly little girl. That’s not your mummy, is it? How on earth could that be your mummy? It’s the woman who lives opposite.’ She stands up, but she’s still staring at me. She grabs hold of my hand and tugs me off the bed. ‘What have I told you about talking about your mummy? I’m your mother now and you’d better get used to it.’

She pulls me out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

‘This’ll teach you a lesson.’ She opens the cupboard under the stairs and pushes me into it. ‘You’re not coming out until you’re sorry. No more talking about mummy. She’s dead to you, do you hear?’

I nod my head, and blink really fast so my tears don’t come out.

She closes the door and I’m in darkness.

What have I done that was so bad? Why didn’t she just let me say I was sorry?

I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. I bring my knees close to my chest. I can’t believe my mummy’s dead. I put my arms around my head and cry the hardest I’ve ever cried.

I’ve been thinking about it ever since she told me last night: how has Mum been writing to Jean all these years and not mentioned it to Emma and me? Mum had gone back inside the house with her bottle of wine before I could ask if Jean had ever replied. I can’t believe she wrote to Jean every year. It’s so unlike Mum to have spared a thought for someone she deemed unworthy. Did she feel guilty that she took Emma away from her biological mother? Why did no one talk about it after Emma came to live with us? There was nothing for Emma to be ashamed of.

There are so many questions I’ve thought of since; when will I have that opportunity to talk to Mum again? She knows I’d never ask her in front of Emma.

I’ve caught Mum looking at me throughout the day, like she can’t quite be sure that she spoke to me outside in the garden last night. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her and shout just tell me the truth . But that would never do, would it?

‘What were you and Mum talking about last night?’

Emma’s washing dishes, her back to me. It’s the first time I’ve seen her doing anything remotely domestic. It’s also the only chance we’ve had to speak alone. Mum has been hovering between us all day, as though she’s afraid I’m going to say something to Emma.

I get up, grab a tea towel and stand next to her. It’s dark outside. Another day has gone without Grace here. I glance quickly at Emma. Matt has barely spoken to her since she revealed she was being stalked by a man from work. She hasn’t mentioned it since.

‘Nothing important,’ I reply at last.

‘I can’t believe Mum’s smoking again,’ says Emma.

‘What? Since when has Mum ever smoked properly?’

‘You’re joking, right? She was always having a crafty ciggie at the back door.’

‘Sometimes I think you grew up in a different house to the one I did.’

Emma hands me a dripping plate. ‘I probably did.’

I try to dry the plate with the sodden tea towel. You shouldn’t dry the dishes straight after washing them – you’ll soak the pot cloth . Was it Mum who used to say that? I don’t think it was.

‘The police called while you were on the phone to Jamie. They want us to give them our birth certificates.’

‘What? Why?’

She shrugs. ‘I don’t know, do I? I guess it’s what they do.’

‘They wouldn’t ask for things like that. They have access to all that from the station – they have official documents online. Didn’t you ask them why?’

‘Obviously not. I’ve got more important things to think about.’

‘But why would they ask us to get them? If they’ve got something to say, why don’t they just come out and say it?’

‘Say what? Jesus, I don’t know, Steph. It’s just what they said.’

‘It doesn’t sound right. Where’s Nadia?’

She shrugs again. Why isn’t she bothered about this?

‘Did you give them yours?’

‘No. They only asked an hour ago. And anyway – I’ve no idea where mine is. I’ll have to go down to births and records to get another copy.’

‘You’re not doing that – it’s ridiculous. I’ll ring them in the morning, sort this out.’

‘But you’ve got yours, haven’t you? If it helps them find Grace, then we have to do as they say.’

‘Somewhere. Of course I have. Why would that help them find—’

‘Shall we take a drive out to yours? I could do with getting out of this house.’

‘I really don’t think—’

‘Please, Steph. Matt’s driving me mad. He’s not spoken to me since he found out about Andrew. I’d rather he shouted at me than ignore me. Please.’

I grab my keys from the table.

Andrew. So that’s his name.

Emma’s rubbing her temples. We’ve been in the car for five minutes and she hasn’t said a word. I’ve stopped asking questions about the birth certificates. I’m beginning to doubt if the police asked for them in the first place – that perhaps it’s Emma’s elaborate excuse for getting out of the house.

‘I wish you’d told me about Andrew,’ I say, breaking the silence. ‘I could’ve helped you – come with you to report him to the police. Matt wouldn’t have had to know.’

‘Whatever. You can never keep anything from Matt.’

‘What? Why would you say that? Of course I can.’

‘What about that time I said I might be getting a promotion, that I might set up a bank account to save up a surprise holiday fund? And what about—’