Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

‘Have you told the police about Andrew?’ I say. ‘He could’ve taken her. All this time you’ve had these messages and you’ve said nothing!’ I look into her eyes. Anger rises up to my chest, my neck, like it’s strangling me. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her.

‘Of course I’ve told the police.’ Tears are pouring down her face; her hands grip the sides of her head as though she’s digging her nails into her scalp. ‘I told them not to tell Matt, for now. I told them how Andrew threatened to get back at me when I finished with him. I finished with him, Steph. I came to my senses, if you will. So, yes, I’ve shown the police, they’ve got copies of the messages. He probably wouldn’t hurt her. He was just upset with me because I ended things.’

‘He probably wouldn’t? What the hell? That man in the photo – the man with Grace from the CCTV – he came to your workplace.’

‘I know… I thought Andrew might have asked him to take her. I haven’t been thinking straight.’

‘Oh, did you now? You’re a fucking detective now, eh? And you didn’t bother to tell the rest of us.’

She covers her face with her hands. ‘Stop being so horrible to me. She’s my child! Don’t you think I’m suffering enough without you shouting and swearing at me?’

I turn away from her and open my kitchen cupboards; I’m sure there’s some brandy in here somewhere. Where the hell is it? All I find is a whisky miniature from two Christmases ago. I open it, and drink it till it burns my throat. Shit.

I lean against the kitchen counter; I still can’t look at her. Lies. She’s been lying to me for months.

‘Have the police questioned him?’ I say, turning slowly round.

‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything.’

‘Haven’t you asked Nadia?’

‘When am I going to have a chance to ask? Matt’s with me the whole time.’

I grab her by the wrist and lead her to the door.

‘Come on. If you’re not going to ask her, then I will.’

She stops still. ‘What was that?’ She’s looking towards the hallway.

‘Wait here.’

I run down the hall, up the stairs. The whisky and adrenaline are masquerading as courage. I turn on the hall light. I check in Jamie’s room: nothing. Under his bed, in his wardrobe: nothing. The bathroom’s empty – so is my bedroom. I lean against my doorway, out of breath from the short run up the stairs and the panic.

The spare room.

Had the door been closed when I left here? I never close that door, never needed to.

The floorboard creaks as I near the room. It’s only small – enough for one single bed and a wardrobe. If there’s anyone in there, there’s nowhere to hide.

I push the door gently. I hold my breath.

Silence.

I slam it open and flick on the light.

I quickly open the wardrobe doors and jump back.

Nothing.

I open the drawers under the bed. They’re empty.

I almost burst into laughter at how silly I’m being. Of course there’s no one in my house.

‘Nothing up here,’ I shout.

But as I turn round, something catches my eye.

The curtain is blowing with the wind. I’m sure I hadn’t left the window open.

Emma’s nearly hysterical when we pull up outside her house.

‘What if Matt hears you ask?’

I get out of the car and walk around to her side. There are at least ten more tea lights along their fence, flickering in the darkness, some in jam jars to keep the flame burning.

‘You keep him talking,’ I say. ‘Come on.’

When we walk into the house, it’s as eerily quiet as mine was. Before we left, I quickly closed my spare room window and ran out of there.

I make a mental note to mention it to Nadia later.

‘Where is everyone?’ I whisper to Emma.

‘Mum left ages ago.’

She knows I don’t mean Mum. I should have noticed that Nadia’s car wasn’t parked outside. I open the door to the living room to find Matt asleep on the sofa.

‘We’ll just have to ask Nadia tomorrow then,’ says Emma.

I close the lounge door and already Emma is halfway up the stairs.

‘I won’t forget, you know.’ I’m talking to her back.

She stops and turns, her finger on her lips.

‘Shh. You might wake him. I’m going to try and get some sleep.’

I sit on the bottom of the stairs. It’s ten thirty. It seems silly to go back home now. I don’t even want to go back there after tonight. My skin prickles with the idea that someone might have been in my house.

I rest my head against the banister. My mind is racing with too many things: that Andrew can’t be that dangerous – Emma doesn’t seem to be overly worried about him; that Jamie gets to school safely tomorrow; and that Grace is still alive.

I don’t think I’m going to sleep tonight.

I’ve been feeling dazed since yesterday, and so desperately sad – I didn’t think things could get any worse. I’m sitting at the kitchen table and I keep expecting to hear Jim’s tap tap on the window, but the only sound is the ticking of the clock.

David is due here at nine thirty. The same time he always used to come round – it’s as though time has gone backwards, but my God how things have changed. He confirmed that he was coming last night, but still wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone. Nine fifteen. My stomach is sick with nerves.

I read Jim’s letter the first time last night and have re-read it twice since. I unfold the light blue paper. His handwriting is so neat, I’ve never seen it before, which sounds strange after the years we’ve known each other.

Dear Maggie,

If you’re reading this, it means that I’ve gone before I wanted to. I’m sure you understand why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want to be a burden to you, what with all the other sadness you have in your life.

I’m writing this after taking you to the library. I’ve every faith that one day you will be reunited with Zoe, and I hope to God it happens sooner rather than later. You deserve to be happy, Mags. As I told you, I was looking for someone myself. I don’t know if Sylvia ever mentioned to you that our son, Tom, went to live in Australia after he left his wife and three boys in England (though don’t get me started on that one – as you know yourself: you can’t control your children). I always thought they would make contact at some point, but months turn into years, and I received my diagnosis, so I thought I’d take fate into my own hands.

You must have met Anna by now. She’s a bit high-maintenance, isn’t she? But she seems a decent enough sort. I’m hoping to meet the boys next week, so fingers crossed I make it that long. I feel all right in my head, but my body is telling me otherwise.

I’ll not keep you longer than necessary. To be honest it’s good to have your undivided attention without you interrupting me all the time. It’s so much easier writing this than it is talking to your face (you’d have hit me with the tea towel by now, no doubt about it).

Thank you for being such a dear, dear friend to me. Life could have been lonely without Sylvia, but you gave me a reason to get up in the morning.

I wish you all the very best, Maggie.

Until we meet again.

I fold away the letter.

The house feels so empty. I can’t feel Sarah here any more. It’s as though everyone really has abandoned me. Even the sickness about Grace Harper seems to have healed. I haven’t checked the news this morning – in fact I haven’t since I heard Jim died. Just saying those words in my head it doesn’t feel real. Perhaps if I tell someone, if I hear myself say it out loud, it will seem more tangible.