Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

Slowly, he stands.

My heart’s pounding.

Without thinking, I’ve opened the car door.

‘Where are you going?’ says David. ‘You’ll make him run. He’s…’

I can’t hear his words any more.

I’m walking slowly towards my son. He’s standing on the edge of the kerb. I’m on the opposite side. He looks left and right. He’s coming towards me. Should I try to run away? Would he hurt me?

I’m shaking.

David’s shouting something, but it’s just noise.

Scott’s standing in front of me.

‘Mum.’

It’s the first time in thirty years that he hasn’t called me Maggie.

There are wrinkles around his eyes, grey stubble on his face. To me, he’s aged in an instant.

‘I’m so tired, Mum.’

He throws the unlit cigarette to the ground and folds his arms. Instinctively, I reach out and rub the tops of his arms.

‘You’re shivering.’

He takes off his cap and holds it in both hands.

‘I thought I was doing something right,’ he says. ‘I don’t know how it went so wrong.’

This was the man I expected to see in the dock of the court twenty-seven years ago, after hurting his own father – remorseful, aware. But now, after everything that’s happened, I’m not sure if he’s upset at what he’s done to Grace, or if he’s sorry for himself.

‘Where’s the little girl, Scott? Where’s Grace?’

His eyes briefly flicker with recognition at the mention of the girl’s name.

‘In the car… I…’

He looks confused.

‘Have you hurt her?’

I’m not sure I want to hear the answer. Surely he wouldn’t hurt a child?

‘I don’t know, Mum. I…’

I take a step back.

‘Oh, son. What have you done?’

He takes a step away from me, too. He’s frowning.

‘I don’t know…’

There are police sirens in the distance.

David’s abandoned the car – both doors are open. ‘Maggie, get back in the car. He’s dangerous.’

‘You wouldn’t hurt me, would you, son?’ The sirens are getting closer. ‘Do the right thing, love. Wait here – hand yourself in.’

He puts the cap on his head and tips it over his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

He turns round and runs in the opposite direction.

I thought I’d hate her when I saw her again. But I didn’t. She seemed so old. I knew she wouldn’t look the same, but God, she’s aged. Every time I’ve thought about her – I’ve seen her expression as she stood over Dad.

No. I can’t think about that now.

Breathe, breathe. My lungs feel like they’re giving up on me, they’re burning with the cold air. I can’t run for much longer. People are staring at me – they always look at the running person when sirens are sounding. No one’s trying to stop me – they’re stepping away from me, like they’re scared of me, like I’m a leper.

I see them – two cars, five hundred metres away. I turn down an alley. Either side are back yards of terraced houses. The uneven cobbles make my steps unsteady.

A panda car blocks the exit I’m heading for. I turn round; another one, barricading the opposite entrance. Shit. I can’t make it easy for them. I’ll never be a free man again.

There’s a blue wooden gate to my left – it looks rotten round the hinges. I give it just one kick before it opens. It’s not even locked. I bolt it behind me and lean against it.

Did the police see me come into this yard? I need to think. I’ve trapped myself in here. What a fucking idiot.

I look up at the house. It’s like the terraced house we grew up in. Red bricks, shed out the back, green gutters. There are two faces at the bedroom window – a boy and a girl. The little boy’s resting his chin on his hands. He waves at me with his fingers. I put a finger to my lips. ‘Shh.’

There are footsteps in the alleyway behind me: five, or maybe six coppers. My breathing’s too loud; the bastards are going to hear me. I look up again to the children. The boy copies me, putting a finger on his lips, but the girl turns round. There’s someone behind them. A woman. She pushes her children away from the window and narrows her eyes at me as it slowly dawns on her what’s happening.

I should be running, but I can’t take my eyes away from the bedroom window; my feet are welded to the floor. I’m in their back yard. I want to tell them I won’t harm them, but that wouldn’t be true, would it? No matter what my intentions are now. It’s like I can’t help myself; the monster takes over me.

She’s banging on the window so bloody hard I’m surprised she hasn’t made a hole in it. Now she’s pointing at me. Great. The cops will know exactly where I am.

I sink slowly to the floor, the rotten wood rough against my back. The door rattles, pulling me back and forth with it; they’re trying to get in.

I ought to move. I could check the back door of the house, go through to the front. Come on, Scott, get the fuck up.

I crawl on my hands and knees, the gravel giving my legs tiny electric shocks of pain.

I get to the door and hold my hands up to the handle. I’m just inches away when the gate bursts open. I don’t turn round. I close my eyes. The gravel crunches with heavy footsteps. Two, or maybe three pairs of hands pull me up from the ground. The handcuffs are hard and cold around my wrists. Pain tears through them as the bastards push me around by my elbow.

‘Scott Taylor, I’m arresting you for the kidnap and attempted murder of Grace Harper…’

‘Attempted murder?’ They’re pulling me through the gate. ‘You mean she’s still alive?’

We reach the panda at the end of the alley.

‘Shut up, you piece of shit,’ says one of them.

She presses my head down and I’m bundled into the car.

The ceilings are usually the same in places like this: white peeling paint and grey plaster underneath. They didn’t clear this one out before I came in though; there’s still a picture of someone’s wife or girlfriend or whoever it is on the ceiling. Unless the bloke in here before left it ’cos he was sick of the sight of her. Or he died. Whatever.

The bolt drags across from outside and the door slams open against the wall.

Always in a bad mood, these coppers.

A uniform holds the door open for a woman in a suit. They dress like men these days.

‘Get up,’ she says. ‘Come with me.’

‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ I say, but she doesn’t laugh. Miserable cow.

I try not to look at her backside as I follow; there are two blokes next to me – they’re watching me a bit too closely for my liking. One of them grabs my arm as the woman – a detective probably – opens a side door. He almost throws me inside.

‘Easy, tiger,’ I say, brushing the scent of pig off my arm.

I reckon they train them not to react. Back in the good old days, they would’ve thought nothing of giving me a slap in the face for not answering a question within three seconds.

The woman pulls out a chair next to a fat bloke with the smallest round glasses. He looks like Piggy from Lord of the Flies . I remember watching the video at school.

‘I’m Detective Rachel Berry,’ she says, still standing. ‘I’m about to interview you in connection with the kidnap and attempted murder of Grace Harper.’ She gestures to the man sitting. ‘This is Mr Anthony Rawlinson, who’s been assigned to represent you. I’ll give you a moment with your solicitor before I begin questioning.’

‘No need,’ I say to her, but she’s gone.

‘All right, fella,’ I say, holding my hand out to him. He takes my hand – his is cold and sweaty. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure before, Anthony.’ I know how to speak to these fellows . Most briefs I get are posh bastards, trying to ease their conscience working for Legal Aid, representing the poor unfortunates like myself who find themselves in a spot of bother.