Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

I can’t stop the tears falling from my eyes; I can’t be the strong one any more.

‘I know, love. I never let myself dream we’d find her, but when you came to me that day, and told me that you’d found her – that one day I could have some sort of family again – I did dare to dream. I pictured what life would be like with her in it again, to have someone to care about, to talk to. But…’

David put his hands over mine.

‘Things never turn out the way you plan them, do they?’

‘No, love. No, they don’t.’

He pats my hands before he stands up.

‘I’ll just wash my face, then we’ll go downstairs.’

I don’t want to be the first to say it, but we can’t stay here forever. David’s the one who’s been searching all these years.

‘Maggie?’ He’s standing at the doorway of the bathroom. ‘I think this should be the last day we wait. It’s Jim’s funeral the day after tomorrow, remember. I’ll leave a forwarding address with the landlady.’ He dabs his face with a towel. ‘I know it might be a big ask but—’

‘You can stay at mine for as much time as you need. As long as you don’t mind sleeping on the settee.’

He nods and gives me the saddest of smiles.

‘Thanks, Maggie.’

We’re sitting at the table by the window where we can see the main road, the newsagent’s and the corner shop. The first day we sat here, we thought she would turn up at any minute. We wore our smart clothes: David wore his suit, and I bought a navy-blue dress from the charity shop in town. Every car that came past we looked at.

‘Do you know what car she drives?’ I asked David.

‘No.’

It’s amazing how little we know about her. I brought the photograph from the newspaper on that first day, so I would know exactly what she looked like. Now, after all these days of waiting, her image is ingrained in my mind. I would know her from across the street.

Mrs Abbott, the owner of the bed and breakfast, places a pot of tea on the table.

‘No joy today?’

David lowers his paper and shakes his head. He’s been reading everything he can find about her, and what happened to Grace. I, on the other hand, can’t bear to read anything about it. The television is on in the corner, with subtitles in case the ambient noise gets too loud, but I dread seeing his face on the screen again.

He was on every hour when we first arrived here. They actually televised what appeared to be his mugshot. How did they manage to get their hands on that? The news didn’t give away many other details about Grace – only that she was found by the canal in the boot of a car. What must that child have gone through, and at the hands of my own son? I can hardly bear to think about it.

David folds his paper and places it on the table.

‘I think we should leave after this cup of tea, if that’s okay with you?’

It feels as though we’re giving up, but how long would we be here until Zoe wants to see us? It could be weeks, months, never at all. I can’t bear to think about never seeing her after all of this. But this is David’s decision, I must respect that. If it wasn’t for him, we would never have found her. At least she’s alive. That alone should keep me going, shouldn’t it?

‘Yes, that’s all right. I suppose we could always come back if we hear from her.’

‘I wonder where she is right now.’ He looks out of the window. It’s a view we’ve become accustomed to. ‘Perhaps she’s at the hospital. Maybe we should give it our last shot to see if we can find her, to see if she wants—’

‘No, David. She’s been through enough. All these people have decided things for her; they’ve changed and controlled her life. Catherine took her off the street; Scott kidnapped her niece. We have to leave her to make up her own mind about whether she wants to see us or not, we must give her that.’

He dabs his face with a serviette.

‘You’re right, Maggie. I know you’re right. It’s just so hard.’

We drink the rest of our tea in silence.

As I pack my things into my weekend bag, I feel as though I’m abandoning her. What if I never get to see her? Do I forget we ever found her? I couldn’t do that. I have to have hope.

‘Sarah, love, if you’re listening,’ I say to the empty room. ‘Tell Zoe we love her, will you?’

I look about the place before I leave and take a picture of it with my mind’s eye. We came so close to her. I drag the bag off the bed and shut the door behind me.

I’ve been in rooms like this before. Cold, bland rooms contrived to convey serenity. The walls are painted beige, off-white, and there are crap countryside pastel drawings on the walls. We’re on the ground floor, obviously, so as not to give the ‘clients’ an option for a final exit out of the window. Her certificates line the walls: Maria Lewis, Diploma in Counselling and Psychology . There are at least three, like she needs reminding.

‘So,’ she says, leaning back with her arms folded.

This is only my second session. I don’t know what she wants me to say.

‘Have you had any flashbacks at all?’ She looks at her notepad. ‘Have you thought about travelling by boat to see if it triggers any dormant memories?’

‘No, of course I haven’t. What would I want to do that for?’

Maria’s already asked me if I remember the journey from England to Germany, but I don’t. She asked if I remember being locked in a suitcase in the boot of a car, but I told her that was Grace, not me. She said I must have suffered a significant trauma in order to forget, but I think she’s just making it up as she goes along.

‘So what do you remember?’

I shrug.

There isn’t much online about Zoe Pearson’s – my – disappearance. There weren’t as many newspapers back then. There were a few that copied old content onto their websites, but no coverage to the extent of Grace’s case.

I saw Sarah’s – my mother’s – face in one of the photos – they didn’t have many. If you go on the internet and search crimes in the eighties, you hardly ever find many pictures. But I knew her as soon as I laid eyes on her.

I look out of the window. Emma’s waiting in the car outside, like she did for my last session. Why didn’t they offer her counselling? She’s been through a lot too. I wonder what she’s listening to on the radio.

‘“Ninety-Nine Red Balloons”,’ I say.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You asked me what I remember. It’s that song – the German one. I told Emma once that she used to sing it all the time. But yesterday, she told me that she’d got it from me – that I was the one who taught it her. It’s funny the things we forget, isn’t it?’

She raises her eyebrows.

‘Yeah okay,’ I say, before she does, ‘apart from the big stuff.’

‘Have you thought about hypnosis?’

‘No.’ I fold my arms. ‘I don’t want to remember.’

‘What about your life before Catherine and Michael? Do you want to try to access those memories?’

I shake my head. ‘There’s a reason why my brain has chosen not to show me these things. And I don’t want to know – what if it’s something bad?’

‘This is all up to you. You can change your mind whenever you like – it’s your journey.’

Oh for God’s sake. Why does she have to spoil it by spouting crap like that? I don’t have to remember everything in order to move on. What’s wrong with dealing with things as they arise instead of purposely dredging things up? Happiness is overrated anyway. It would be so exhausting to pretend to be cheerful every day.

She glances at her notepad again; she must have a list of questions written on it.