99 Red Balloons: A chillingly clever psychological thriller with a stomach-flipping twist. Elisabeth Carpenter

For years.’

      ‘Aye,’ says Jim.

      I’ve told him many times and he always listens as though it’s the first. He reaches over and pats my hand. I look into the little girl’s eyes in the newspaper he brought me. Grace Harper’s eyes.

      ‘This one’ll be different.’ I say to her, ‘They’ll find you, love. Just you see. It’s different nowadays. People have their cameras everywhere.’

      Jim carefully picks up Zoe’s article from the coffee table. ‘Is it okay if I …?’

      ‘Of course.’

      He takes his glasses, which are on a chain around his neck, and perches them on the end of his nose. He tuts several times, shaking his head. He removes his glasses and rests them on his chest.

      ‘These sightings of your Zoe,’ he says. ‘Where were they?’

      ‘Cyprus, France, Spain.’ I reel off the list.

      ‘Really? How could they have done that?’

      ‘Who knows – they might have hidden her.’

      Jim smiles at me kindly, like most people used to when I dared to believe Zoe was still alive. He looks up at the television.

      ‘It’s the appeal.’

      A policeman in a suit is reading from a piece of paper. Next to him are, I presume, Grace’s parents. The mother has her head in her hands; the father comforts her, his arm around her shoulders.

      My heart beats too fast, I wrap my arms around myself – I’m so cold, I’m always cold.

      ‘They look young,’ says Jim.

      ‘People do these days. Must be in their early thirties, I imagine. Though I can’t see her face properly. My mother looked fifty when she was thirty.’ My mouth is talking without my mind thinking. ‘Those poor people.’

      It cuts to a photograph of a school uniform laid out on a table.

      ‘These are the clothes Grace was wearing, although if someone has taken her, she might not be wearing the same ones.’

      Jim tuts. ‘Course she wouldn’t be wearing the same clothes. But you know, Maggie, I know I shouldn’t say this, but what if someone’s taken her, and just killed the poor little mite?’

      I sigh loudly in the hope it’ll shut him up. Even though I’ve thought the same thing myself.

      The appeal must have been taped earlier as the news article cuts to a shot outside: a village hall or a community centre. I see the mother’s face for the first time – her friend, or perhaps her sister, holding her by the elbow.

      I get up slowly and walk to the television. ‘She’s a bonny one, isn’t she?’

      He doesn’t answer.

      ‘Would you pause it, Jim?’

      He presses the button several times.

      ‘Come on!’

      ‘I’m bloody pressing it.’

      He did it. The picture’s frozen. I get closer to the screen, bending down to look at her face. My knees go weak. I drop to the carpet.

      I can’t breathe properly.

      Jim’s at my side.

      ‘Have you had a turn? Shall I fetch the doctor?’

      I take several breaths before I can speak and shake my head.

      ‘I’m fine. Pass me that picture.’ I point to the mantelpiece, but he picks up the one facing the wall – the one I rarely look at. ‘Not that one, the one on the right.’

      He grabs it and hands it to me. I hold it next to the pretty face on the television.

      ‘Look.’

      He squints.

      ‘Put the glasses on your face, man.’

      As he does, he brings his head next to mine, just a few feet from the television.

      ‘Well, would you look at that,’ he says. ‘She’s the double of your Sarah. But that’s impossible, she’s—’

      ‘I know, I know. But it could be …’

      Jim frowns. ‘What are the chances of that? It can’t be.’

      My shoulders slump. ‘I know. But it might. It might be Zoe.’

       Chapter Eleven

       Stephanie

      Grace has been gone for almost three days. If the police have any new information from the television appeal yesterday, then they haven’t updated us.

      Mum has been making a fuss of Emma, though I don’t begrudge it of course, not now Grace is missing. She’s indulged her ever since she came to live with us. Emma arrived with only a little rucksack. I had just turned eleven and she was ten and three quarters. Her hair was straggly, like it hadn’t been washed for weeks, but it didn’t smell horrible – it was sweet, like sticking your nose in a bag of pick ’n’ mix from the cinema. Her knees were dirty though, and her skirt had food stains all over it. Mum had warned Dad and me that Emma might be in a right state because she’d been alone in the house for at least three days until her neighbours had noticed. ‘Her mother ran away with a man half her age,’ Mum said. ‘All she had left in the cupboards was a tin of Golden Syrup and a can of prunes, which she couldn’t even open.’

      Emma and I didn’t speak for four days. I was a little scared of her, plus she was given my bed under the window. It had been my favourite place to be. I could pull back the curtains and watch the stars when I couldn’t sleep, imagining I was somewhere else. It was only after I heard her crying for the fifth night in a row that I tried to talk to her.

      ‘Do you miss your mum?’ I whispered.

      I heard the pillow move. I took that as a nod.

      ‘Do you want me to turn the lamp on?’

      ‘Yes please,’ she said, as quiet as anything.

      I flicked on the light and I’ll never forget her face. The skin around her eyes was so puffy I could barely see them. Her hair was stuck to her cheeks from the wetness of her tears.

      I opened my covers. ‘Do you want to come in with me?’

      She nodded and almost dived into my bed. Her head snuggled into my chest and she put her arms around me. I turned off the light, and put my arm around her shoulders. I looked to the window. The curtains were open and I could see the stars. Within minutes she was fast asleep.

      The memory is so vivid, I almost forget where I am. I give myself a shake – now isn’t the time to get lost in the past. I go into the kitchen to check on Jamie. I’ve kept him off school and he’s been on his laptop all morning, reading what he can find about Grace.

      ‘They’ve created a Facebook page,’ he says.

      ‘Who has?’

      He shrugs. ‘I don’t know the names. Do you?’

      He points to the screen. I haven’t used Facebook for ages.

      ‘I’ve no idea. They sound Scottish. How can they even create a page when they don’t know us?’

      ‘Anyone can create a Facebook page.’

      ‘That’s a bit creepy.’

      He shrugs. ‘It’s just what happens.’

      He scrolls down the page, which is filled with well-meaning messages: I