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

to think about how he broke my heart. I can’t even look at his photograph any more without it bringing back awful memories.

      Tap, tap, tap.

      The window rattles.

      I still my breathing. My heart’s thumping.

      I should get up and hide in the pantry, but I can’t move.

      The handle turns – the back door opens slowly.

      ‘Morning, Mags.’

      I breathe again.

      ‘For goodness’ sake, Jim. I wish you’d warn me before just waltzing in.’

      He takes off his cap.

      ‘That’s what the taps are for – they’re warning you I’m about to come through the door.’ He pulls out a chair. ‘Shall I whistle before I tap next time? A warning before the warning?’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

      ‘Anyway, it’s hardly the surprise of the century – I call round at least twice a week.’

      I shake my head at him and flick the kettle on. He’s been coming round to check on me ever since Ron died. They’d been friends since they started working together over fifty years ago.

      ‘Though, Maggie, you looked as though you’d seen a ghost when I walked in.’ He looks around the kitchen. ‘I know you like to talk to yourself, but you haven’t actually seen anything, have you?’

      I grab a tea towel off the kitchen counter and throw it at him. He holds out his hand and the towel drops into it.

      ‘You’d better watch yourself, Jim. One of these days it’ll land where it’s intended.’

      ‘I doubt that,’ he says, sinking slowly into the chair. ‘Bloody hell. My back’s getting worse. I can’t get comfortable these days.’

      ‘Watch your language.’

      ‘I’d rub my back if my arms could reach. Don’t suppose—’

      ‘Not on your life!’

      ‘Margaret,’ he says soberly. ‘If you’d care to let me finish. I don’t suppose you’ve got a hot water bottle handy?’

      I ignore him. I’m not in the mood for tomfoolery. I turn my back on him as I make the tea. Do I tell him about the phone calls? He’d only worry if I did. They’re probably a wrong number anyway.

      His ensuing silence must mean he’s seen the newspaper. He’s not even mentioned the leftover meat and potato pie on the kitchen counter. I can imagine what he’s thinking. Not again, Maggie.

      I wait for it.

      I place the pot of tea in the middle of the table and fetch over two cups, saucers, and the sugar bowl. He still hasn’t uttered a word.

      ‘Come on then,’ I say. ‘Out with it.’

      He grabs three sugar cubes from the bowl with the tongs and drops them into his cup. Each one chimes as it rings against the porcelain.

      ‘I’m not saying a thing. Not after you got so upset last time.’

      ‘I wasn’t upset.’

      ‘Call it what you will, I offended you. I won’t be doing that again. Not on purpose at least.’

      He turns the newspaper anti-clockwise. His eyes meet the little girl’s.

      ‘I hope they find her,’ he says, words I’ve heard for the second time today. I bet the parents have heard it a thousand times – if they’ve even ventured out of the house yet.

      Maybe I should contact them, let them know they’re not alone – that I’ve felt like this, that I still feel like this? No. What comfort would that be? What hope would that offer if I still haven’t got Zoe back? I’ve sent a card to the parents of every missing child I’ve seen in the newspapers over the last three decades, giving my full name and address just in case they ever researched other cases. A simple Thinking of You card is usually fine. I never heard back from any of them though; I suppose they might’ve thought I was some sort of crank.

      ‘There’s always hope at the beginning,’ I say. ‘And she’s not been missing long.’

      ‘It’s the first twenty-four hours that are the most important, that’s what they say, isn’t it?’

      ‘I suppose.’

      ‘You know,’ he says. ‘I was thinking about what happened to our Vera. Remember I told you about her? She died in the Salford raids. She was only four years old.’

      ‘I remember.’

      ‘I didn’t hear about it from my mother of course. It was only after Mother died that my aunt Patricia told me about Vera. Fancy my mother and father keeping that to themselves all those years – just having to move on and get on with your life after your child dies.’

      ‘That’s what people did then, Jim. That’s what everyone did. It’s how everyone managed to get up in the morning. Death was all around us.’

      ‘It’s all different now,’ he says, looking down at the picture of the little girl.

      ‘And rightly so.’

      The police didn’t even search the house when Zoe went missing – there certainly weren’t any helicopters.

      Jim jumps slightly as the phone rings, but I don’t tease him about it.

      ‘Shall I get that for you?’ he says.

      ‘No. Let’s leave it. It’ll be a wrong number.’

       Chapter Seven

      I’m so tired. I can hardly keep my eyes open – even after having a glass of Coca-Cola. We’re back in George’s car. Everyone else is sitting in their cars too, ready to drive off the ferry. I wanted to sit in the front seat again, but he said they’re strict with things like this in Belgium. I’ve never been to Belgium so I didn’t know that.

      I don’t dare ask about Mummy and Daddy again. ‘I’ve told you, they’re waiting for you,’ he said. I think he might be lying. I have to stop thinking about them or else I’m going to start crying again. George doesn’t like histrionics. I know that now.

      I look out of my window. There’s another girl, probably older than me. I wave at her, but she just stares at me. She says something, but I don’t know how to lip-read. It’s probably to her mum because she looks at me too. She doesn’t smile either. She frowns and moves her head closer to the window. She looks at George and points.

      ‘Do you know that lady, George?’

      His hands are gripping the steering wheel tight, like he’s scared we’re going to fall into the sea. He turns round and looks where I’m looking.

      ‘No.’ He hardly moves his lips. ‘For fuck’s sake, kid, what have you been doing?’

      The woman is still looking at him; she looks at me again.

      ‘Smile and wave,’ says George, through his teeth.

      He says it in a way that makes me think I really have to do as he says. Tears are coming to my eyes, but I smile my biggest smile – the one my gran always likes – and then I wave.

      Slowly, the woman’s frown goes away and she smiles a small smile.

      ‘Thank fuck for that,’ says George.

      I wish he’d stop saying naughty words.

      The mummy looks at George. He rolls his eyes at her while smiling. She does the same. Adults can be copycats too.

      A