99 Red Balloons: A chillingly clever psychological thriller with a stomach-flipping twist
and dream about them. Then, my friend, it’s easy as fuck.’
All I needed was a name. And it just so happens that children have their own little routines too. Even in this day and age, kids are still allowed to walk the streets on their own. Their fuckwit parents should know better. There are too many weirdos out there. She’s lucky it’s only me that took her – there were some right filthy perverts inside. Not that we got to see them. Most of them would be killed if they put them with the rest of us.
Anyway. I digress.
This is probably the biggest thing I’ve ever done. It will be my salvation.
And God anointed Jesus with the Holy Spirit and with power. He went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil. For God was with him.
And if the ends justify the means …
She will be so pleased with me. It would be like none of all that bad stuff ever happened.
‘When will you take me to my mum?’
Her little voice almost made me shit myself. For a second I forgot she was there.
‘Not long now.’
There’s only so far I’m going to get away with that one. Another day or so, maybe. I’ve taken us the long way round, but we’ll be there soon. She’ll soon figure out that I’m not taking her to her mother. I look at her in the rear-view mirror – dressed in clothes I bought especially for her – her hair stuffed in a hat. Her cheeks look a bit red, but she’ll live. She looks just like her precious mummy. Although that bitch couldn’t even look me in the eye the last time I saw her.
She’ll have to soon enough though, won’t she?
I’ve laid out all the cuttings from Zoe’s disappearance on the coffee table. There are only a few – there weren’t as many newspapers in 1986. Most papers used the photo of Zoe in her uniform – her first and last school photograph.
I try not to think about what she might have looked like if her picture had been taken every year after that. About how proud Sarah would have been of her. I try not to feel bitter every time I see her old school friends standing at the gates of the school down the road, adults now, waiting for children of their own. I simply let it stab me once, in the heart, before I bury it again. We used to talk about Zoe every day. I don’t get to talk about her any more. No one else knows her now.
I look at the clock. Jim’s late, but for once I don’t mind. It gives me time to look at all the different versions of her little face in the cuttings: small and grainy; black and white and brightly coloured, of which there’s only one. In the centre of them all I’ve placed the last photo of Sarah and Zoe together: my daughter and granddaughter.
I bury my face in my hands. It never gets any easier. It’s not the natural order. I’ve said that to myself a thousand times. I wish God would just take me to be with them. It’s too hard to be the only one left. Well, almost the only one.
Jim’s taps on the kitchen window halt the flow of my tears. I grab one of the cushions off the settee and soak up the wet from my face. This is why I hardly ever look at these pictures.
‘Where are you, Maggie?’
‘Where do you think I am? I’ve only two rooms.’
I place the cushion back next to me, but reversed.
Jim appears at the threshold and shakes off his coat.
‘You could’ve been in the lav,’ he says.
‘Well, you can’t ask where a lady is if you think she’s in the lav.’
‘It was just something to say,’ he says, ‘so you’d know I was here.’
He sighs and the settee sinks a little as he sits next to me. We don’t often sit like this together. I rub my right arm with my left hand to get rid of the tingling.
‘So this is what you’ve kept all these years,’ he says, looking at the pictures on the table.
He takes a folded newspaper from the inside pocket of his coat. The things he can carry in there. Last week he took out a tin of pease pudding because I’d never eaten it before. He should’ve kept it in there.
‘It’s today’s,’ he says. ‘She made the nationals.’
My intake of breath gives away my surprise.
‘Don’t look so shocked,’ he says. ‘I knew you’d want to read it.’
I take it from him.
‘I know. But don’t you think you’re indulging me? An old fool getting caught up in a story that’s nothing to do with her?’
He shakes his head. ‘You’re not the only one. They were all talking about it at the shop. And anyway, it’s not a story – it’s real life. You more than most know all about that. Stop being so ashamed about it.’
I feel myself flush. Am I ashamed? Ashamed we couldn’t find her? Guilty that she was taken in the first place? Or ashamed that I still think about her, that she might come back to me after everyone else has gone?
Jim picks up one of Zoe’s articles. ‘A sweet shop? Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Like where this girl, Grace Harper, was last seen.’
Zoe should’ve been in the paper straight away. Perhaps she’d have been on the news all day too – they have news channels playing twenty-four hours a day now.
‘Have you been watching Sky News?’ asks Jim.
He read my mind.
‘I don’t have Sky News. Why would I want Sky? All I watch is Countdown.’
That’s a lie. I watch so much rubbish I couldn’t say. Channel Five do a true-life film every day that I usually end up crying to. I’d never tell Jim about that.
He winces as he stands up. ‘You’re the only person I know who keeps their remote control next to the television. What’s the bloody point of that?’
‘Mind your language,’ I say.
I wonder if Grace’s mother is waiting at the window, like Sarah used to.
‘You’ll have Freeview,’ he says. ‘Everyone does now. News 24 – it’ll be on there.’
I leave him to play with the remote control. I place all of Zoe’s articles back in the folder, except for one. It was the one that broke us: Search called off for missing Zoe Pearson.
We heard it from the police first. Newspapers weren’t as quick off the mark as they are now.
‘Every lead has been exhausted, Sarah,’ Detective Jackson said. ‘If we receive any new information, we’ll carry on the investigation. It’s not closed, it’s still open.’
I feel a drip on my hand and realise it’s from my face.
Jim turns and glances at me.
‘There you go,’ he says, handing me the remote. ‘It should be repeated any minute, it’s nearly on the hour.’
He pretends not to notice, Lord love him. That’s what we’ve always done, people our age: ignore things. Sarah used to tell me off for it. ‘For fuck’s sake, Mother, this isn’t the 1950s. People talk about things now – important things.’
Thinking about it thumps me in the chest. I beat myself up about it every day: my hypocrisy. It was so hard to talk about Zoe then. But if Sarah were here now