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

The tears betray me and trickle down my face.

‘I don’t know.’

I wish I knew.

‘She wanted French toast with Nutella for breakfast this morning,’ she says. ‘Don’t be silly, I said. That’s a weekend breakfast. Coco Pops I gave her.’ She starts rocking back and forth again. I’m rocking with her, my arm across her back. ‘Shit. Why didn’t I just make her the French toast? Fucking work. Rushing out of the door every morning to make it there on time. Why do I work? If I stayed at home, I would have made it for her. And then maybe she wouldn’t have gone for sweets after school.’

Matt strides over and crouches at her feet.

‘How can it be about that? How can she have vanished just because you work in a fucking office?’

He’s almost shouting. He stands while fresh tears pour down Emma’s face.

I wish he hadn’t snapped at her, but then who am I to monitor his behaviour when their child has just disappeared?

‘What is it?’ he says, to himself rather than us. ‘What are we missing? Perhaps she has met someone on the internet – maybe a friend from school told her which sites to go on.’

He looks around the room and walks towards the computer desk.

‘Where’s the laptop?’ he says.

Emma doesn’t move, just stares at the carpet.

‘Did you see them take it?’ he says to me.

I shake my head.

‘The police always take things like that, don’t they?’ I say.

‘How the hell should I know?’

Matt puts both hands on top of his head.

‘Shit.’

Emma said she was going to the bathroom, but she’s been upstairs for twenty minutes. I climb the stairs, but not so quietly that I startle her.

The bathroom door is open; she’s not in there. There’s a glow from underneath Grace’s bedroom door. There’s a sign on the door – one like Emma used to have on hers, only Grace’s is purple and has her name written in silver. I gently push it open.

‘It’s only me, Em.’

She doesn’t look up. She’s sitting on the edge of Grace’s bed. The quilt cover’s laid diagonally across it, and her giraffe teddy bear is near the pillow – she’s had it since she was a baby. Emma’s switched on the fairy lights, which twinkle on the headboard. Loom band bracelets are piled on her bedpost, untouched for months as the phase was replaced by another. I kneel on the floor, not wanting to disturb anything. Under the window is her dressing table, covered with pens, three jewellery boxes, and two mugs that she decorated herself. Above her headboard is a photo collage of her friends from school, and pictures of Emma, Matt, Jamie and me stuck to the wall with Blu-tack. Alongside them are posters of Little Mix and One Direction. One of the boy band members’ faces has been obliterated with a black marker.

Emma’s holding one of Grace’s books. She lifts it up: Everything You Need to Know About Horses.

‘We got it from the library two weeks ago,’ she says. ‘It’s due back on Friday. She’s decided she wants to be a vet. Last week she was going to be a hairdresser. Matt said he’d buy her a shop. At the time, I thought, Don’t be so silly, we can’t buy her a whole hairdresser’s.’ She places the book back on Grace’s bedside table. ‘When she gets back, I’ll get her anything she wants – anything.’

Emma looks around the room. Her eyes rest on a little shoebox that Grace made into a bed when it was her turn to look after the school teddy bear a few years ago.

‘I need to do Grace’s washing,’ says Emma. ‘I’m so crap.’ The white plastic laundry basket next to the desk is overflowing, the lid three feet away from it. ‘But what if I do that and she never comes back? I won’t be able to smell her any more.’ A tear runs down her cheek. ‘Where is she, Steph?’

I crawl to her and rest my head on her lap.

‘I don’t know.’

I try to picture Grace, like Emma tried before, but all I see is her cold and alone, the rain falling on her face as she lies in the dirt. It’s not even raining outside.

On the day she was born it had been snowing. I held her in my arms and looked out of the hospital window; the car park and the treetops were covered in a snow blanket. I hadn’t yet seen her open her eyes, but when I said, We’ll have to wrap you up warm when we take you home, little one, she gripped my finger a little tighter.

She didn’t have a name for the first week. Emma and Matt hadn’t wanted to know if she was a boy or a girl before the birth. They expected a boy, simply because Matt’s family were mainly men. ‘I must get her name right,’ Emma said. Every day they tried a different one for her: Jessica, Natasha, Lily are the few I remember. When Emma said Grace, I knew it was the perfect name for her.

‘You will stay here tonight, won’t you?’ says Emma, breaking the silence.

‘Of course, but—’

‘It’s fine that Jamie’s here. I need him here too. Will you both be all right in the spare room?’

‘We’ll be okay anywhere, don’t worry about it.’

There’s a growl of a diesel engine outside. We both jump to the window.

‘Oh.’

We say it at the same time.

It’s a black cab: Mum. She hasn’t driven since 1996, or whenever she had an experience with an HGV. I can’t remember her ever driving us anywhere before that though – it was always Dad.

Dad. What would he have been like in this nightmare? He’d have come straight over and taken control of everything. It’s been four years since he died. Sometimes it feels a lifetime ago; at other times it seems like yesterday.

I rush downstairs and open the front door, waiting while Mum pays the driver.

‘Where have you been?’

She rakes her fingers through her hair as she walks through the door. Her face, usually impeccably made-up, is red with broken veins on her cheeks. Her eyes are surrounded by puffy skin.

‘I had to get myself together. How’s Emma bearing up? Is she okay? And Matt?’

I narrow my eyes at her. Get herself together? Is she really going to be like this now?

‘Emma’s been asking for you. I rang you ages ago.’ I reach into my pocket for my phone. ‘It was five to six when I finally managed to talk to you after God knows how many times I rang – you said you were on your way. It’s gone seven o’clock.’

She frowns at me; her eyes are bloodshot.

‘It’s not the time to be pedantic, is it? I said I was sorry.’

No, she didn’t.

Jesus. My heart nearly pounds out of my jumper. I can’t think.