I squint at him. The sun’s in my eyes and he looks like a shadow monster.
‘I can’t,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got to get home. I’m only meant to be getting sweets from the paper shop, then straight back.’
He crouches in front of me. He’s wearing a woolly hat, which is funny as it’s really warm today.
‘But your mum asked me to fetch you.’ His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.
I fold my arms. When I tilt my head, his face blocks out the sun.
‘You might be lying,’ I say. ‘Mummy warned me about men with sweets and puppies.’
The man laughs, like Gramps does when he’s Father Christmas.
‘I know,’ he says. ‘What’s she like? She’s such a worrywart.’
He’s right: she is. I drop my arms to my sides.
‘Anyway,’ he says, holding out both of his hands, ‘I’ve no sweets and I’ve no puppies. My name’s George – she’s always talking about me, isn’t she? She’s waiting at the bus station, says she’s got a surprise for you, for being a good girl at school.’ He taps his nose. ‘And we all know what you’ve been asking for.’
‘Really?’ I try not to jump up and down. ‘They’ve got me a horse?’
He winks and puts his finger on his lips. I try to wink too, but it turns into a messy blink. He holds out his hand, and I take it.
I’m allowed to sit on the front seat, but I’m not allowed to tell Mummy. On the radio, a song plays that I know: ‘Ninety-Nine Red Balloons’. I’m warm inside because Mummy sings it a lot. She sings it in German sometimes: Noin and noinsick or something. It’s an old one, but I like it.
‘Are you feeling all right?’
He’s looking at me as though I’ve got spots all over my face.
‘I think so.’
Mummy’s always worrying about me. When I had a bad cough in the middle of the night three weeks ago, she ran a hot bath and called the ambulance, but it was a false alarm.
He stops the car at a mini car park on the side of the road, just as the song is ending. Without his hat on, he looks older than he did before. He puts his hand on my forehead.
‘You do feel a bit hot.’
As soon as he says it, I feel it. I’m burning up.
He turns to the back seat and grabs a plastic carrier bag. I can’t read the supermarket’s name, but I recognise the red and green. He gets out a flask and pours a drink.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘Your mum gave me this in case you got car sick.’
After I’ve drunk it, I give the plastic cup-lid back to him. I’m really tired. There are things I have to say to him, like, Mummy’s never mentioned anyone called George, and, I never get car sick, but I can’t because my mouth doesn’t work any more. I try to smile at him. I wouldn’t say those things to him anyway ’cos I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Has he turned the radio off? Everything’s quiet. I can’t stop my eyelids from shutting.
Emma’s running up and down the street. Angie, her next-door neighbour, is standing at her gate in her dressing gown.
‘What’s happening, Mum?’ asks Jamie, sitting beside me in the passenger seat. ‘Why’s Aunt Emma outside shouting? I thought we were coming for tea.’
‘I don’t know, love. Wait in the car.’
I get out. Angie pulls her dressing gown tight around her middle, shivering, even though it’s not that cold yet.
‘She can’t find Grace,’ she says.
‘What do you mean she can’t find her? Where’s she left her?’
‘Nowhere. She hasn’t come home from school yet.’
It’s nearly half past four.
‘Shit.’
I run after Emma, following her into the newsagent’s a few doors down. She’s showing Mr Anderson a picture of Grace on her phone, even though he already knows what she looks like. He shakes his head.
‘I told you ten minutes ago,’ he says gently. ‘She came in, but she didn’t buy anything. She came in with her friends, and then they went. I thought they all left together. Assumed she was with them.’
‘Did you actually see her leave?’ Emma rushes to the door to the back room of the shop. ‘Could she have sneaked through here? Maybe she’s hiding from someone. Grace!’
The door to the storeroom squeaks as it opens.
‘I doubt it, but you’re welcome to look.’
‘Angie’s calling the police,’ I say.
Emma glances at me, seeing me for the first time. She grabs hold of my arm. It’s dim inside. I pat my hand along the wall for the light switch, flicking it on. Boxes of sweets, crisps, toilet rolls are stacked up in rows – the back room smells sweet, like Nice biscuits.
‘Grace! Grace, it’s me, Mummy. I’m not cross. Come out, love. No one’s angry at you for hiding.’
She moves every cardboard box away from the wall. Nothing. But then, Grace is not the type to play hide and seek, especially in a dark back room of a shop – she’s too sensible to do anything like that. Emma stands in the middle of the room, both hands on her head.
‘It’s not been long,’ I say. ‘Perhaps she’s gone to a friend’s.’
She wrinkles her nose – it’s her way of stopping tears falling from her eyes.
‘She’s
