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.
‘Where is she?’ she says.
For a moment I think she means Grace.
‘Upstairs.’
In the kitchen, Jamie’s sitting at the table, his face a hint of blue from the light of the laptop he takes with him everywhere.
‘Bedtime soon, love.’
‘It’s only early.’ He glances at me and nods. ‘Okay.’
‘Has there been anything on the internet about Grace?’
‘Not yet.’
How long does a child have to be missing to make it onto the news?
My phone vibrates three times in my pocket. It might be Karl. He and I have only been seeing each other a month, but we’ve worked together for years. This is the first time I’ve thought about him since Grace went missing; should it be like that? I take out my mobile.
It’s a message from Matt.
My heart flips. He’s sitting in the other room – he’s barely looked at me since I got here hours ago. I promised myself I wouldn’t think about him in that way any more. Grace is missing. What kind of person would that make me?
My hands are almost shaking as I click to open the message. Jamie’s standing at the doorway, waiting for me to show him to bed in a house where he seldom spends the night.
The message opens: I forgot to delete the emails.
Before I open my eyes I feel that I’m rocking. Where was I before? With George, the man wearing the woolly hat. We were in his car. ‘Ninety-Nine Red Balloons’ was on the radio.
I open my eyelids just a little bit, so I can look around without him noticing I’m awake. It worked last week when Mummy came into my bedroom at night to put a coin under my pillow. She couldn’t tell that I waited up until she went to bed. I knew the tooth fairy wasn’t real anyway, so I wasn’t that sad.
I’m lying on an orange seat and there’s a table near my head. I can see his legs under it. He’s wearing the same trousers as before: grey with multi-coloured bits on them – like little dots of rainbow.
‘Ah, you’re awake, little one,’ he says.
I must have opened my eyes properly by accident. I pretend to yawn and sit up.
‘Where are we?’
‘Change of plan. Your mum is planning an even bigger surprise. We’re on the ferry.’
He looks around. I do too, but I can’t see Mummy. There’s hardly anyone here.
‘Are you hungry?’ he says. ‘I picked you up a few things from the café.’ He puts some food in front of me: a bread roll, Jacob’s crackers, and a Mars Bar. I shouldn’t eat the Mars Bar as I’ll get hyper. I’ve never eaten a whole one before – not this size.
I look around again. It’s the biggest café I’ve ever seen, but no one else is eating. I can see other people now, lying on the sofas under the tables like I was. They must be sleeping. I don’t think there are any bedrooms on this boat. Through the windows is blackness – the only thing I can see is the moon.
‘How did you get me here from the car? Did I sleepwalk?’
He laughs. ‘Well aren’t you a clever little thing – thinking about logistics.’
I don’t like him calling me a little thing. My teacher, Mrs Wilson, says that people can’t be things; only objects are things.
‘I pushed you in this.’
He reaches behind the pillar next to him and pulls out a buggy. It has red and white stripes like the one in my gran’s shed. My face feels hot. Everyone must think I’m a big baby. Mummy used to call me that when I couldn’t walk all the way home from
