99 Red Balloons. Elisabeth Carpenter

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       Chapter One

      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.