Burnt Paper Sky by Gilly Macmillan Page A

established for anyone who has seen Benedict or has information about his whereabouts.
    This number is 0300 300 3331
    Calls to this number will be answered by dedicated members of staff who will take details of any information provided to assist with the inquiry.
    By launching Child Rescue Alert, which is supported by all UK Police Forces, it is hoped that the public and media can assist Avon and Somerset Constabulary in safely tracing Benedict.
    Police are seeking information specifically from anyone who has seen Benedict or anyone matching his description in the last twenty-four hours.
    Benedict is described as being of Caucasian appearance, of slim build and just over four feet tall. He has brown hair and blue eyes and freckles across the bridge of his nose. It is not known what he is wearing.
    A recent photograph of Benedict has been widely circulated. It can be seen on the Avon and Somerset Constabulary website.
    He was last seen on the main path round Leigh Woods, just outside Bristol, at around 16.30 on Sunday, 21 October when he and his mother were walking their dog. His mother raised the alarm at 17.00 after extensive searching in the woods did not locate him.
    Intensive searches led by trained search officers, and including police dogs and mounted police, are taking place in and around Leigh Woods and the surrounding area and members of the public have been assisting.
    Benedict is described as bright and clever, a fluent communicator and English is his first language. He is known to his family as Ben.
    Spread the word: Facebook; Twitter
 

RACHEL
    My sister Nicky was waiting for me in the foyer at Kenneth Steele House. She was panda-eyed with strain. I fell into her arms. Her clothing smelled of damp cottage and wood smoke and washing powder.
    She looks a lot like me. You could tell we’re sisters if you saw us together. She’s got the same green eyes and more or less the same face, and a similar figure, though she’s heavier. She’s not quite as tall as me either and her hair is cut short and always carefully highlighted, so instead of being curly it settles in brushed golden waves around her face, which makes her look more sensible than me.
    Nicky told me she’d driven straight from Aunt Esther’s cottage. She held me tightly.
    The hug felt awkward. We probably hadn’t been in each other’s arms since I was a child. I wasn’t used to the padded curves of her body, the cotton wool softness of the skin on her cheek. It made me acutely aware of my own frame, its angularity, as if I were constructed from a more brittle material than her.
    ‘Let’s get you home,’ she said, and she brushed a strand of my hair back behind my ear.
     
    Arriving home was my first taste of how it feels to live life in a goldfish bowl.
    Journalists had gathered outside my little two-up, two-down cottage. Ben and I lived on a pretty narrow street of small Victorian terraces in Bishopston, an area that has yellow Neighbourhood Watch stickers in many house windows and loves recycling and having street parties in the summer. Our neighbours were a mix of elderly people, young families and some students. Ours was a quiet street. The biggest drama we’d collectively experienced since I’d lived there was waking up to find drunk students had put traffic cones on top of the car roofs during the night.
    The journalists were impossible to avoid. There was a group of them, big enough to spill off the pavement. They called my name, thrust microphones towards us, photographed us as we entered the house, pushed and shoved and tripped up as they ran around each other trying to get in front of us. Their voices were cajoling, and urgent, and to me they had the menace of a mob.
    When we got inside, black dots danced at the edges of my vision, the after-effects of the bright white of their flashbulbs, and I could still hear them calling from behind the door. My heart rate didn’t slow until I moved into the kitchen at the back of the house, and