I see the blue lights flashing through the darkness as we approach the Stargazer and my heart flutters: are the police here with news about Tammy? I hardly dare to hope, but still I pick up my pace as we cycle up the driveway. I’m already imagining throwing my arms around Tammy and telling her that I am sorry about what I said, and singing ‘The Chicken Hop’ song together, and …

… the ambulance car drives away from the Stargazer as Iggy and I get near and it doesn’t stop. The windows are blacked out, but I kind of know.

Dad is in the doorway of the pub. Before I can say anything, he growls, ‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying your phone for ages. It’s your mam. She’s …’ He stops mid-sentence to take a few deep breaths.

Gran appears in the doorway behind him. She puts one hand on his shoulder and says, ‘Come on, son’, and they turn to go inside.

Gran looks back at me and then at Iggy. Iggy gets the message.

‘I’d better go,’ he says. ‘I … I hope your mum’s OK.’

I don’t really want him to go, but I can tell he wants to.

‘Text me,’ he says and, before I can protest, he’s on his bike, pedalling away.

I follow Dad and Gran inside.

The pub has been more or less shut down since Tammy’s disappearance – at least, as a pub. Instead it has become the headquarters of the search operation. There are more of the posters inside the bar, piles of printed leaflets with my sister’s face on them, and the COME HOME, TAMMY banner hanging by one corner in the window. The pool table in the middle of the room is covered with posters and notepads and pizza boxes. There are empty paper cups and full bin bags – everything left behind as, day after day, the village search turns up nothing, and determination and confidence give way to desperate hope, which in turn gives way to no hope at all.

Aunty Annikka – Mam’s older sister – sits at a table dabbing her eyes with a tissue while Uncle Jan holds her other hand, jutting out his jaw.

In the corner of the empty pub lounge is a little Christmas tree: a glittery, fake one, with coloured lights that have been switched off for days now. Beneath the tree are too many presents to count – big ones, small ones, all of them wrapped with paper and ribbons. Every single label is addressed to Tamara, or Tammy, all in different handwriting. They say things like:

Come home, Tammy. We miss you. From Hexham Swim Dragons xxxx

God bless you, Tammy. From Father Nick O’Neil

Please come home! From your friends at Culvercot Primary

I feel a tightness in my throat.

Dad is blinking hard as well. He sits down heavily and I join him while Gran pads off in her huge trainers to fetch tea, then he swallows and takes a deep breath.

‘Your mam, Ethan,’ he begins, ‘she’s not at all well. She was found on the top moor, barefoot and very confused. She’s …’

‘Who found her?’ I say. This is horrific.

‘Jack Natrass was on his quad bike taking hay to his sheep. He brought her back here. She didn’t … she wasn’t …’ Dad pauses again and I think he’s going to cry but instead he takes a sip of the tea that Gran has put in front of him.

Gran says, ‘Your mam has had a sort of breakdown, Ethan. Kind of … mental exhaustion. It’s the worry and the grief and … well, everything.’

Dad sighs again. ‘The police were here. Inspector Fodden and the other one. They said they were scaling back the search locally and that we should prepare ourselves for … the worst news. Your mam took it very badly and, well …’ He stopped because there wasn’t much more to say.

The worst news.

Gran says, ‘Your mam’s been taken to a special hospital. St George’s in Morpeth. They know how to look after her.’

‘How long for?’ I say.

‘We don’t know for certain.’ She gives me a tight little smile. ‘A few days and she should be OK to come home.’

‘I tried to call your phone, son,’ says Dad, but more gently this time. ‘Where were you?’

I look between Gran and Dad. He’s a big bloke, my dad. In fact, I don’t know anyone bigger, or stronger. But right now, he looks shrunken. His face is thinner and his hand trembles a little when he lifts his cup.

There is no way – no way at all – that I can find the right words to tell Dad what happened this afternoon. Not right now at any rate.

‘Sorry, Dad. Dead battery – I forgot to charge it.’

I get up and throw my arms around Dad, and he buries his face in my hair and hugs me hard, and allows a little sob to escape. He doesn’t smell too good, actually, and his breath is bad, but I don’t really mind.

Later on, after Dad has gone to lie down, Gran points to the little Christmas tree and says, ‘Come on, Ethan. Let’s put these somewhere safe.’

And so me and Gran, and Aunty Annikka and silent Uncle Jan, carefully pack all of the presents addressed to Tammy into two large cardboard boxes and put them in a store cupboard for safekeeping. We dismantle the little fake Christmas tree and put that away too and move the lounge chairs back into position till the room looks back to normal.

I think it’s the saddest job I have ever done in my life.

And all the while, there are two voices in my head. My own, which is yelling: You have to tell someone! And that of a wheezy, hairy alien saying: Or you’ll never see your sister again.

I look at the three adults. Aunty Annikka? Nope, too wobbly. Uncle Jan? He doesn’t really do talking – I think I’ve only ever exchanged about ten words with him in my life, and his English is not all that good. So that leaves Gran.

My tiny, weather-beaten, tracksuited Gran will soon learn all about it.