Page 21 of The Tapes
TEN
Dad’s house feels different in the afternoon. There’s something about the direction the sun rises and passes through the sky that means the house is enveloped by shadow after lunch. My father was never a fan of having the big light on, and I don’t think he ever quite came to terms with the fact that leaving something plugged in wasn’t going to lead to a bankruptcy-inducing electricity bill. Either way, the various rooms are speckled with dim lamps that leave large parts of the house coated in pervasive gloom.
A bit like me.
I searched through the garage as best I could but there was no sign of a jewellery box of any sort, let alone something with engraved flowers around the side. Mum was a liar – but was she lying about the box?
Then there’s the gun.
How could Mum’s fingerprints possibly be on it? And how did it get into the woods at the back of Nicola’s house? It’s been thirteen years since she disappeared and a long time since I last thought she might turn up. But is she somehow out there, keeping an eye on us? I can’t make sense of it all – and it’s no wonder the police can’t figure it out, either.
So I wait, the curtains open, half-watching the street until the shiny black car glides into view. It looks new, and, as the suited man slips from the driver’s seat, I wait for him in the doorframe. He’s wearing sunglasses, and blinks into the daylight as he removes them to take me in.
‘You look good,’ I tell him as he stops in front of me, gaze sliding across the house.
‘Thanks,’ he replies, no hint of returning the compliment because, let’s be honest, my brother is a complete nob.
‘How’s the funeral looking?’ Peter asks. He has a way of taking in a person while seemingly looking right through them.
‘You could be involved.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘So am I.’
He snorts a fraction at this and there’s a hint of an eye roll. His job is more important than mine, obviously. His life. He holds up a hand, wafting it in the vague direction of the garage. ‘If this is about the house, I told you to do whatever. Let’s get it sold. The sooner, the better.’
It’s true that he said that – in an email. That’s the level of relationship my brother and I have. The house will be sold, with the value split fifty-fifty between us. Our father has no other dependants.
‘It still needs clearing,’ I tell him.
‘So clear it.’
‘I’ve been trying. The sofa, chairs and table all went to someone on Facebook Marketplace. People will takeanythingon there if it’s free.’
Peter’s gaze flickers towards the neighbour’s house and the car that sits on the driveway. There’s moss growing around the window edges and the bonnet is a different colour to the rest of the vehicle. That’ll definitely drag down the house’s selling price.
‘Why am I here?’ he asks.
‘I was wondering if there’s anything of Dad’s you might want?’
‘Is that why you had me drive all the way out here? I thought there was something wrong with the house.’
‘I made a pile.’
I nudge open the front door and hold it wider. There’s a moment in which it feels as if Peter might huff and walk off – except he’s come this far, so he sighs his way inside instead. I take him through to Dad’s kitchen, where our father’s watch sits on the counter. I found it in his bureau a few days back, and hand it across to Peter.
‘I thought you might like that,’ I say.
He flips it over and squints at the writing on the back, before sulkily returning it to the counter. ‘It’s fake,’ he says. ‘Trash.’
‘Yes, but not everything’s about money. I thought you might want it because it was Dad’s…?’
My brother lets out something that sounds likeyuckbut then snatches the watch back. ‘Fine, I’ll have it. Is this all? I’ve got stuff to do.’
I more or less hold in the sigh. I can’t remember the last time my brother and I got on, if we ever did.
‘How are the twins?’ I ask.
