Page 23 of The Tapes
‘I think they both died.’
That gets a blank look, even though I know I texted my brother to ask whether he knew. That blankness quickly turns to a suggestion of a cruel grin and I know what’s coming a moment before it does. ‘The Rowetts?’
He makes sure he catches my eye.
‘Not them,’ I say, as I try to force away a shiver. I don’t want him to know that he’s got me. I hate that name.
That gets a snort and a shrug. ‘I dunno what you want then.’ He looks to his watch again. ‘I have to get off. I’ve got work to do, then football later.’
I vaguely remember the LinkedIn post about how he gets up at five every morning for a run; and how he plays football twice a week. Something about keeping himself young, in among all the other nonsense about eating egg whites and #familytime with his #soulmate.
The dig about the Rowetts would usually be enough to end this conversation, except I still need him.
‘There’s other stuff on the tape,’ I say, trying not to sound desperate. ‘It’s patchy and hard to make out. Owen from work is trying to clean up the audio. Have you ever seen a jewellery box around the house…?’
It’s certainly a non-sequitur but I’m hoping Peter doesn’t notice. He tries to frown but his forehead fights back. ‘Owen…’ he says, as if he knows my workmate. He opens his mouth again to add something, closes it, thinks for a moment, and then: ‘What kind of jewellery box?’
‘I think there are engraved flowers on the side.’
There’s a flicker of something, though Peter is increasingly hard to read. ‘I didn’t really go snooping when I visited Dad,’ he says. ‘And I don’t think that was Dad’s sort of thing.’
‘I know but maybe it was Mum’s. Perhaps he kept it?’
He huffs a dismissive sigh and shakes his head before looking to his watch again. I figure he’s about to leave. ‘Dunno what you mean.’ Another check of the watch. ‘Need a slash…’ He doesn’t wait for a reply, instead bounding for the stairs and leaving me alone.
Except… the floors are thin and the carpets not much better. His footsteps should be heading towards the bathroom, except I hear my brother moving in the opposite direction, into Dad’s bedroom.
I’m in the doorframe, half in the kitchen, half in the living room, listening to my brother above when a flicker of movement catches my eye from the front of the house. I drift across the front room to the window. There’s someone over the street, partially concealed behind a lamp post. I’m far enough from the glass that she shouldn’t be able to see me, but I watch as she holds up what looks like a phone.
I think she’s taking photos of the house.
If I wasn’t concerned about what my brother was doing upstairs, I’d cross the road and ask. She’s wearing black butlargely in shadow and it’s hard to see much in the way of features. If I had to guess, she’s in her sixties but the silver hair could be the light.
There’s a creak from overhead as Peter moves a pace or two around Dad’s bedroom. There’s a muffled thump, as if he’s opened a drawer, although it’s hard to know for sure.
Meanwhile, as my attention was diverted, the woman across the road is ducking into a small silver car. I shift a pace, trying to get a view of her face but the glare of the car windscreen is too much. Moments later, she’s done a three-point turn and headed out of sight. I tell myself it’s nothing, except it really did seem as if she was taking photos of the house.
Unless, of course, Mum’s tapes have me paranoid.
There’s a further creak from above and then the quick movement of feet as Peter moves to the far side of the house. The toilet flushes and the pipes creak as water gushes through the house.
Moments later and Peter is back in the hall. I meet him there, wondering if I should ask what he was doing in Dad’s bedroom. I probably would, were it not for the fact that, once the probate has gone through, we’ll be the legal owners. If I ask, he’ll tell me he has as much right to be here as I do.
‘I thought I saw someone watching the house,’ I tell him instead.
My brother rolls his eyes. ‘Probably a neighbour,’ he replies dismissively. Something has shifted in the time he’s been upstairs and there’s a nastiness that wasn’t completely there before. ‘Look, I’ll be at the funeral but I told you to get this place sold. We don’t need to be in each other’s lives, especially now Dad’s gone.’
It’s so direct that I reel away a fraction. ‘Oh…’
‘I don’t mean to be harsh but the women in this family attract crazy – and I don’t want that. I don’t know what you’re on aboutwith all these questions and I don’t know what you’re on about with someone watching the house. It’s all nonsense.’
He mumbles something that might be goodbye, then turns for the door. As he does, he pats a pocket, probably involuntarily. There’s a bulge I don’t think was there before.
Something taken from upstairs.
ELEVEN
I watch from the front window as Peter disappears off to afternoon football, or wherever it is he’s actually going. A part of me always wished we could get on better, but perhaps that’s not who we are. We’ve always been destined to argue because, ultimately, we have nothing in common other than sharing a father. I consider that for a minute or two until I snap back to the present. I bet he’s not thinking about me at all as he zooms off.
