Page 29 of The Tapes
Kieron drinks and then his gaze flickers sideways to the rowdy group of men. He says nothing, not to them anyway. ‘Nictold me about the gun,’ he tells me instead. ‘Then I heard from my old colleagues about your mum’s fingerprints. I didn’t know what to make of it.’
‘Me either.’
‘Did she ever own a gun?’
‘She never showed even a tiny amount of interest in anything like that.’
‘Could she have…? With her history and all…?’
That’s the thing with being a self-diagnosed kleptomaniac. Sooner or later, that lack of impulse control is going to get a person noticed by the police. Ironically, Mum’s record is nowhere near as serious as mine – but there is that nice string of petty thefts.
‘I have no idea,’ I say, although it suddenly dawns on me that I can properly ask the question now. ‘I was reading about fingerprints. It says they can stay on something essentially forever…?’
Kieron flicks another sideways look at the group, then turns back to me. ‘Sort of. You could pick up your glass now and leave nothing, or – if nobody else interferes with it – you could leave a print that’s still there in a hundred years. It’s a lot less consistent than people might think.’
‘So Mum could’ve held that gun a long time ago?’
‘Maybe. The only certainty is that, at some point, she held it.’
I find myself clutching the glass, as if Kieron suggesting it somehow made it happen. The drink is too cold and my teeth tingle. I really want to leave.
‘I’m so confused,’ I say. I’ve been desperate to tell somebody the breadth of what’s happened in the past day or so, largely to get it out of my head.
‘It’s been tough with your dad,’ Kieron says, but he doesn’t get it.
‘I found a box of tapes,’ I say, staring at the table. ‘They were in Dad’s garage when I was clearing it. Mum used to record herself on this old cassette player. Sort of like a diary. I picked one at random and she said that, if someone was listening to the tape, then she had disappeared, that she’d been murdered.’
I sense Kieron breathe in but it doesn’t feel like a good inhalation. As if he’s wondering whether I really am still clean. That Dad’s death might have got to me far deeper than I’m saying.
‘The tape quality isn’t great. It cuts in and out, plus it sounds like she’s tried to record over something but the old version is still there. Owen from work is seeing if he can fix it up.’
He waits a moment. ‘I’m not sure what you’re telling me.’
I can’t force myself to look up from the table. I’m so desperate for someone to take me seriously but Kieron is one of those people who’s had a real job, lived a real life. He seems so grown up.
‘Mum said she found a jewellery box,’ I tell him. ‘There were earrings inside – but only one of each type. No pairs…’
There’s a slight shift as Kieron straightens, then puts down his glass. It takes a few seconds. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
‘I don’t know.’
My phone is fumbled from my bag and then I lay it in front of him on the table as I press to play the voice note. There’s the crackled, fuzzy line that Mum loves me, but snippets of the rest as well. The quality sounds so much worse outside, almost drowned out by the braying men across the garden.
Kieron leans in then asks if it’s OK to pick up the phone. He holds it to his ear at my nod. It’s then I allow myself to peer up, but his features are granite with concentration. It’s impossible not to see that face and not think of the time seven years before when he appeared outside the police cell. I was still caked indried blood then, reality starting to set in that the few seconds of satisfaction was going to cost me my daughter and freedom.
Kieron eventually returns the phone to the table. ‘Did you tell Nicola?’ he asks.
‘I’d not listened to it all yesterday. And… no. I didn’t.’
I’m not sure whether we’re friends like that anyway. What kind of friend do you tell this kind of thing to?
‘I can ask my colleagues about this,’ he replies. ‘But we’d probably need the tape.’
‘My friend from work has it. He’s good with audio and is going to try to fix the quality.’
Kieron nods but I know what’s coming. ‘I’d love to believe what she’s saying here…’ A pause. ‘OK, that’s not quite what I mean. It’s just your mother and the truth have a complicated relationship. I’m pretty sure I heard her say she robbed a bank. It’s very difficult to take this seriously – especially as she isn’t around to clarify any of it.’
It’s nothing I don’t already know, nor anything I haven’t already considered. The whole thing is fanciful, which probably sums up my mother.
