Page 44 of The Tapes
It feels as if a weight has lifted, even though I’m not there yet. It’s only now I realise how badly I want rid of the house. There is no particular fondness as I didn’t grow up here. A part of me resents the direct link my brother and I share.
One week.
I try to remember where I put my car keys, then realise they’re still in my bag – along with the ones I was going to return to the landscaping firm. The suspicions I have around Mark had momentarily gone, though the cloud returns as I remove the fob with four keys from my bag. It’s not only him, of course. I’m suspicious of everyone. Mum’s cassette has made me paranoid.
Except Owen is dead.
It’s not entirely in my head. He had that cassette and perhaps I got him killed.
The landscaping yard isn’t quite on the way home, though it’s not far off. The streets are quiet as night slips across Sedingham. As I arrive on the industrial estate, a single vehicle is parked further along the road, though nobody’s in sight around the yard itself. It’s dark, aside from a spotlight high on a pole close to the fence.
It feels wrong to stop directly outside the yard, so I leave the car on the opposite side of the street and then cross back to the secure mailbox that sits next to the main gates of Mark’s landscaping firm. I’m holding the fob and keys, and reach them into the slot… except I don’t let go.
Owen is dead and, despite everything DS Cox said about him killing himself, I can’t get past the thought that it’s my fault.
It’s a bad idea, I know, yet I unlock the side gate, wincing as a rusty creak burns through the silence. It’s a sign I should turn and walk away, yet the thought is with me now. It’s only as Ienter the yard and pull the gate closed that it occurs that this is what my mother was describing on the tape. Do I have impulse control issues? I could have left the keys but the moment I had the idea to explore Mark’s office, I knew I was going to do it.
Such a bad idea.
I cross the yard, sticking to the shadows and trying to remember if the cameras actually work. There’s definitely a dummy one at the front, because Mark fell out with the security company over their prices. He said the imitation would do the trick. Hopefully he was too cheap to pay for any at all.
I unlock the door of the office block and head into the gloom. The only light is a glimmer from the large spotlight outside which leaves silhouettes stretching across the office.
My old desk is as I left it and there’s a momentary disappointment that, somehow, the world has continued without me. It’s the same as when I have a week off: a disbelief that, somehow, my workplace hasn’t crashed and burned because I’ve been away.
I shouldn’t be here.
Except Owen is dead. Carly Nicholson is dead. Mark was possibly the last person to see them both. There has to be something here because, if not, I’m back to being suspicious of my own parents.
The door to Mark’s office is slightly ajar and I push my way inside. He has a large leather office lounger, facing the wide window that offers a view of the yard. With my desk a few metres away, if the door is open, I’ll often hear him in here, mumbling and criticising the people he can see. Someone’s not loading a van quickly enough; a different person has spent a couple of minutes talking, instead of working. His business, his rules.
Mark’s desk is a mass of receipts. There’s one for KFC on top and another directly underneath for Burger King. Beneath those are pages of A4 for various personal expenses. There aretwo massages from this week alone; two more for petrol. I leave those, not sure what I’m looking for. As I move my arm, I nudge the mouse, and the monitor immediately glares bluey-white, asking for a password. The light illuminates Mark’s bikini babe of the day desk calendar – which has already been turned to tomorrow.
I consider trying to guess his password, though quickly realise I have no idea what it could be. There are Post-it notes pinned to the monitor, though nothing with what could be a password. An earthy, slightly sweet stench comes from the ashtray, in which an extinguished cigar has been mashed.
It’s all a bit 1980s blokey bloke. Almost a parody, except I’ve worked in the next room for years and know it’s all too real.
The monitor is now lighting up more of the room, as I spot the safe tucked into the corner. There’s a push-pad on the front, though I have no idea of the code. Mark’s wall calendar is labelled as ‘arctic foxes’, though that apparently means scantily clad women wearing not very much in snowy conditions.
It’s only as the monitor blinks off, leaving me in near darkness, that I realise the door of the safe isn’t closed. A sliver of yellow light beams through the gap, creating a small triangle on the floor. When I pull the door open, the lock bars are engaged, as if someone’s not quite pushed it fully closed before entering the code. Someone in a hurry.
I crouch, probably expecting cash, because Mark seems the type – but there’s no money in the safe. At first I think there’s nothing at all – but then I see a small black rectangle pushed to the side, almost hidden by the shadow.
The door creaks further open as I remove the battered canvas wallet. It’s not the sort of thing a fifty-year-old cigar-chomping company owner with a two thousand word biography on his website would own.
The Velcro pulls apart with a crinkle and then I see a driving licence slotted into the front compartment. Nobody takes a good official photo – and this isn’t an exception. A pair of unblinking wide eyes stare out at me, the skin white and pale.
The eyes of a dead man.
Owen’s.
TWENTY-TWO
Owen looks so young. I’d guess the photograph was taken when he was sixteen or seventeen. As I look into his eyes, I know it’ll never be renewed.
A debit and credit card are slotted into the other sections of the wallet, each with Owen’s name. There’s no cash, though maybe he never carried it anyway.
I sit in Mark’s big chair, checking each of the wallet pockets. There’s a scrap of paper with Owen’s address, and another with his mum’s phone number – saying to call in an emergency. As well as his bank cards and driving licence, there’s a crumpled photo of a shaggy brown dog sitting on the lap of a young boy I quickly realise is a twelve- or thirteen-year-old Owen.
