Page 6 of The Tapes
‘I’ve been clearing out his house,’ I say.
‘What’s it like?’
‘Cluttered. I don’t think Dad ever threw anything out.’
‘I think I’m going to be murdered…’
I’m back in Dad’s garage again, listening to the tape. Why did Mum think that, let alone record it?Whendid she record it? My name was on the sleeve, so was it supposed to be for me? If so, why was it in a box so long?
So many questions.
‘I’ve been thinking about Mum a lot lately,’ I say, out of the blue, even if the ‘lately’ only refers to the last hour. Nicola is still at the window but turns to take me in.
‘Because of your dad…?’
I nod. It’s sort of true. The reason I’m thinking of Mum is because I was clearing out his garage. With all of that, I give into the pull and take out my phone. It’s rare that I allow myself to scroll to the bottom of my messages, where Mum’s final text still sits, etched digitally in time. When I got a new phone, I refused to turn off the old one until I was certain it had copied across.
It had, and it’s still there.
Are you coming over for tea on Sunday? Lamb’s on offer at Asda
I read her words again, as I have hundreds of times. I went to my parents’ house for Sunday lunch once a month or so, ever since leaving home. Nicola asks if I’m OK, so I pass her the phone, allowing her to read the message. She scans the screen and nods, before giving it back.
‘Mum still texts when she’s in Waitrose and there’s something on offer. I think she misses the Aga.’
I look to the oven and try not to sigh.
‘She sent that on a Tuesday,’ I say. ‘She was gone the next day.’
At some point, I stopped believing she would come back.
Nicola knows this already, of course. Faith was only four when her grandmother disappeared, and she wasn’t friends withShannon back then. I’ve definitely told Nicola what happened in the years since.
‘Do you… want to, uh… talk about it…?’
There’s an implied, possibly accidental reluctance. Nicola doesn’t want the conversation, even as I consider telling her about the tape.
Except I want to listen to it again before asking anyone else’s opinion. Not only that, hearing my mother’s voice after so long feels intimate; not yet something to talk about.
Nicola is still half-distracted by whatever’s going on outside the window. I don’t blame her as she picks up her phone from the counter, checks the screen, then puts it face down again. ‘Are we still on for lunch tomorrow?’ she asks.
We usually meet once a week for lunch and a catch-up while I’m on a lunch break at work. I missed last week because it was shortly after Dad had died.
‘I think so,’ I say, slightly surprised by the gear shift. ‘Where do you want to meet?’
She catches my eye momentarily and I know what’s coming. ‘Is it all right if Mum comes along? She says she’ll pay.’
I know Nicola’s already told her it’s fine but she needs to justify it. ‘She thought Dad would spend more time with her after retiring but he goes golfing most days. She says he’s home even less than he used to be.’
I want to say no but obviously can’t.
‘Well if she’s paying,’ I reply, with a laugh, pretending it’s all fine. She’s done this before – and anyone who’s met Nicola’s mother isn’t desperate to go for lunch with her a second time.
Nicola picks up her phone again, looking at the screen, sighing, then returning it to the counter.
‘Everything all right?’ I ask, likely knowing the answer to that as well.
‘Ethan normally texts when he finishes with a client,’ she says – and there’s an edge that explains her distraction. She catches my eye again, and it’s not the police at the back of her house about which she’s concerned, nor my father’s death.
