Page 7 of The Tapes
Her husband is a personal trainer and, as well as working from a gym in town, he goes into people’s homes for private sessions. Nicola’s always been a little funny over this.
She sighs theatrically and glances to the clock on the wall.
I suppose this is the sort of friendship Nicola and I have. We each want to talk about our own issues, while not listening to the other. Just like me and Mum, I suppose. She asked if I wanted to visit on Sunday – and I never even replied.
‘…I need you to know that I love you.’
FOUR
Dad’s house feels different when I arrive back. Nobody’s been inside yet the ghosts of conversations and past events breathe from the walls. There’s the hallway where Dad’s guitar sits resting in a corner. He bought it for thirty quid on a whim from a car boot sale, with the astonishing confidence that he’d somehow be able to teach himself through sheer will. When truth dawned later that same day, the instrument was abandoned, never to be touched again.
The kitchen counter still has the dual olive oil set I got him the Christmas before last, unopened, untouched, gathering dust. It was at a time when Dad insisted he was going to get into cooking healthily for new year; a fad that didn’t even make it to the first of January. There’s the old plasticky toaster that he’d complain about endlessly, though wouldn’t throw out, even though it cost less than a tenner. The giant tub of gnarly instant coffee that he claimed was indistinguishable from anything that could be bought in a shop.
A stubborn man to the end, who went on his own terms.
I’m supposed to be clearing all this and, even though it’s already been more than a week since he died, I’ve not quite got to it. The old toaster did need two goes at actually browning somebread – but there’s something about it that feels undeniably Dad.
Maybe it’s me who’s the hoarder.
I use the terrible instant coffee granules to make myself a drink, knowing it’s too late in the day for caffeine and that I’ll regret it. Before returning to Dad’s house, I dropped off Faith and Shannon at another of their friends – which also had me thinking of Mum. She used to complain that I used her as a free taxi service, which I guess proves everything’s circular, because here I am doing the same for my own child.
That initial concern Faith had over the weapon they’d discovered had evaporated by the time I dropped her off, replaced by a rising giddy excitement that there’s an overseas drama trip for everyone on her course in a few weeks.
Back in Dad’s kitchen, the coffee is bitter but I drink it anyway, thinking of him, vaguely amused that he’d force down this stuff to prove a point to nobody but himself.
Did Dad ever listen to Mum’s tapes? The box still sits in the garage, gently crusted by a coating of dust that would indicate it’s not been touched in a long time. I try to remember the things he said when Mum disappeared but I was probably too self-obsessed to see past myself back then.
‘If they say I’m missing, I’m not. I’ve been killed – and I need you to know that I love you.’
I drift through to the garage and listen to that part of the tape, then rewind and replay it five times in a row. A part of me wishes I’d never pulled out the box of tapes. With neither of my parents around to ask, there’s nobody to offer an explanation.
I let the tape run this time as Mum’s voice finishes with a click of the microphone before it cuts back to an infant me. I realise now that the reason my name is on the tape sleeve isn’tbecause Mum was leaving me a message, it’s because there was this ancient recording of my voice. This tape had probably been stored for almost forty years. I wonder if it was meant to be a gift for me at some point, or maybe something Mum would listen to by herself to remember old times.
Or perhaps it was simply forgotten?
Nobody to ask.
While infant me struggles with the alphabet, I flit through the rest of the box. It’s around the size of something that might’ve once stored wellington boots. The row of tapes are neatly lined bottom to top. I start removing the cassettes, lining them up by date. The earliest seems to be the September one from the caravan. There are others from November and December of 1987, then four from the year after.
It’s as I’m sorting the tapes that something shiny catches my eye from the bottom of the box. It was buried among the tapes and almost slipped through a small hole in the corner.
I hold the necklace in my hand and run it through my fingers. It’s that sort of cheap white gold that came from a catalogue, or one of those places that littered the high street in the 1990s.
I know because it’s mine.
I bought it when I was seventeen, possibly with various savings from birthdays or Christmases, or maybe with some of my first pay cheque. It was a little under fifty quid, reduced from eighty, and I can’t quite remember why I wanted it. The small engraved leaf that dangles in the centre means it is pretty but largely unremarkable. It’s difficult to remember who I was at that age because so much has passed. I wore that necklace every day for months, maybe even a year and then, one time, it was gone. I thought I remembered leaving it on my side table while I slept but it wasn’t there the next morning. I checked behind the unit and underneath the bed. I looked under my pillow and pulled out the sheets. Neither Mum or Dad had seen it, whichleft me questioning whether I reallyhadleft it on that side table. Perhaps I’d lost it during the day?
Seeing it in the box all these years later, alongside Mum’s things, gives me the answer. It was neverlost, and maybe I suspected it at the time.
Mum stole it.
Because that’s the other thing about her disappearance. It wasn’tcompletelyout of character. Mum did unexpected things – like steal from her own daughter.
I run a thumb across the leaf and consider putting it on, before deciding against it and putting the necklace in my bag instead. It’s no longer a symbol of my youth and that first pay cheque; it’s Mum’s dark side.
The tape has been playing while I’ve been sorting and reminiscing but I suddenly realise it’s back to Mum’s voice. The older Mum, not the one trying to teach me the alphabet.
‘… suppose that’s what I’m worried about. I don’t want Eve getting involved. I can’t keep it to myself, though, which I guess is why I’m recording this. I have to get it out, even if no-one’s listening. Even if I’m already dead. I’ve been telling myself it’s not real but if you’re listening to this, the reason for all this is because I know who the Earring Killer is.’
