Page 15 of The Tapes
‘I might know someone who can get old tapes, if that’s what you want,’ he says.
‘I was wondering if you’ve got the equipment to digitise a recording.’
‘Oh… I mean, probably.’
I remove the tape from my bag, and place it on the counter between us, knowing this is potentially dangerous territory. ‘Could you do this?’ I ask. ‘I can pay whatever it costs. It cuts in and out. I think they’ve tried to record over something but the old audio comes through underneath…?’
He nods along, though it’s unclear if he knows what I mean. ‘I don’t know a lot about cassettes,’ he says. ‘I think that canhappen if the tape is thin? Maybe if it’s damaged? You can hear what’s on the other side…?’
Owen sounds unsure, though it’s hard to blame him. By the time he was born, CDs were on the way out, let alone tapes. I might as well be asking about typewriters or leaded petrol.
Still, I’m already in too deep.
‘Have you got any machines that might be able to salvage the audio? Even if it cuts out?’
‘So you could have it on your phone?’
‘Exactly.’
He shrugs. ‘Probably. If not me, there’s a guy in the studio who’s really old. He knows all about this stuff.’
There’s no malice, but the ‘really old’ feels particularly brutal. Owen reaches for the tape and picks it up. ‘Is this it?’
‘My mum’s voice is on there,’ I reply. ‘She’s been gone a long time, so it’s quite important to me…’
He nods, then opens the case and removes the cassette, twisting it in his hand as if he’s an art collector who’s heard all about the wonder and mystery of theMona Lisa, but is only now seeing it in person.
‘It might take a few days,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to promise, but it’s probably OK.’
He turns the tape around, and then returns it to the holder. I wait until he looks up at me.
‘My mum says some strange things on the tape,’ I tell him. ‘She was ill towards the end, so if you could keep them to yourself, I’d be really grateful.’
Owen’s confused for a moment but I can see him turning things over in his mind. ‘Um… sure. Is it, like… illegal, or something…?’
‘She had a bit of dementia at the end, so wasn’t always sure what was real.’
It’s a lie and I’m not sure whether it’s a good one. Owen’s too young to remember my mother disappearing and I’ve phrased things in such a way that it sounds like she simply died.
Recording from analogue to digital means the audio will have to play all the way through – so someone could potentially listen to it all the way through. I figure it’s better to warn Owen ahead of time. If he knows about the Earring Killer, perhaps he’ll put it all down to the fake dementia.
‘Uh… sure,’ Owen replies, slipping the cassette into the pocket of his hoody. He glances backwards to the door, and Dina who’ll be beyond, ready to leave. ‘I think I’ve got your number,’ he adds. ‘If I don’t see you before, then good luck with Friday…’
I thank him for listening and then he spins and charges out of the office and into the waiting van. As soon as he’s out of the door, I pull my phone from my bag and place it on the counter, then load voice notes, before playing back the most recent clip.
‘… I need you to know that I love you.’
If something happens to the tape, I could probably live with it – but I couldn’t face losing those few seconds. The quality is washed out from the cassette recorder’s speaker, and my phone’s microphone – but it’s enough. Regardless of whether Owen can clean up the original recording, I’ll always have this.
As I listen a second time, something prickles the back of my neck and I glance sideways to realise I’m being watched. The company owner, Mark, has an adjacent office that’s been empty all morning. He must have entered via the other door, because he’s now perched on the corner of his desk, watching me not work. There’s a frown and I wonder how long he has been there; whether he overheard me asking Owen for the favour. He says nothing but he’s one of those men whose faces do enough talking without the mouth ever having to open. There’s aless chat-moreworklook about him, which has me silencing my phone and returning my attention to the monitor.
All is immediately explained when I see the email at the top of my mailbox.
Eve. I’m not paying you to chat. Next door have been waiting for an engineer for over an hour. I thought you were on this?
Sent from Mark’s iPhone
Oops.
