Page 4 of The Tapes
‘We found a gun!’ Shannon says, excited, and apparently keen to share this information with anyone and everyone.
‘What do you mean?’ I reply, talking to my daughter.
‘We found a gun,’ Faith repeats, as if this is a normal occurrence. She points past the house, towards the back and the woods beyond. It’s not quite clear why she didn’t say this on the phone, other than that she sounds a lot calmer now. I suppose the twenty-five minutes or so it took to get here has changed things.
‘It was arealgun,’ Faith adds.
‘A pistol, or…?’
‘I guess. One of the handgun things. I don’t know what sort.’
The girls turn, wanting me to follow as they head around the side of the large house. At some point, this was a farm. There’san old cowshed near the front that’s never been demolished, while the main building is for an extended family of three or four generations.
It’s summer and the heat prickles as I trail my daughter and her friend towards the patch of browning grass at the back. A large shed sits at the end of the property, trees beyond, thick with green from the season, no fence separating the woods from the house.
Hardly anybody lives out here and it’s a good half-mile to the next house. A police officer is hanging around the treeline, typing something on his phone, and doesn’t notice as we stop next to a patio heater. ‘We were in the woods,’ Faith says. Any shakiness to her voice has gone.
‘There was some sort of noise,’ Shannon adds. ‘I think there was a squirrel.’
‘I thought it was a bird,’ Faith says, as they talk over one another. There’s a hint of giddy excitement from the pair, which is rare from my daughter nowadays.
‘Did you see it first?’ Faith asks.
‘I thought it was you.’
‘I guess we found it together,’ my daughter adds. ‘We sort of looked towards the squirrel, or bird – and there was a gun on the ground. It wasn’t hidden, or anything. Just right there.’
‘What did you do with it?’ I ask.
The two teenagers look to each other, as if trying to remember. I know it’s because I’m her mum but, sometimes, Faith seems so young. Not the person a year or so away from leaving school and heading into the huge, wide world; but that uncertain girl who objected to needing a car seat all the way through until she was twelve. She’s that little girl now, face riddled by bemusement and, perhaps, a tickle of fear.
‘Did you pick it up?’ Faith asks.
‘No, you said we should call the police, in case there were fingerprints.’
Faith nods, though seems unsure. It can’t have been more than an hour ago.
‘I think I’m going to be murdered…’
The tape and its contents had disappeared as I raced across town to my daughter but, as I picture this gun, Mum’s voice is back at the front of my mind. If she thought she was going to be killed, did she mean she was going to be shot? How would she know ahead of time? Was she scared?
‘… Mum…?’ I blink back as I realise Faith has been talking to me. ‘Are you OK?’ she adds.
‘Sorry, I was thinking about something else.’
The two exchange a silent sideways glance but I know that look. I was seventeen once and there’s an assumption that everyone over the age of about thirty is senile and on the brink of being packed off to an old people’s home.
‘You don’t really see guns around here,’ I add quickly, trying to prove I’m somewhat in control of my senses.
‘Except for that time at the cinema,’ Faith replies.
I nod along, unsure what to add – because that’s the only time I’ve ever been in the vicinity of a gunshot. It’s not so much that I’d forgotten, more that I try not to think about things too much.
The police officer at the treeline looks up from his phone and squints towards us, probably wondering who I am. Before he can object or say anything, the back door goes and Shannon’s mum emerges. Nicola wipes her hands on her jeans, and nods towards the main gate. ‘I didn’t know if they’d let you past,’ she says. ‘I was going to have a word with the police guy but you’re already here.’
Before I can reply, Faith skips around me, Shannon at her side. ‘We’ve a few things to sort out,’ Faith says, unprompted, before they disappear into the house.
Nicola nods towards the house as well, silently beckoning me inside, until we end up standing at opposite ends of her kitchen. There’s a large Aga, and those sorts of thick wooden cupboard doors that catalogues describe as rustic. Nicola’s house, but the kitchen in particular, has always felt very farmhouse chic. There’s a clatter of footsteps on the ceiling above, then quiet, as Nicola and I watch the police officer through the window. He’s pacing in a circle, still at the treeline, either talking on his phone or a radio.
