Page 14 of The Tapes

TEN

Dad’s house feels different in the afternoon.

There’s something about the direction the sun rises and passes through the sky that means the house is enveloped by shadow after lunch.

My father was never a fan of having the big light on, and I don’t think he ever quite came to terms with the fact that leaving something plugged in wasn’t going to lead to a bankruptcy-inducing electricity bill.

Either way, the various rooms are speckled with dim lamps that leave large parts of the house coated in pervasive gloom.

A bit like me.

I searched through the garage as best I could but there was no sign of a jewellery box of any sort, let alone something with engraved flowers around the side. Mum was a liar – but was she lying about the box?

Then there’s the gun.

How could Mum’s fingerprints possibly be on it?

And how did it get into the woods at the back of Nicola’s house?

It’s been thirteen years since she disappeared and a long time since I last thought she might turn up.

But is she somehow out there, keeping an eye on us?

I can’t make sense of it all – and it’s no wonder the police can’t figure it out, either.

So I wait, the curtains open, half-watching the street until the shiny black car glides into view. It looks new, and, as the suited man slips from the driver’s seat, I wait for him in the doorframe. He’s wearing sunglasses, and blinks into the daylight as he removes them to take me in.

‘You look good,’ I tell him as he stops in front of me, gaze sliding across the house.

‘Thanks,’ he replies, no hint of returning the compliment because, let’s be honest, my brother is a complete nob.

‘How’s the funeral looking?’ Peter asks. He has a way of taking in a person while seemingly looking right through them.

‘You could be involved.’

‘I’m busy.’

‘So am I.’

He snorts a fraction at this and there’s a hint of an eye roll. His job is more important than mine, obviously. His life. He holds up a hand, wafting it in the vague direction of the garage. ‘If this is about the house, I told you to do whatever. Let’s get it sold. The sooner, the better.’

It’s true that he said that – in an email. That’s the level of relationship my brother and I have. The house will be sold, with the value split fifty-fifty between us. Our father has no other dependants.

‘It still needs clearing,’ I tell him.

‘So clear it.’

‘I’ve been trying. The sofa, chairs and table all went to someone on Facebook Marketplace. People will take anything on there if it’s free.’

Peter’s gaze flickers towards the neighbour’s house and the car that sits on the driveway. There’s moss growing around the window edges and the bonnet is a different colour to the rest of the vehicle. That’ll definitely drag down the house’s selling price.

‘Why am I here?’ he asks.

‘I was wondering if there’s anything of Dad’s you might want?’

‘Is that why you had me drive all the way out here? I thought there was something wrong with the house.’

‘I made a pile.’

I nudge open the front door and hold it wider.

There’s a moment in which it feels as if Peter might huff and walk off – except he’s come this far, so he sighs his way inside instead.

I take him through to Dad’s kitchen, where our father’s watch sits on the counter.

I found it in his bureau a few days back, and hand it across to Peter.

‘I thought you might like that,’ I say.

He flips it over and squints at the writing on the back, before sulkily returning it to the counter. ‘It’s fake,’ he says. ‘Trash.’

‘Yes, but not everything’s about money. I thought you might want it because it was Dad’s…?’

My brother lets out something that sounds like yuck but then snatches the watch back. ‘Fine, I’ll have it. Is this all? I’ve got stuff to do.’

I more or less hold in the sigh. I can’t remember the last time my brother and I got on, if we ever did.

‘How are the twins?’ I ask.

My brother’s reply is a snapped ‘They’re fine’ but it’s as if he catches himself because he waits a second and then softens a fraction. ‘Bridget’s mum has taken them to Center Parcs for a few days.’

Someone’s earning…

‘That sounds nice. Do you know if they’ll be back for the funeral?’

Peter frowns and it feels as if this hasn’t occurred to him. ‘I’m not sure,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to check. I think so.’

‘Faith was saying it’d be great to spend some time with them. It’s been a long time since we all got together.’

Peter nods along, not asking how Faith’s getting on, or suggesting he’d like to see my daughter. To see his niece. ‘We’ll see how things go,’ he says instead, before looking to his own watch. It’s far chunkier than the one of Dad’s that’s now in his pocket. ‘I’m sort of in a rush,’ he adds.

I realise I’m going to have to force the conversation, considering he apparently has no intent of engaging otherwise.

‘I found a box of cassettes in the garage,’ I say. ‘Do you remember when Mum used to record herself…?’

It feels as if there’s a battle against the Botox as the gentlest of crinkles appear in Peter’s forehead.

It’s the first time he’s been remotely interested in anything since arriving at the house.

‘I think I remember her sitting in the garden with a tape recorder and a microphone. She said she was recording a diary.’ There’s a momentary smile, finally a hint of humanity.

‘That’s so long ago. I can’t believe Dad kept all that stuff. ’

‘I was listening to a tape where Mum said I was only nine but that Dad “left” last week. I’m pretty sure I remember her telling me he was working away. I believed it at the time – probably because I was only nine – but it doesn’t feel right now…?’

It’s sort of a question. There’s a blink and I can almost see the memory reappearing. Peter is eleven years older than me and had already left home by the time I was nine. Just one of the reasons we’ve never been close.

‘Dad did leave for about three months or so,’ he says matter-of-factly.

‘There was another woman. Someone he met at work. I thought you knew?’ I shake my head and there’s something approaching curiosity on my brother’s face, as if he’d forgotten about all this as well.

‘I think she was married, too, and they both ended up going back to their partners.’ He stops and thinks for a couple of seconds.

‘Harriet-something. I think she lived up in that cottage by the rugby club. Her family used to run the bar there.’

He runs a hand through his hair and looks to me. There’s a second or two of connection that I’m not sure we’ve ever had, certainly not recently. ‘I remember now,’ he adds. ‘Your mum didn’t want you to know…’

He tails off and it feels as if he suddenly regrets telling me.

As if he’s kept a secret for thirty years and then blurted it out by accident.

As well as that eleven-year gap, we have the same dad but different mums. Dad was fourteen years older than my mother, so it all got a bit complicated with the age gaps.

There was never really a time in which we all lived as a family.

Peter had his mum and dad, then I had mine.

It’s just that our father happened to be centre of the Venn diagram.

That’s probably why I know I can’t tell Peter about the ‘murdered’ part of Mum’s tapes, nor the Earring Killer claim.

If he ever listened to the tapes, he’d focus on the stolen car part, the bank robbery bit, pointing out that Mum was a liar – and it should all be discounted. Perhaps I’d think he was right.

But I do wonder about that jewellery box.

If I could only find that, it would prove at least some of what she says is true. It wasn’t clear from where Mum stole it, but I assumed it was from someone she knew.

‘Did Dad ever talk about couples he and Mum were friends with?’ I ask.

‘From when?’

‘Any time through to when she, uh…’

‘When yours walked out?’

This is why it’s a dangerous conversation. Peter’s mother died young of cancer – and he has a very defined sense of difference between his memories of his perfect mother, compared to the train wreck of mine. I never knew his mum, so have no idea how much is real, and how much is rose-tinted.

‘I guess,’ I reply, not wanting an argument about whether Mum ‘walked out’.

‘Why?’ Peter replies.

‘I suppose I’m wondering if there’s anyone I’ve forgotten to invite to the funeral. Someone Dad might’ve lost contact with…?’

It’s a lie but good enough for Peter to think it over. ‘You’d know as well as me.’

‘I’ve invited everyone I can think of. That’s why I’m asking you.’

Despite the fillers and the way my brother’s face doesn’t really move, I can see him trying to come up with a sarcastic reply. When nothing appears, he huffs: ‘Did you invite Kieron and Lucy?’

‘I saw Lucy earlier. They’re both coming.’

He shrugs a fraction. ‘What were our old neighbours called? The Greens?’

‘I think they both died.’

That gets a blank look, even though I know I texted my brother to ask whether he knew. That blankness quickly turns to a suggestion of a cruel grin and I know what’s coming a moment before it does. ‘The Rowetts?’

He makes sure he catches my eye.

‘Not them,’ I say, as I try to force away a shiver. I don’t want him to know that he’s got me. I hate that name.

That gets a snort and a shrug. ‘I dunno what you want then.’ He looks to his watch again. ‘I have to get off. I’ve got work to do, then football later.’

I vaguely remember the LinkedIn post about how he gets up at five every morning for a run; and how he plays football twice a week. Something about keeping himself young, in among all the other nonsense about eating egg whites and #familytime with his #soulmate.

The dig about the Rowetts would usually be enough to end this conversation, except I still need him.

‘There’s other stuff on the tape,’ I say, trying not to sound desperate. ‘It’s patchy and hard to make out. Owen from work is trying to clean up the audio. Have you ever seen a jewellery box around the house…?’

It’s certainly a non-sequitur but I’m hoping Peter doesn’t notice. He tries to frown but his forehead fights back. ‘Owen…’ he says, as if he knows my workmate. He opens his mouth again to add something, closes it, thinks for a moment, and then: ‘What kind of jewellery box?’

‘I think there are engraved flowers on the side.’

There’s a flicker of something, though Peter is increasingly hard to read. ‘I didn’t really go snooping when I visited Dad,’ he says. ‘And I don’t think that was Dad’s sort of thing.’

‘I know but maybe it was Mum’s. Perhaps he kept it?’

He huffs a dismissive sigh and shakes his head before looking to his watch again. I figure he’s about to leave. ‘Dunno what you mean.’ Another check of the watch. ‘Need a slash…’ He doesn’t wait for a reply, instead bounding for the stairs and leaving me alone.

Except… the floors are thin and the carpets not much better. His footsteps should be heading towards the bathroom, except I hear my brother moving in the opposite direction, into Dad’s bedroom.

I’m in the doorframe, half in the kitchen, half in the living room, listening to my brother above when a flicker of movement catches my eye from the front of the house.

I drift across the front room to the window.

There’s someone over the street, partially concealed behind a lamp post. I’m far enough from the glass that she shouldn’t be able to see me, but I watch as she holds up what looks like a phone.

I think she’s taking photos of the house.

If I wasn’t concerned about what my brother was doing upstairs, I’d cross the road and ask. She’s wearing black but largely in shadow and it’s hard to see much in the way of features. If I had to guess, she’s in her sixties but the silver hair could be the light.

There’s a creak from overhead as Peter moves a pace or two around Dad’s bedroom. There’s a muffled thump, as if he’s opened a drawer, although it’s hard to know for sure.

Meanwhile, as my attention was diverted, the woman across the road is ducking into a small silver car.

I shift a pace, trying to get a view of her face but the glare of the car windscreen is too much.

Moments later, she’s done a three-point turn and headed out of sight.

I tell myself it’s nothing, except it really did seem as if she was taking photos of the house.

Unless, of course, Mum’s tapes have me paranoid.

There’s a further creak from above and then the quick movement of feet as Peter moves to the far side of the house. The toilet flushes and the pipes creak as water gushes through the house.

Moments later and Peter is back in the hall.

I meet him there, wondering if I should ask what he was doing in Dad’s bedroom.

I probably would, were it not for the fact that, once the probate has gone through, we’ll be the legal owners.

If I ask, he’ll tell me he has as much right to be here as I do.

‘I thought I saw someone watching the house,’ I tell him instead.

My brother rolls his eyes. ‘Probably a neighbour,’ he replies dismissively.

Something has shifted in the time he’s been upstairs and there’s a nastiness that wasn’t completely there before.

‘Look, I’ll be at the funeral but I told you to get this place sold.

We don’t need to be in each other’s lives, especially now Dad’s gone. ’

It’s so direct that I reel away a fraction. ‘Oh…’

‘I don’t mean to be harsh but the women in this family attract crazy – and I don’t want that. I don’t know what you’re on about with all these questions and I don’t know what you’re on about with someone watching the house. It’s all nonsense.’

He mumbles something that might be goodbye, then turns for the door. As he does, he pats a pocket, probably involuntarily. There’s a bulge I don’t think was there before.

Something taken from upstairs.