Page 30 of The Tapes

TWENTY-FOUR

I roll over in bed and reach for Mum’s cassette player. The cord is too short to extend from the plug socket to my dresser, so the device sits wedged half under my mattress.

Mum’s voice sent me to sleep once more, and I wonder if this will ever grow old.

It was a different tape, one with a month and year on the sleeve.

Something I’d not tried before. Mum was talking about doing the Three Peaks Challenge, back in a time before everyone had a GoFundMe set up to do one.

Outside of winter, it was somewhat common for Mum to disappear for a day by herself.

She would return late in the evening, caked with dried mud, then sit in the bath.

It was another interest she and Dad didn’t share.

Except, now I wonder whether she was doing that at all. She was a liar, after all.

I push myself out of bed and rewind the cassette, listening for the once-familiar scrapes and squeaks until it clicks off.

I return the tape to its case, and then the box.

There are so many more I’ve not started and it’s impossible to ignore the exhilaration that there are so many more memories to listen through.

Even though Owen had the one I really want. Now, he’s dead.

Memories swirl of the cramp in my leg and being frozen at the corner of the office block as Mark looked directly at me.

Except he seemingly didn’t spot me in the dark.

He crouched and picked up something metal, perhaps a tool.

I couldn’t quite make it out given I was trying not to move.

He complained to himself about his staff wasting his money – and then unlocked the office before stumbling inside.

I hurried through the shadows, dumped the keys in the mailbox, and then crossed the road and drove home.

It felt as if I barely breathed the entire time – which is why I put on another of Mum’s tapes to send me to sleep.

When she’s talking about her life, there’s something soothing and calm that means I can barely keep my eyes open.

I think through all that before I remember it’s Dad’s funeral today. Somehow, with everything that’s been going on, it wasn’t my first thought.

‘…I need you to know that I love you.’

Mum haunts me from the voice note. I’ve clipped the final part to be as succinct as possible, and I play it three times in a row.

For a moment, just a moment, I really thought she was next to that silver car. Something about the way Mary moved; how she had her hair.

Somehow, my real mother’s fingerprints were found on a gun. It’s impossible not to imagine her being out there somewhere.

‘…I need you to know that I love you.’

I listen to the clip a few more times and then haul myself out of bed. There’s movement downstairs, and I head down to find Faith sitting in the living room, legs curled underneath herself, eating a yoghurt. She hops up as I yawn my way into the room.

‘You look tired,’ she says.

‘Thanks for the pep talk.’

She laughs kindly but there’s a moment in which I wonder whether she’s going to mention how late I got in. I don’t know whether she was still awake and keeping track. Either way, she’s quiet on that, instead nodding towards the kitchen.

‘Can I make you breakfast?’

I rub my eyes, wondering how long I was asleep. ‘Is this AI or something? Where’s my actual daughter?’

She humours me with only a gentle roll of her eyes. ‘I boiled the kettle for you,’ she replies. ‘I was going to poach some eggs. I’m getting good at it now.’

I’m not hungry but tell her poached eggs on toast, with a cup of tea, would be perfect. Faith is delighted at this, having clearly thought this through. She pauses in the doorway. ‘You were out late…?’ she says.

‘I was at Dad’s house,’ I reply – which is partially true.

Faith waits a moment, likely suspecting this isn’t the entire truth. ‘Are you going to be all right today?’ she asks.

‘I think so. You?’

‘I think so.’

We stay still for a moment and then she turns and heads into the kitchen.

Motherly instinct tells me to watch over her and make sure she isn’t going to set fire to anything – except I remember the first time I tried to make a cup of tea for Dad.

I was probably eight or nine and he stood in the kitchen doorframe, telling me I’d put too much water in the kettle, too much milk in the mugs, not left the teabag in for long enough.

It still sticks, even now. She poaches herself eggs most days anyway.

I leave my daughter to it, listening as she hums and then softly sings to herself.

I don’t want to be either of my parents.

Time passes and then Faith returns to the living room, with a pair of plates, then my mug of tea.

She’s off carbs, so no toast for her – but a pair of poached eggs sit neatly on her plate.

We eat together with a melancholic silence between us.

Dad’s death feels so much more real now the funeral is on us.

When we’re done, Faith takes everything into the kitchen and stacks the dishwasher.

This is a week’s worth of house chores. After, she’s back in the doorway.

‘Do you have anything that needs ironing?’ she asks – and it’s so out of character that I can’t stop myself from laughing.

She shows faux outrage but it only lasts a moment before she joins in.

‘I’m trying to help,’ she says.

I cross the room and hug her. For once, she doesn’t pull away, instead cradling her head on my shoulder.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ she asks.

‘I should be asking you that.’

‘But I’m asking you.’

I tell her I’m fine, though I’m not sure that’s true. There’s an ache that I don’t think I ever quite had this relationship with my mother. Was it me, or her? She was obviously the adult but I don’t think there was ever a time when I stopped to ask if she was OK.

When we separate, Faith pulls the hair from her face and says she’s going upstairs to iron her top.

I listen to her head upstairs and it’s impossible not to wonder whether I should try to forget all this.

Mum was an unquestionable fantasist and, though some of the things from her tapes definitely happened, there are others that didn’t.

Chasing what could be a lie might have got one person killed and I need my daughter to be safe.

I’m thinking of her but I’m also thinking of Owen when the doorbell makes me jump.

I call up to tell Faith that I’ll get it – and it’s a good job I did.

Detective Sergeant Cox is on the doorstep, wearing the bleakest of looks.

I picture Owen’s wallet, sitting in my dresser upstairs, and wonder if the officer somehow knows.

‘Have you got a minute?’ she asks.

‘It’s my dad’s funeral in about four hours.’

Cox blinks at me with surprise. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I can come back.’

‘Is it important?’ I ask.

I see the conflict in the other woman. She shuffles from one foot to the other. ‘Maybe.’

‘Tell me.’

‘We got some results back from the gun late last night,’ she says.

‘About Mum’s fingerprints?’

‘Do you remember I told you we were checking to see if it had ever been fired? Truth is, I didn’t think anything would come of it. Except the gun has definitely been shot at least once.’

‘When?’

The officer rocks on her heels and looks from side to side as if to make sure there’s nobody else around. ‘Do you remember a few years ago, there was someone shot outside a cinema? There was confusion over what happened? This was the gun that was used.’

I open my mouth to reply but just about stop myself. Because I do remember that gunshot and the confusion. I remember it so clearly because, at the time somebody was being shot outside the cinema, Faith and I were sitting together inside.