Page 7 of The Tapes

FIVE

Chairs scrape across the already scuffed wooden floor as everyone stands as one. Three or four head directly for the exit, not wanting the chit-chat that often marks the end of these support sessions. As soon as the doors open, a draught of icy air blisters the space.

The hall is a cliché, but so am I.

There’s still tea in my mug and it isn’t as if I have a lot to race home for. I drift across to the radiator and stand, cradling the cup and using it to warm my fingers.

Liam spots me and nods an acknowledgement.

He’s in conversation with one of the newer alcoholics, who has a lot of questions.

Liam shows great patience as he explains a few things about our group, before swapping numbers with the man.

They shake hands and then the newcomer heads for the exit, before Liam joins me at the radiator.

His fingers are wrapped around his own mug.

‘I’ve never got to the bottom of why it’s so cold in here?’ he says, with a smile.

‘This hall has its own microclimate, where the temperature never changes. Freezing in summer, freezing in winter.’

There’s a nod of agreement and then we each take a slurp of tea. Liam started this AA group twenty years before. I’ve known him for seven years, one hundred and thirty-one days, and around forty-five minutes of those two decades.

Not that I’m counting.

‘I was sorry to hear about your dad,’ he says. ‘I know I sent that text and it was a bit of a worry when you weren’t here last week. I’m glad you’re OK.’

‘The funeral’s on Friday,’ I reply. ‘Things are more or less set but there’s a lot to do at his house. It’s going to take a while.’

‘How’s Faith taking things?’

‘She wasn’t that close with her granddad. I suppose we’re not that sort of family. She’s been fine, though. She’s tight with her friends.’

My response has me wondering whether she is actually fine.

It’s true that she and my dad didn’t spend much time together – but they’re still related.

It’s still the first proper death of someone in her life.

I’ve asked if she wants to talk but there was only the teenagery shrug.

Everything’s great until it isn’t. There was still that twinge to her voice earlier when she found the gun, and now I wonder if there was more to it.

‘And you…?’

It’s a question within a question. Liam’s sort of asking how I am but there’s a reason I know it’s seven years and one hundred and thirty-one days since we met in this church hall. We love to count at Alcoholics Anonymous. Or I do.

‘I’ve been coping,’ I say. ‘I’ve been too busy.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

I think on that for a moment. ‘I guess I never realised how much paperwork there is. There’s the death certificate and the official stuff, then the funeral director needs instructions and more paperwork.

It all has to happen immediately. It’s not like you can put it off for a month, then come back to it. ’

Liam’s nodding along but I’ve seen this face.

This is him being polite, even while it’s clear to anyone who knows him that he wants to move on.

More people are saying their goodbyes, leaving only five of us in the hall.

Liam will have to lock up, and it’s often the two of us who leave last. Luckily, one of the regulars is pouring herself a new tea from the urn as she chats to someone else on the far side of the hall.

We’ve got a few minutes, except I can’t quite think of a way to twist the conversation in the way I want.

‘I was sort of prepared for it,’ I add, trying to keep things going. ‘Dad had that heart attack last year. The doctor said he’d have to start walking every day and cleaning up what he ate. I don’t think he changed a thing.’

Liam nods along, not prepared for the grenade I’m about to hurl. I’ve been practising this conversation ever since I heard Mum mention the Earring Killer on that tape.

‘I guess it wasn’t a shock for me,’ I add. ‘Not like with you…?’

I know it’s a terrible thing to do; an awful segue to make with someone I actually like. Except I’m not sure what else to do. Who else is in my life to direct questions at?

Liam blinks with surprise but it’s just about a natural enough transition that it doesn’t feel forced. He’s focusing on me again.

‘Sorry,’ I add.

He shakes his head. ‘No, it’s fine. It was all a long time ago now. I never mind talking about it.’

‘Do you still think about it?’ I ask.

Liam takes a moment. He’s spoken about this sort of thing frequently in the meetings, because it was ultimately what led to him forming this local group.

‘Probably not as much as I once did. The last murder was twelve, thirteen years ago – so it’s not constantly in the news any more. For a while, it was like I couldn’t escape it. There was basically a seventeen-year spree and it felt like it would never end. Then it just did.’

I googled the Earring Killer when I was at Dad’s house but it’s difficult to figure out fiction from fact.

The line from news to opinion to speculation feels ever blurred.

I know what people call him, of course, but it’s not as if I’ve followed every facet of our area’s resident serial killer.

If anything, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid the grisliest details – but I know Liam’s mum was one of the early victims; possibly the third.

I know that’s what led to him starting this group.

There was maybe a time I thought Mum’s disappearance could be linked – except there was never a body with her. She wasn’t part of the pattern. Plus, she had her own issues anyway. For most, utterly disappearing would be out of character. For her, it wasn’t a complete stretch.

Liam glances across to the trio on the far side who are talking near the tea urn. He never ushers people out, and I know I’m taking advantage.

‘Does that mean that he hasn’t killed anyone since?’ I ask.

‘I guess not.’

‘If they say I’m missing, I’m not. I’ve been killed…

I know who the Earring Killer is.’

Two separate lines from Mum’s tape. Can it really be a coincidence that she disappeared – and there hasn’t been a single killing since? As Liam said, a spree that went on for a decade and a half that simply… stopped.

It’s only now I see the link in the timing.

‘Is there a chance he might’ve carried on – but he stopped stealing earrings?’ I ask.

Liam is still looking across the hall as he answers, ‘I had a check-in with the police about five years ago. They said Mum’s file was still open but there were no new leads.

I asked if the Earring Killer might still be going but that he could be hiding it better.

They said they couldn’t rule it out but they didn’t think so.

All the victims had their throats cut in the same way.

They were all women with long, dark hair.

No bodies have been found like that this entire time.

If he’s still doing it, it would have to be completely different.

’ He pauses for a moment, then adds, ‘I think he just… stopped.’

We’re in now: a conversation I don’t want, but instigated, and somehow need. Liam is so used to talking about this sort of thing in front of people that it doesn’t occur to him I might have ulterior motives.

‘Do serial killers stop?’ I ask.

Liam stiffens a fraction and then turns back to me with a blink. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Do you remember the book that came out a few years back?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Written by Vivian something. She emailed about a year ago, saying they were going to make a documentary about it all. I’m not sure how far it all got but I’ve not heard anything since.’

I think on that for a moment, already picturing the drone over the main street, then somebody sitting in a chair asking, ‘Are we running?’ to a person off-camera. Every one of those true crime things come out exactly the same.

But then there’s Mum’s voice, saying she knows who the Earring Killer is.

I listened on, but the tape blended back to me as a babbling infant.

From what I can tell, that’s it – except it feels as if there’s a lot of the recording missing.

Perhaps she named the person earlier, but it was lost to the poor quality of the tape?

Maybe it’s on one of the many other tapes in the box?

I almost jump as Liam touches my shoulder. ‘I know it’s hard after the death of a parent,’ he says. ‘Even if it’s somewhat expected.’

I’m almost overwhelmed by the guilt of making him talk about this under some false pretence of struggling with my father’s death. The whole point of this support group is honesty and I’ve managed to obliterate that by not telling him about the tape.

‘You’ve got my number,’ he adds, which is about as brutal a nudge as he’s going to give that he wants to lock up. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

I tell him I’m fine, then grab the final chairs that haven’t been packed away. I add them to the stack and then wave a goodbye to the trio across the hall.

Except, as I head to the car, I realise the talk with Liam has only strengthened the thought I first had when I heard my mother’s voice mention the Earring Killer.

What if the final killing wasn’t the one they all think? What if there was one more? What if that person also had long, dark hair?

What if she was my mother?