— Then what do we do?
Ryan shrugged.
— Then we leave.
Liam scrunched up his face.
— That’s it. We say hi and then leave?
Ryan stood up and started to pace.
— Yep. It’ll be perfect. She’ll know who I am, I’ll hear her voice again, no pressure, just sowing the seed.
He kneeled down in front of the fish tank. A speckled orange and white fish stared out at him with one eye.
Liam stood up.
— What seed?
Ryan tapped the glass with his fingertip. The fish darted away.
— It doesn’t matter. Just get dressed man, we have to be ready.
Ameliah stares at the pyramid of black bags. The top bag is level with her head as she stands barefoot in her grey jogging bottoms and white vest on the sky-blue spare room carpet. The house is quiet, Nan already gone to work.
She smiles to herself, thinking about the voice on the tape and how she’d woken up and tried again. Pressing the two buttons, watching the red light and waiting to hear. How all she’d heard was the hum of the tape and how she’d told herself that she needed something to occupy an overactive imagination. She hadn’t heard anything. Nothing real anyway.
Something catches the light, wedged between the bags and the tower of boxes to her right. She leans in and moves the black plastic, feeling the soft clothes inside the bag, and sees the head of a guitar, the silver metal tuning pegs against the light tan of the wood. She wraps her finger around it and pulls slowly but strongly. The neck moves slightly, but the body is firmly wedged in.
She has a flashing image of Mom onstage wearing face paint, screaming into a mic, thrashing her guitar.
She uses her shoulder to push the bags on her left away, making space, and pulls again. The neck of the guitar is now visible, the copper-coloured strings against the dark varnish of the fret. She gives a last tug and falls backwards as the guitar comes free, landing on her back with it on top of her like it’s pinning her for a three count.
She laughs to herself, holding the belly of the guitar in her hands. It feels lighter that she thought it would.
She sits up and turns it round, resting the bottom on the carpet. The light wood of the body looks old but not worn. She counts five strings and realises she has no idea if that’s enough or too little. She remembers Mom playing, sitting in her room on Sunday nights after the bath, wrapped in a towel, hair still wet, looking up at her as she played with closed eyes. She remembers feeling like she’d been let in on a secret. Mom’s eyes opening as she finished her song, her smiling, but for some reason the image has no sound.
Looking over her shoulder, Ameliah sits up straight, laying the guitar across her lap ready to play. Her left hand cradles the neck, her fingertips pressing the strings, feeling the hard ridges of the metal digging in near her nails. Her right hand hangs over the body, pretending to hold a plectrum ready to strum. She looks down, her tongue between her teeth in concentration, and brushes the strings firmly.
The ugly gang of notes growls out and she feels the vibration against her stomach. She smiles with the satisfaction of making sound. Biting her bottom lip, she strums again, this time louder. She doesn’t know whether it’s a chord or not but carries on strumming, forcing a rhythm with her right hand.
Her head starts to nod and her mouth opens.
— Yeah yeah. Guitaaaaaaar. I can’t play iiiiiit.
The fingertips of her left hand give up, stinging from the pressure, and she stops. The notes die away and the room falls quiet.
Get out of the way, Liam!
Mary’s voice cut through the TV sounds and Ryan imagined her face on the other side of the partition wall. He looked at Liam, the only one visible to him. Liam shrugged.
— Chill out, sis. We’re just getting a drink. Who’s your friend?
Ryan felt to run. He took a step backwards towards the door. He figured he could get along the hall and out of the front door before Liam got anywhere near him but, as he heard her voice, his feet wouldn’t move.
— I’m Eve.
— Hi, Eve. I’m Liam.
— So you’re the big little brother?
Liam smiled a cocky smile and rolled his shoulders like he was warming up to lift weights.
— Yep. That’s me. So you’re Irish, I mean proper Irish?
He gave a cheesy chat-show smile, not noticing Ryan stabbing a finger at the kitchen, trying to get his attention.
— Liam. Get out of the way of the telly right now or I swear to God I’m gonna scratch your face.
Mary’s voice was sharp. Liam’s face changed and he stepped to the side.
— OK, OK, easy, sis. There you go. What you watching anyway? Dirty Dancing? Again? You don’t get tired of it, do you? She’s seen it more than twenty times, Eve, I’m not kidding.
Ryan felt himself starting to sweat as he watched. His fingers curled into fists by his side, knowing that any second Liam was going to drag him into the conversation. Then she spoke again.
— Me too. I know it’s silly, but when he lifts her up, ah, I love that bit.
Her voice was calm, like she’d just woken up happily from a nap. Ryan watched Liam nodding in response and it dawned on him that his friend wasn’t actually that bad at talking to girls and this was actually going pretty well. He felt his fingers relaxing as a woman with blond hair shouted at Patrick Swayze on the screen.
— So whereabouts in Ireland are you from?
Liam carried on his small talk, seemingly enjoying how it was going.
— What? Shut up, Liam. Leave her alone, we’re watching the film. What do you want?
— Nothing. Keep it down, will ya, you’ll wake Dad up. Ryan’s here, look. Come say hello, Ryan.
He beckoned Ryan over like a little kid. Ryan stepped slowly towards his friend like he was walking on to a stage.
He told himself not to stare at her as he stood next to Liam, gazing straight ahead into the mirror on the wall behind the sofa.
He felt both girls looking at him as he noticed how big Liam seemed next to him.
— Hi, Ryan.
Mary smiled. Ryan nodded shyly, feeling the inside of his trainers with his toes.
— Hi, Mary. Sorry to spoil your film. I told him we should just get a drink.
Liam frowned.
— What?
— It’s all right. I’ve learned to live with Mr Subtle.
She rolled her eyes in Liam’s direction. Liam looked at her then at Ryan then back to her again. Ryan’s eyes were on Mary, but he could feel Eve looking at him.
— You were in the park the other day.
Her voice seemed to pour into his ears and he could feel it running down the back of his neck. She remembered him. He could feel his blood getting warm. She remembered him.
— Yeah. Ryan likes Irish girls.
Ryan felt his body go numb. He looked at Liam.
— He loves ’em. Where did you say you were from?
Mary and Eve looked at each other, their eyes narrow. Mary looked at Ryan.
— She didn’t. So you like Irish girls, Ryan?
Ryan felt their eyes burning into him.
— No. I mean, yeah. I don’t know what he’s talking about. What are you talking about, Liam?
He shrugged up at his best friend in desperation. Liam saw him struggling.
— I mean his mom was Irish. Ryan’s mom was Irish. She’s dead now.
The room seemed to stop. Nobody spoke. Ryan felt like he was going to melt into the carpet. He imagined himself slowly shrinking away into a puddle like the bad guy from Who Framed Roger Rabbit, his best friend, his sister and the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen powerless to help him.
Liam’s mouth moved, like his tongue was fishing for words in the air in front of him. Mary forced a smile through pursed lips. Ryan looked at Eve, her green eyes staring straight into him. He felt his lungs pressing against the inside of his chest as he breathed in then
ran out of the room.
Ameliah tilts the plastic carton to vertical, finishing the last of the milk. She can feel the cold from inside the open fridge on her stomach through her vest. She wipes her milk moustache away with the back of her hand and thinks about cowboys in saloons swigging moonshine and spitting tobacco.
The tiles of the kitchen floor are warm against the soles of her feet. She bends down to look into the fridge, her eyes scanning the bulging shelves of meats and salad stuff. She reaches in and pulls out a plate of leftover pizza, the thick triangles pointing over the edge.
She scratches the back of her neck and smiles, looking down at herself.
— I’m a slob.
She hears a dog barking a few gardens away.
— Slobby slob.
She arches her back, sticking out her stomach, trying to give herself a belly, then gives up, taking a big bite from a slice of pizza as she walks out of the kitchen.
In the living room she sits on the floor with her back against the sofa, her thumb pressing a steady beat on the remote control, flicking through channels. The jumping snippets of conversation from different programmes sound like they’re trying to make a sentence.
She thinks about the tape. The blurred sound of the young voice. On the TV screen a round-faced man holds up a large fish in two hands, his face full of pride. Ameliah stares at the fish. The fish stares back, its big round glossy eye looking into her. She looks at its wide mouth, gaping to breathe.
— What does it mean, Mr Fish? Eh?
The man wobbles in his boat as the fish twists its body, trying to get away. He raises his eyebrows, his forehead glistening with sweat.
— Wow, you can feel the power in him. Let’s get him back in the water, shall we?
Ameliah takes another bite of pizza, pointing the doughy crust in her hand at the screen.
— Yeah. You put him back before he slaps your face. Go on, Mr Fish, slap his face.
The street was quiet as Ryan walked alone past the terraced houses. He stared at his shadow, stretching out away from him, like Flat Stanley. He remembered Mom reading him the story on the sofa, his head on her lap, looking up at her as she spoke. They talked about folding themselves up to fit inside letters and where they’d send them to.
He had said Timbuktu because he liked the sound of the word. Mom said Galway where her parents lived so she could surprise them.
She had explained to him that nothing in the world was actually truly flat. That even a piece of paper had a depth that meant it was three-dimensional. Ryan remembered quizzing her with a list of things he thought of as flat and her smiling and shaking her head each time. Even clingfilm.
A woman on a bicycle passed him on the road in the other direction and Ryan thought about Eve, staring at him after Liam opened his big mouth. What did she think? Who just runs out of a room?
He shook his head as he approached his house, reaching into his pocket, and realised he didn’t have his key. He’d left that morning without it, not expecting to be back until later when Dad and Sophia would be home.
He stood at the gate and stared at the front window. The net curtains stopped anyone seeing in, Sophia’s choice. When Ryan had argued that they meant nobody could see out either, which was surely the whole point of a window, she had just smiled at him like he was a baby getting the alphabet wrong.
He thought about people walking past the house every day. Strangers who had no idea about the changes that had happened on the inside. The house was a number, 184, just like any other on the street, and Ryan wondered how many other families on the street had lost a member.
He looked up to the smaller bedroom window and saw Nathan staring down at him, his arms folded like some kind of prison guard from an old film.
An imposter in his house, acting like he owned it. He stared back up at Nathan, trying to seem bigger than he was.
Nathan smiled an evil smile and held up something, shaking it in his hand. Ryan knew it was his key even though he couldn’t fully make it out from this distance. Nathan pulled a mock surprised face, bringing his free hand to his chest.
Ryan stared up, knowing what came next; he would plead, Nathan would leave him locked out, maybe dangle the key through the letter box, tempting him, he’d go to grab it and Nathan would pull it away, laughing, and then it would start over again.
Nathan began to laugh, the space between them muting his voice, making him look like a rubbish mime artist. Ryan lifted his hand in front of his face and flicked two fingers. Nathan’s face dropped, his laughter turning at first to confusion then quickly to anger. He started shouting something on mute, waving his hands angrily, as Ryan turned and walked away from the house, back the way he had come.
The sound of the front door stirs Ameliah awake. On the TV a woman with a pointy face examines an old vase while a fat lady sits watching her with a smile.
The last bit of pizza crust falls off Ameliah’s chest on to the floor as she sits up. She quickly picks up any large crumbs and drops them on to the plate, searching for the remote control behind her.
— Am!
Nan’s voice calls from the hall. Ameliah hears her flicking through post.
— Ameliah!
Nan walks into the room dressed in a smart white blouse and dark trousers. Her thick frame looks sturdy rather than plump.
— Oh, there you are, love. You OK?
She tears open a letter and starts to read. Ameliah rubs her eyes with her knuckles.
— Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Good day?
Nan stares at the letter.
— Oh, you know. Same same. We’ve had some bigwigs from head office in so everyone’s on their best behaviour.
— You look smart.
Nan lowers the letter and glances down at herself. She smacks her lips.
— Thank you, love. I scrub up OK, don’t I?
Ameliah smiles.
— Yeah.
The fat woman on the TV loses her smile as the woman with the pointy face hands her back her vase.
— How about you? You get in the spare room?
Ameliah wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, feeling the dribble from her unplanned nap.
— Yeah. A little bit. I found Mom’s guitar.
Nan fishes around in her bag.
— Pardon, love?
— Mom’s guitar. I found it. Buried in with the bags.
Nan pulls out a DVD.
— Oh yeah, that’s lovely.
Ameliah’s eyes narrow.
— I was thinking maybe I could learn.
Nan smiles, blowing out her cheeks. She looks at Mom’s photograph on top of the TV.
— OK, love, whatever you like. It’s pretty tough-going though.
— What?
— I’m just saying, it’s hard work, that’s all. Your fingers get all hard and it takes hours to even master the basics.
Ameliah stares at Nan.
— Yeah, well, I think I could do it. I mean maybe I won’t get as good as Mom, but—
— Do what you like, love. Have you eaten? I’ll make a start on some food.
Ameliah watches Nan thinking about more than one thing at once, her face wrestling with hiding what she’s feeling.
— What’s wrong, Nan?
Nan puffs out her cheeks.
— Nothing, love. Guitar. Great.
She holds up the DVD in her hands.
— True Grit. I think he won an Oscar for this one.
Ameliah looks at the wobbling case, at Nan’s hands trying not to shake.
— What do you fancy for dinner? I’ve got some work bits to do, but we’ll watch it tonight, yeah?
Nan glances at the photograph on top of the TV then looks at her, forcing a smile. Ameliah shrugs and nods.
— Cool.
Ryan pressed stop on tape deck two, hearing Nathan come out of his room. The red recording light faded as he sat up, ready for Nathan to barge in. He told himself that that proved it – he’d imagined the voice. The part
of his brain that generated ideas must be underused or something. He had girls on the brain, that was it. More specifically, one girl. One girl who probably now thought he was a total weirdo for running off.
He heard Nathan’s footsteps head across the landing and breathed out as the bathroom door opened.
Ryan pressed eject and pulled out the tape. He tapped the dark plastic with the side of his thumb and thought about how many times he’d recorded his voice on to it. He wasn’t sure how many exactly, but he knew it must be a lot of words.
He wondered what happened to the words from before each time he recorded new ones. Was it like a field that gets ploughed, with the old words getting turned over and new ones lying on top? Where did they go?
Was it like those drawing toys you got in party bags where you pulled the slide out and it wiped away your picture?
He stared at the dark rolls of tape inside the plastic as the bathroom door locked.
Surely the old words must still be there. Like layers. Like each time he recorded he was painting a new layer on top of the ones before, only the tape never got any thicker.
He felt his head starting to hurt and told himself to stop. There were some things that he would never understand; like Mom used to say, people who need to understand everything are the worst company.
He picked up the empty cassette box and slid the tape inside, then opened the drawer of his bedside table and dropped the tape in.
Rolling on to his back, he stared up at the ceiling. He could hear the sound of Nathan in the shower through the wall. Ryan narrowed his eyes and squeezed his lips together, trying to mentally make the shower water run cold.
I remember lying in bed; it’s late but I’m not asleep. I don’t know why. You’re downstairs — I can hear the mumble of the TV. Mom is out with friends. My bedroom door is open and I’m thinking about trying to sneak downstairs and ask to stay up with you, maybe watch the end of whatever film you’re watching like you sometimes let me do, then the bell goes.
I know it’s too late for visitors and I think that Mom must’ve forgotten her key and I hear you going to the front door, your footsteps are angry because you know she might have woken me up, and I want to see so I sneak to the top of the stairs and I can feel the cold air from the open front door and I see the back of you, slumped against the door frame, and the young policewoman touches your shoulder and looks at her partner, and he doesn’t know where to look, and the light from outside is bouncing off their uniforms and the policewoman nods and they lead you inside and I feel like I’m stuck to the floor.
Tape Page 7