The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (28)
Then, just as that instinct begins to wane, a woman ahead of me shifts position and I see through to him in the next car. The baseball cap, that same oddly calm energy. His eyes meet mine, and I see a flash of concern.
The carriage doors behind me clatter open at the next stop. Another passenger pushes roughly past me, my focus momentarily breaking as my bag is knocked from my shoulder onto the carriage floor, its contents scattering chaotically. Keys, wallet, phone, and everything else, suddenly tumbled between the legs of strangers.
I dip, frantic to gather what I can as more passengers surge on and off the train past me, jostling my loose possessions. But as I squat to gather them, Robert’s tape slips from my pocket and ricochets away from me in the melee. I watch it skitter across the carriage floor, wedging itself precariously in the rubber gap between the closing doors and the carriage floor. I lunge toward it to stop it from slipping out onto the tracks below, but when I reach it it’s thankfully stuck solid in the closed door, until I give it a good yank and free it still in one piece. I deposit it safely into the pocket of my coat, much to the interest of everyone watching.
When I rise and look back toward the next carriage, the man in the black baseball cap is gone.
12
MH Electricals
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 25
“We got it, but you gotta wait—few hours, maybe,” the short, animated electrical store worker tells me with a little more vehemence than my question really warranted.
“No, no, that’s fine. I don’t mind waiting,” I lie politely. Because, of course, there is a rush. I need to listen to Robert’s tape now, this very minute. I need to know what’s on it.
I watch the short man tap through his computer system searching for what I need as my mind wanders back to the incident on the subway. The more I replay it, the less sure I am that the man in the other carriage was the same man after all. Had he been wearing the same black cap, or had his been a blue one? I get a twinge of concern at the direction of my thoughts; I’ve been on the lookout for this very feeling since I packed up my things and moved here from London four months ago.
Throughout my twenties I had recurrent bouts of PTSD, from the trauma I experienced the day my parents died. Major life overhauls always seem to trigger them: a job loss, a breakup, change. These periods are marked by hypervigilance, paranoia, familiar faces seen in crowds, with all the physical symptoms of panic though without the actual feeling of being panicked. But I haven’t felt anything like that in years. The pregnancy could be to blame for what happened earlier, or this sudden and intense introduction to my new family.
I knew change would have consequences, and besides, a brief google on the walk here from the subway station told me that twenty percent of pregnant women experience anxiety and paranoia at some point during their pregnancy anyway.
“So you definitely have something I can use?” I ask, refocusing. I notice the store worker’s name tag: SYLVESTER.
His brow creases, followed quickly by a pained expression at the computer screen. After a moment he calls out to the back room: “Marv? Marv, you got an Olympus? Ready now? Microcassette.” Marv and Sylvester.
Marv’s voice comes back throaty and loud. “What model?”
Sylvester looks back to me and—finding no help there—answers for me. “Er, Pearlcorder? Or whatever you got.”
A pause before Marv’s gruff voice rejoins, “Yep. Got a compact. Spruce it up in an hour.”
Sylvester lifts an eyebrow in my direction. “Compact sound good? You happy with that?”
I pause, with absolutely no idea. “Will it play the tape?”
“Sure,” he says, shrugging.
It suddenly occurs to me that Robert could have just loaned me one of these players, but chose not to. This is part of the test, no doubt—the thrill of the chase. And I can’t say it isn’t working. I need to listen to what’s on that tape more than ever.
Sylvester pulls a calculator from his overall pocket and tots up some unknown figures. “Okay, for the wait I’ll do you a deal. Fifteen percent sweetener. So…let’s just call it…” He sucks his teeth. “How does a hundred and sixty dollars sound?”
“A hundred and sixty dollars?” I repeat with slight disbelief, though I had no idea how much an old Dictaphone would cost in the first place.
Sylvester, misreading my signals, comes back hard and fast with an amendment. “Okay, okay: one forty, final offer.”
None the wiser, I agree. I hand over my credit card and settle into the idea that I will be hearing Robert’s voice in just over an hour.
13
A Word to the Wise
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 25
Safely cocooned in an end-of-aisle subway seat, coat tight and scarf pulled high, I slip my new gadget from its MH Electricals bag. It’s a relic from another time. I notice a few interested glances flit my way as I prize open its anachronistic wire band headphones and slide the red foam earpieces over the surface of my ears. It’s crazy to think this is how people used to listen to music, the foam pieces barely balancing over my earholes let alone covering them, and yet I feel an ache of nostalgia for a simpler time. A time before me, before upgrades and updates and digitization. I tuck the plastic bag away and inspect the device.
Sylvester gave me a brief tutorial in the store but there’s precious little that can go wrong with the player. Unless—and I have been resoundingly warned by both Marv and Sylvester—unless I accidentally hit RECORD/PLAY instead of PLAY; the buttons are tiny and right next to each other. If I do that, then I’ll record over the tape, erasing its contents.