from the shelf. ‘That’s exactly what I said.’
Billy shrugged. ‘I got lucky.’
Martha looked up from the album she was holding. It had a monkey with a halo on the front cover. ‘I heard it was more than luck.’
Billy shook his head. ‘You heard wrong, I was just lucky. The prosecution fucked up.’
Cal turned to Martha. ‘You really pick ’em, don’t you?’
‘I haven’t picked anyone,’ Martha said. She held up the record. ‘Either of you heard of The Pixies?’
She put the album on. Thudding bass, jagged guitars, some guy shouting about a debaser over the top, a girl talking in the background. Martha liked it, it was a bit unhinged. She started to sway to the rhythm, dancing with the album cover in one hand, her schnapps glass in the other.
‘Weird to think of our dad being into this,’ she said.
Cal frowned. ‘He wasn’t really our dad.’
Martha stopped dancing. ‘Of course he was. If he wasn’t, who the hell was?’
‘No one.’
‘Do you think Mum was into this music too?’
‘Probably.’
Martha shook her head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard her listen to music, have you?’
Cal shrugged.
Martha turned the volume up and went back to examining the shelves. Cal and Billy were talking, but she couldn’t make out what about.
On one shelf low down she pulled out the box of cassettes she’d pilfered from last time. She flicked through. Bands she’d never heard of – Dinosaur Jr., Hüsker Dü, Mudhoney. A song called ‘Touch Me I’m Sick’ on that last one. She put it in her bag. She tried to imagine her dad when he was her age, listening to this stuff, full of righteous anger or miserably depressed or whatever. Couldn’t get her head round it.
She kept rummaging through the box. There were tapes in here with just names on them, like people’s names, with dates alongside. She realised they must be interview tapes for work. The dates were all over the place, some over ten years old, some from the last few months. She pulled one out and opened it. The insert card had been turned inside out, and it had track listings for albums by The Descendents and Dead Kennedys inside.
So he’d been taping over his musical past with boring work interviews. Erasing the songs that he’d once loved with chatter that paid the bills. She looked at the names of the interviewees, none of them meant anything. No famous politicians or whatever. He’d been a news reporter, then news editor, after all. You hardly interviewed anyone once you became an editor. That was one of the strange things about journalism she’d discovered on her Napier course – as soon as you got promoted to editor you were chasing other people’s copy, telling them what to write, tracking down pictures, making sure it all went together properly. And you rarely got to write any more, presumably the thing you loved doing in the first place. Stupid.
She realised these interview tapes would have Ian’s voice on them. She grabbed a handful and shoved them into her bag. She wanted to hear his voice.
She pulled the box out further and spotted something behind. A loose wooden panel at the back of the alcove had come away. She could see something behind it. She nudged it out the way and reached in. She pulled out a black A5 notebook. Opened it. Her dad’s scrawl across the pages. It was dense, sloping, filled every page to the edges. There was a date on the first page, 22.7.91, two years before she was born. She narrowed her eyes, tried to focus on reading some of the words, but they swam in front of her. Stupid alcohol. She widened her eyes and tried again. Nope, she couldn’t focus.
She put the notebook in her bag, got up and turned. The movement made her feel light-headed and she belched schnapps and Jägermeister.
Billy and Cal were laughing on the sofa about something. She wondered if Cal was telling Billy all about her and if that was putting him off. So what. There was damage everywhere. Who in this world
Billy shrugged. ‘I got lucky.’
Martha looked up from the album she was holding. It had a monkey with a halo on the front cover. ‘I heard it was more than luck.’
Billy shook his head. ‘You heard wrong, I was just lucky. The prosecution fucked up.’
Cal turned to Martha. ‘You really pick ’em, don’t you?’
‘I haven’t picked anyone,’ Martha said. She held up the record. ‘Either of you heard of The Pixies?’
She put the album on. Thudding bass, jagged guitars, some guy shouting about a debaser over the top, a girl talking in the background. Martha liked it, it was a bit unhinged. She started to sway to the rhythm, dancing with the album cover in one hand, her schnapps glass in the other.
‘Weird to think of our dad being into this,’ she said.
Cal frowned. ‘He wasn’t really our dad.’
Martha stopped dancing. ‘Of course he was. If he wasn’t, who the hell was?’
‘No one.’
‘Do you think Mum was into this music too?’
‘Probably.’
Martha shook her head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard her listen to music, have you?’
Cal shrugged.
Martha turned the volume up and went back to examining the shelves. Cal and Billy were talking, but she couldn’t make out what about.
On one shelf low down she pulled out the box of cassettes she’d pilfered from last time. She flicked through. Bands she’d never heard of – Dinosaur Jr., Hüsker Dü, Mudhoney. A song called ‘Touch Me I’m Sick’ on that last one. She put it in her bag. She tried to imagine her dad when he was her age, listening to this stuff, full of righteous anger or miserably depressed or whatever. Couldn’t get her head round it.
She kept rummaging through the box. There were tapes in here with just names on them, like people’s names, with dates alongside. She realised they must be interview tapes for work. The dates were all over the place, some over ten years old, some from the last few months. She pulled one out and opened it. The insert card had been turned inside out, and it had track listings for albums by The Descendents and Dead Kennedys inside.
So he’d been taping over his musical past with boring work interviews. Erasing the songs that he’d once loved with chatter that paid the bills. She looked at the names of the interviewees, none of them meant anything. No famous politicians or whatever. He’d been a news reporter, then news editor, after all. You hardly interviewed anyone once you became an editor. That was one of the strange things about journalism she’d discovered on her Napier course – as soon as you got promoted to editor you were chasing other people’s copy, telling them what to write, tracking down pictures, making sure it all went together properly. And you rarely got to write any more, presumably the thing you loved doing in the first place. Stupid.
She realised these interview tapes would have Ian’s voice on them. She grabbed a handful and shoved them into her bag. She wanted to hear his voice.
She pulled the box out further and spotted something behind. A loose wooden panel at the back of the alcove had come away. She could see something behind it. She nudged it out the way and reached in. She pulled out a black A5 notebook. Opened it. Her dad’s scrawl across the pages. It was dense, sloping, filled every page to the edges. There was a date on the first page, 22.7.91, two years before she was born. She narrowed her eyes, tried to focus on reading some of the words, but they swam in front of her. Stupid alcohol. She widened her eyes and tried again. Nope, she couldn’t focus.
She put the notebook in her bag, got up and turned. The movement made her feel light-headed and she belched schnapps and Jägermeister.
Billy and Cal were laughing on the sofa about something. She wondered if Cal was telling Billy all about her and if that was putting him off. So what. There was damage everywhere. Who in this world
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