I toss everything back into the bag and pull away from the kerb.
I hit the mall and again struggle to find a car park. Late Saturday afternoon and it seems nobody in this city has anything better to do than come out shopping an hour before the mall closes. At the electronics store the only thing they have in stock for recording conversations is digital, but they suggest another couple of shops to try. I finally find what I’m looking for.
‘Last one in stock,’ the guy tells me. ‘Hardly anyone uses them any more. Even secretaries use digital.’
“I have a thing for old technology.’
I get back to my father’s car only to find that a trolley has strayed from the flock and smacked into the back bumper, creating a small dent that I know my dad will spot around the time I’m turning the car into their driveway. This is the reason, he’ll tell me, he didn’t want to lend me the car in the first place. If he realises that I’m driving without a licence, then that will confirm it. Fuck, if we can put a man on the moon, surely the digital age will reach a point where trolleys can guide their way back into the supermarket by themselves.
I load fresh batteries into the tape recorder and pick a tape at random. I’ve been pretty certain about what to expect, and when I push play my suspicions are confirmed after just a few seconds of hissing.
‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’
‘How long has it been since your last confession?’ Father Julian’s voice is deep and clear. It makes me shiver to hear a dead man’s voice, and I feel sick to know he was violating all of the people on these tapes. The other voice could be anybody.
It’s a male. Could be twenty years old. Could be eighty. ‘I’ve done it again.’
‘Done what again?’
I look at the names Julian has neatly written into his log. The confessional is supposed to be completely anonymous, but I suspect the reality is thatit’s not. I think at minimum the priest has a good idea who they’re talking to because it’s likely to be somebody from their congregation.
‘Cheated. On my wife. I know it’s wrong, Father, but the problem is I can’t help it. It’s like another person takes over. It’s like I know what I’m doing is wrong but at the time I can’t consider the consequences.’
‘Maybe you do consider them but choose to ignore them.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe that’s true. It would explain a lot.’
I push the stop button and fast forward the tape for a while.
When I push play I hear Father Julian’s voice.
‘.. . to realise you are hurting more than just yourself.’
‘ know, I know.” It’s a woman’s voice. ‘It’s just that, well, sometimes I can’t help it. It’s like a different person takes over.’p> ‘Perhaps you should look at it from another…’
I push stop. Jesus, is this everybody’s excuse? That they aren’t responsible for anything in their lives? That their actions are justifiable because another person takes over?
‘I’m a different person when it happens. I’m no longer me,’ Quentin James told me as he stood by the grave he had dug, waiting for me to forgive him.
Was that my excuse too?
Maybe. But I don’t think so. I wasn’t switching between personae. Alcohol made Quentin James the man he was, and he would live with a foot in each of those worlds, existing as two separate men. I’m different. Quentin James made me into a different kind of man, and there’s no going back from that. There is only one Theodore Tate.
When I get home my body is exhausted but my mind is still racing with excitement:it’s a weird combination that makes me want to sleep but at the same time pace the room. I don’t get to do either, because walking from the driveway to my house I’m brought to a stop by Casey Horwell and her cameraman. I don’t see a van anywhere, and assume they must have been camped out in a dark red sedan parked opposite. Again Horwell is wearing enough make-up to look like the media whore she is. I can see the thin lines and cracks in the foundation. She smells like stale coffee. I lower the bag of tapes and statements and hold it to my side, out of sight of the camera.
‘Mr Tate,’ she says, getting into my face. ‘It hasn’t taken you long to get behind the wheel of a car since losing your licence. You manage this, and you’re a suspect in the murder of Father Julian.
Your friends in the department you seem exceedingly proud of must really be working overtime to keep you out of jail.’
‘I thought reporters liked asking questions, not giving statements,’ I say, immediately wishing I was saying nothing.
‘Actually we do both.’
‘Just not accurately.’
I start to move around her, but she side-steps into my way.
She probably wants me to push her, and that’s exactly what I feel like doing. I want to grab her by the arm and escort her off my property, but then I change my mind and go with a different tactic.
‘Would you care to tell us how the murder weapon came to be found in your garage?’
‘What murder weapon?’ I ask.