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You slide a cassette into the dusty old tape recorder, it's marked

"Rec.1 - Not my kind of party"

You press the red button marked play, it's stiff and doesn't give easily - but you knew that already.

After some struggling you hear a satisfying

CLICK

After a few seconds you see the cassette start spinning with a quiet whirr of the cogs, then you hear some shuffling followed by a soft sigh as a feminine voice crackle out of the speakers, the quality is less than stellar but still perfectly intelligible.

The woman sounds serene if tired, like someone who just came back from a long, exhausting shift at work.

"I don't suppose I will be letting any suspicious butlers into my house, much less touch any unmarked envelopes, not for a while after the latest encounter, at the very least."

You hear a breathy chuckle followed by the distinct sound of somebody fiddling around with a plastic wrapper, a few seconds the woman continues, her speech slightly distorted as though she's chewing on something.

"The cash bonus is however quite welcome, maybe I can use it to get a decent supplier for once, so I don't have to make due with rat poison and chloroform on the next job come when it may - having something a little more sophisticated on hand, something like..."

You can hear the woman hum softly as she continues chewing

"Arsenic trioxide perhaps? Would have certainly helped us deal with the situation in a more expeditious manner, perhaps even limiting the casualties from three to two."

The woman finishes her sentence but doesn't continue, not for a while, all you hear is the sound of someone fiddling with a plastic wrapper again.

The sound is uneasy, anxious, you can practically imagine her fingers restlessly fiddling with the shiny piece of plastic.

Seconds stretch on, five, ten, then a long, heavy sigh erupts out of her, followed by more monologuing in a now decidedly more solemn and defeated tone, perhaps even remorseful.

"I... took a man's life today, cut his throat wide open, watched his blood gush out like a fountain as he struggled for air..."

You hear a loud gulp

"I never knew his name, hell I barely even caught a glimpse of his face in the dimly lit hallway despite the two of us being in such close proximity I could still smell the cigarettes on his breath... he might have had a family waiting for him at home, kids, wife, husband? Who knows, It doesn't matter anymore... I... I'm sorry, truly but I did what I had to, and I will again, as many times as it takes."

Her words are laced with equal parts pain and steely determination, though despite it her voice still cracks a little as she goes on.

"It was us or him, he had a gun, right there on his waist, I had to do something, he could have killed Luci if i didn't, he knew the risks when he signed on as a body guard, he made the choice, he knew, he knew he knewheknewheknewheknewhekn..."

The woman's voice becomes quieter and weaker by the second, as if she's trying to hold something back before a quiet sob seeps out of the speakers followed by a tiny

"...Fuck I ca-"

The recording cuts out.

...or so it would initially appear.
 

The reel however doesn't stop spinning, it takes you a second to realise you can still hear the person on the other side as they unsuccessfully try to stifle sobs, it would appear that something or someone merely cut them off rather abruptly. 

In the background, joining the pathetic sobbing is the sound of heavy boots hitting the hardwood floor, boots and something else. 

The sounds steadily grow louder with each passing second – as they draw closer the rhythm becomes easier to place, it’s rather unusual - a heavy, determined thud, followed shortly thereafter by a similar one though decidedly quieter, and a third sound, just as heavy as the first - that of wood hitting against wood. 

You can now hear a low, melodic humming approaching along with the thuds, the thuds that are in hindsight so obviously a percussive element to the little impromptu performance. 

 The whole thing's masterfully effortless, each note screams “blues” while the melody itself practically oozes some kind of heartfelt sentiment, something verging on nostalgia or perhaps its light melancholy, even despite the unrestrained smile that can so obviously be heard in the singer’s voice.  

The unmistakable sound of jingling keys joins the percussion, though the show is then interfered with by a high-pitched whining creek, curtesy of what must be old, neglected door-hinges crying out under years of strain and built-up rust. 

The humming stops smoothly, replaced by a low and warm masculine tone, speaking in a voice that’s surprisingly raspy given the recent performance. 

“Guess what!”  

Not a question but rather a statement.

“This old sack of bones finds his way home yet again, Pumpk-” 

The man’s jovial voice grows exponentially less so towards the end of the sentence until the sound of his voice disappears completely, the resulting near perfect silence save for the sobbing is accentuated by the sound of wood clattering against wood, the echo filling a by the sound of it rather small living space.

“-kin...?” 

The voice finishes, quieter, slower, it’s no longer a statement, rather now a question - you can practically see confusion and concern spelled across the man’s face. 

The steps come once more, hurried, one heavy, the other light – they sound rushed and awkward, unsure and unstable though seemingly no slower for it. 

Within seconds the man sounds like he’s closed the gap between the front door and the recording device, though when he speaks it’s away from it, somewhere off to the side, towards the sobbing, his voice gentle as if comforting a child. 

“Hey, hey now kid what’s the matter?”  
 

The man pauses but no answer follows, not for a while so the man continues, a pitying smile hesitantly creeping into his voice. 
 

 “C'mon now, you know you can tell ol’Lucas here anything in the whole wide world, remember? Julia, come on look at me girl, it’s okay.”

The feminine voice from before – Julia by the sound of it lets out a breathy chuckle through sobs, some shifting can be heard, fabric against skin, then Julia’s muffled voice. 

“It’s nothing Pa, just... got a little sa-”  

Click

The recording cuts out (for real this time I promise) and the reels come to a smooth stop. 

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