beyond that again, the shadows of other voices, as though some older recording were breaking through. Or the tape had magnetised itself on the spool, somehow, and the men’s words were overlaid by their own future words, from further down the roll. This acoustic bleed was one indicator of the era, the other was the way her father smoked throughout; leaning forward to dab at a fat crystal ashtray, on a coffee table of glass and chrome. Phil’s tie was not straight, his jacket was the usual disgrace. He twisted forward, jerked back, he hunched over in the chair and pushed the tweed away to scratch
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