06/18/2018
On the heels of his Man Booker Prize–longlisted Reservoir 13, McGregor brings readers back to that novel’s English Midlands village, subtly shining new light on the novel’s central mystery: the disappearance of 13-year-old Becky Shaw. When a reporter arrives to conduct a series of interviews about the girl’s disappearance, the tightly knit villagers try their best to go on with their daily lives: squirming their ways out of stagnant marriages, leading Girl Guide expeditions, and risking lives working in the quarries. Becky and her outsider parents exist as a sort of background noise—a terrible, still unsolved event that lingers over the years. Readers are spies into the lives of those affected by Becky’s absence, and into those affected before she disappeared: the young teenager who flirted with her, the lonely women who once caught her eating apples in her backyard. McGregor is a maestro at demonstrating the reverberations of catastrophe across space and time, building strong backstory and consequences in only a few lines. As a standalone, the novel is quietly consuming, but as a companion to Reservoir 13, it serves as an exquisite elaboration on the mysterious characters that are the heart of both novels. (Aug.)
The Reservoir Tapes
Narrated by Fiona Hardingham
Jon McGregorUnabridged — 3 hours, 17 minutes
The Reservoir Tapes
Narrated by Fiona Hardingham
Jon McGregorUnabridged — 3 hours, 17 minutes
Overview
Returning us to the extraordinary territory of Jon McGregor's Man Booker Prize long-listed novel Reservoir 13, The Reservoir Tapes take us deep into the heart of an English village that is trying to come to terms with what has happened on its watch.
A teenage girl has gone missing. The whole community has been called upon to join the search. And now an interviewer arrives, intent on capturing the community's unstable stories about life in the weeks and months before Becky Shaw vanished.
Each villager has a memory to share or a secret to conceal, a connection to Becky that they are trying to make or break. A young wife pushes against the boundaries of her marriage, and another seeks a means of surviving within hers. A group of teenagers dare one another to jump into a flooded quarry, the one weak swimmer still awaiting his turn. A laborer lies trapped under rocks and dry limestone dust as his fellow workers attempt a risky rescue. And meanwhile a fractured portrait of Becky emerges at the edges of our vision-a girl swimming, climbing, and smearing dirt onto a scared boy's face, images to be cherished and challenged as the search for her goes on.
Editorial Reviews
Praise for The Reservoir Tapes
“A companion piece to his Man Booker-longlisted Reservoir 13, McGregor's latest works perfectly well as a stand-alone, offering an alternately sweet and suspenseful depiction of a community as it reacts, person by person, to the disappearance of a teenage girl.” —Entertainment Weekly“Turns the concept of a thriller on its head, building suspense through a close examination of the everyday trials of witnesses, neighbors, and those simply passing by. The result is sharp, brooding work about the evils present in men and the cruel desires that lurk just below the surface.” —Cedar Rapids Gazette (Iowa)“McGregor returns to an English village touched by the mystery of a young girl's disappearance to delve deeper into its daily life...[in] spare, elliptical tales...This collection is a fresh reminder of his versatility and talent.” —Shelf Awareness“In the follow-up to his Costa Award-winning novel Reservoir 13, McGregor's newest book focuses on the crime at the center of its predecessor.”—The Millions“A brilliant book about social realities . . . A thriller of another kind, one where the writing is deft and the mood uneasy, this book illuminates the complexities of the human condition in a truly imaginative way. —Literary Hub“On its own, this book is a noteworthy event. When put in conversation with Reservoir 13, it is nothing short of a remarkable experiment in storytelling. McGregor is a must-read writer.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)“McGregor demonstrates an extraordinary ability to create complex, multidimensional characters in only a few spare sentences. He is also a master of mood, investing his stories with an air of the ominous while proving also to be a superb stylist . . . A memorable celebration of literary fiction.” —Booklist (starred review)“An electrifying new novel . . . stylish and alarming.” —Los Angeles Times“McGregor is a maestro at demonstrating the reverberations of catastrophe across space and time, building strong backstory and consequences in only a few lines. As a stand-alone, the novel is quietly consuming, but as a companion to Reservoir 13, it serves as an exquisite elaboration on the mysterious characters that are the heart of both novels.” —Publishers WeeklyThis audiobook combines a fascinating story with outstanding narration. It is and isn’t a continuation of McGregor’s acclaimed novel RESERVOIR 13, which is set in an English village and recounts the search for a teenage girl gone missing and how the townspeople respond to her disappearance. The narrators of this title, with their English accents and abundant skills, make this a worthwhile listen on its own. Each actor gives voice to the many interesting characters that make their way in and out of the story. The combination of McGregor’s storytelling and the talented cast makes this a special listen. J.P.S. © AudioFile 2018, Portland, Maine
★ 2018-05-01
McGregor revisits the world of his Costa Award-winning novel, Reservoir 13 (2017), grimly complicating everything.This novel and its predecessor are organized around the same mystery: A 13-year-old girl named Rebecca Shaw has disappeared while walking on an English moor with her mom and dad. The parent novel then glides omnisciently through village life for the next 13 years, describing divorces, death, the changing seasons, and dreams haunted by Becky Shaw. It is a lyric experiment, with the details of an almanac or poetic gossip rag, and it is at once mesmerizing and subtly tragic: Lives unfold impassively, with a minimum of both intention and result, while the reservoirs swell with rain and foxes give birth and Becky slowly fades from memory. Now, in this companion volume, McGregor has taken a different approach, brilliantly repainting (in mostly darker hues) a village we thought we knew. The book's conceit is introduced in the first chapter: In the wake of Becky's disappearance an interviewer arrives to collect stories and "help to build a picture." The following 14 chapters are those stories, rendered in an urgent, close third-person. In some we meet Becky alive, a precocious "live wire" who leaps into a flooded quarry, smears dirt onto a self-conscious boy's face, and steals an apple from an old woman's garden. In others we are offered glimpses of her possible fates: stumbled into a sinkhole, run away from home, fallen afoul of the "bogeyman figure" who's briefly suspected by the police in the early pages of Reservoir 13. But, as with its predecessor, this book is not singly concerned with Becky. In fact, her disappearance is used—by the narrator in Reservoir 13, by the interviewer in its sequel—as an excuse for observation, a reason to listen to the gossip and mark the seasons, a reason to dive beneath the surface of a place to grapple with the lives and stories transpiring there.On its own, this book is a noteworthy event. When put in conversation with Reservoir 13, it is nothing short of a remarkable experiment in storytelling. McGregor is a must-read writer.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940169781731 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Blackstone Audio, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 08/07/2018 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
2: Vicky
The first Vicky knew about it was when the girl’s parents came bursting into the pub.
The two of them were both talking at once and it took a minute to work out what they were saying. They couldn’t find her, was the gist of it.
Their anoraks were covered in mud, so it wasn’t much of a leap to guess they meant someone was missing on the hills. Tony had Mountain Rescue on the phone while they were still getting their breath back. Vicky could feel herself tensing up, the way she did, now, at any mention of emergency services.
She’s thirteen, they said. Her name’s Becky. We only lost sight of her for a moment and then she vanished. We’ve looked everywhere.
Tony told them Mountain Rescue were asking for locations, and they didn’t seem to have a clue. They’d been trying to get to Black Bull Rocks, they told him.
Vicky was sitting near the bar, with Graham. Black Bull Rocks was at the far eastern end of the ridge, above the visitor centre where Vicky and Graham worked. Graham caught her eye. In this weather? they were both thinking. At this time of year?
Some of the people who came here had no idea what they were doing on the hills. Vicky dealt with a fair number of them at the visitor centre: people who didn’t know how to read a map, or think to check the weather forecast. People who assumed there would be a mobile-phone signal when they got lost. At least if they called in to the centre there was a chance to set them straight. It was the ones who marched straight past they had to worry about. And she did worry, often.
Tony held the phone away from his ear and said Mountain Rescue were asking for a description, and the parents looked stumped for a minute.
She’s about this tall, the father said, holding his hand to the top of his chest. Dark-blonde hair, down to her shoulders. No glasses. She looks older than thirteen. She’s wearing a white hooded top and a navy-blue body-warmer. Black jeans and canvas shoes.
Canvas shoes.
The mother wasn’t saying anything much. She looked lost. She looked like someone who had just stood next to a loud noise and was waiting for her hearing to come back.
Tony got finished on the phone and said things would get sorted quickly now, and not to worry. Someone from Mountain Rescue would be in and wanting to take them out in the Land Rover, he said. He told them there was a back room available, so they could sit in peace. He nodded at one of the other staff to sort some drinks, asking them what they wanted.
Her name’s Becky, the mother suddenly said. Becky Shaw. Rebecca, really.
Don’t worry, Tony told them, as he started leading them off. They’re good lads, Mountain Rescue. They know what they’re doing. They’ll find her.
Vicky thought he might regret saying that. She had a bad feeling already. She got these feelings. It really wasn’t Tony’s place to go offering that kind of a promise.
*
Of course, people started talking then, once Tony had the parents in the back room. The family had been staying up at the Hunters’ new barn conversions, Irene said. She remembered the girl from back in the summer. Irene did the cleaning for most of the holiday lets in the village, and she tended to pick things up as she went. She said the family were from somewhere down south, and she wasn’t sure what the parents did but they seemed like the professional type. Both of them working, so the girl must have been used to going off on her own. She spent a lot of time with Sophie, the Hunters’ daughter. Same age, give or take.
Martin Fowler chipped in and said he remembered the two of them hanging around the village as well. Used to see them with the Broad lad, he said, and Sean Hooper’s son, and what’s his name, Deepak. She was a livewire, someone else said. There was talk of them messing around at the reservoirs. They’d been seen swimming at the quarry.
This type of conversation went on for a while.
One thing Vicky had learnt when she moved up here was that people liked to talk. Information got around quickly, and if people didn’t have actual facts they seemed very capable of filling in the gaps. She’d more than once had to deny being pregnant, after being seen with orange juice in the pub. Saying she didn’t drink wasn’t enough of an answer. Eventually she’d just announced that she was a recovering alcoholic every time someone tried to buy her a pint. That usually put a stop to the questions.
Assumptions were made about her and Graham as well. We’re just colleagues, actually, she often had to say. We’ve known each other a while, we’re good friends, but that’s all. People sometimes had an infuriating way of nodding patiently when she said this, but she’d learnt to let it go.
*
She’d known Graham for a long time. They’d been at college together, when they were younger. They’d studied conservation management, but when the course finished he was the one who moved up to Derbyshire and found actual conservation work. She moved down to London instead, where she worked in bars, went to a lot of parties, and got into a bit of trouble. They kept in touch, on and off. He told her about the work he was doing for the National Park, and encouraged her to visit. She told him stories about what she was up to in London. She’d thought they were funny stories, at the time, but his responses often involved asking if she was really okay.
She never knew how he’d found her in the hospital. She just knew that each time she woke up, and remembered what had happened all over again, he was there. He told her he’d thought something like this was going to happen, and she told him there was no need to be a smart-arse about it.
It hurt when she laughed, for a long time.
People asked, later, what it had felt like to be in a car crash, and she had to say that she had no idea. It wasn’t frightening. She didn’t feel any pain. She was lifted out through the window of her car. She was wet all over, and very cold. There were flashing blue lights. She could remember getting into a fight at a party, but nothing after that. There were a lot of fights, in those days. She wasn’t a good person to be around. People round here wouldn’t believe it, if they knew.
By the time she got out of the hospital, Graham had persuaded her to leave London and move up here. He told her she needed to clear her head, to get back to doing something she loved and get some fresh air in her lungs. He didn’t really take no for an answer. She was surprised by his directness, and she went along with it because she didn’t know what else to do. He was the only one who’d come to see her in the hospital.
*
Usually, when the Mountain Rescue team got up on the hills, they found who they were looking for. They were all local, and they knew the place like their own back yards. They had a good sense of which way people would head when they got lost and in a panic. They knew where people would try and hide when the weather closed in, and where the likely falling places were.
But this was starting to turn out differently.
Vicky and Graham had been asked to open up the visitor centre, for use as an operations base, and over the course of the evening it kept getting busier. The police arrived, and a second Mountain Rescue team were called in. When Vicky brought fresh pots of coffee into the room where they’d spread out the maps she heard someone talk about expanding the search zone, which she guessed meant they had very little idea where the girl might be. It was going to be a long night. There were flashing blue lights outside, and helicopters overhead.
At one point Vicky saw the girl’s parents again, being escorted into the map room by a police officer. They weren’t in there for long, and were soon escorted out again and into a waiting car. A ripple of silence followed them through the building, as though people were afraid to say the wrong thing in their presence. She’d seen something like this before. The way people kept their distance, as if grief was contagious.
She wanted to go out to the car and tell them they weren’t alone. But they were, of course.
She realised that grief was probably the wrong word to use about what was happening just yet. But it had been hours already and the weather was only getting worse.
Irene arrived later in the evening, carrying bags of shopping into the tiny kitchen at the back of the visitor centre. Right then, she said, unpacking the bags. It’s Vicky, isn’t it? I’ve got enough here for six dozen bacon cobs. I’ll slice, you spread.
She looked over at Graham, standing behind Irene. He shrugged, making a face to say that there was no point arguing. They’d got the hang of doing this, communicating with glances and nods, over the heads of colleagues and members of the public. They’d reached a kind of understanding. He passed her the butter, and reached up for the frying pans.
*
By morning there were police vans parked all along the verges down the lane. The road had been closed, and there were torchlights flashing through the beech wood across the way. There were dogs barking.
Graham and Vicky were outside, taking a break, sheltering from the rain under the entrance-way roof. The blue lights and the police radios were making her think of the night of the accident again. Graham asked if she was okay. She looked at him. She wanted a cigarette. She wanted a drink.
I’m fine, she said. Tired.
That would seem reasonable under the circumstances, he said.
They watched more cars pulling into the car park. A helicopter passed by overhead.
I’ve arranged for the Cardwell team to come and take over, he said. I think we’ve done our share. Could I perhaps interest you in some breakfast?
She smiled. She was very cold. Yes, Graham, she said. You can interest me in some breakfast.
*
When they got to the house, Vicky took a shower while Graham started cooking. She was trembling and she felt a little sick and she knew she needed to eat. These were her vulnerable moments. They’d talked about these at the group. She felt bad for worrying about herself, with everything that was going on, but she also knew she had no choice. At the group they talked about putting on your own oxygen mask first.
While she was drying herself she felt dizzy and she had to sit down. Graham had lent her an old fleece and a pair of walking trousers to wear. They smelt musty and they were too big but they were at least clean. She felt comfortable in them.
In the kitchen Graham was just putting the breakfast out on the table. The radio was on and they were talking about the missing girl.
Suits you, he said, glancing up at her outfit. She sat down.
She wanted to say something about the girl’s mother. She could feel her eyes starting to sting. She looked at him. There was a question in his expression but she couldn’t read it.
Tea’s in the pot, he said.
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