To help stop my fear from taking control and rendering me useless, I played with my necklace, fingering the four keys that hung from the chain. Front door, back door, downstairs windows, upstairs windows. As I repeated my mantra, I focused on the used chewing gum someone had trodden into the ground and counted each piece. I hoped once I made it into the supermarket, I would feel safe.
By the time I made it to Tesco Express I had counted forty-seven pieces of old gum and my hand ached from continually moving the keys back and forth. It was disgusting to think about, the amount of gum, all those germs, but counting helped. I thought I would feel better being indoors again, but I felt worse. Grabbing a basket, I walked down the aisles, acutely aware of the exit becoming further and further away. Each step became hard to take but I took them, regardless. I didn’t think I would ever remove the hand inside my chest which held me down and kept me afraid.
Heading into the back corner, the smell of fresh bread comforting me, I wrestled my headphones out of my bag. I put them in and pressed play, and as the sound of my music drowned out my own anxious thoughts, I moved on, grabbing the essentials, before heading towards the wine section to get a bottle of red, although I wasn’t sure if Paul drank wine. He wasn’t a drinker, that much I knew.
But as I turned towards the shelves of alcohol, my thoughts of enjoying an intimate glass of wine with Paul (both warming and nerve-wracking) were hijacked by thoughts of Owen, bringing me to a halt. A memory flashed of our honeymoon in a caravan near Tralee on the west coast of Ireland. It was all we could afford being so young and poor, but it was a magical five days. The wind kept us awake most of the night, the cold creeping in through the vents, and we drank wine, lots of it, to keep ourselves warm. But we wouldn’t have had it any other way. We would have lazy mornings in bed and then walk along the coastline, our hands interlinked.
Then my memories took me somewhere else, somewhere darker, and the warm feeling left as quickly as it came. The icy hand was back on my diaphragm, playing its tune. The same one it always played until I forced myself to move again. As I looked for a bottle of red wine I could afford, I felt I was being watched, but this time it felt different. This wasn’t me being controlled by my own fear. This was real. The air hung thickly around me, and my body reacted to it before I could think.
Looking to my right I locked eyes with a woman who was staring at me: short dark hair, pale skin. Maybe in her mid-twenties. Her expression was one I had seen countless times before, although not recently. I grabbed the nearest bottle and walked away. Just before turning the corner I looked back, and she was moving towards me, talking with a man who had joined her. He was confident and intimidating, and I felt a surge of terror, but I quickly quelled it. He was too young to be who my fractured mind told me it was. And I knew it couldn’t be him, because he, Tommy Kay, died in prison four years ago. Still, it didn’t stop me thinking the person following me was involved somehow, despite being told on countless occasions that Tommy Kay, the man who was widely believed to be the Black-Out Killer, was a lone wolf, a solo act. A loner.
I increased my pace, which made the ache in my right foot develop into a sharp pain. I tried to hide my limp. It was hard and painful to do, but I didn’t want anyone to notice. As I got to the till, I breathed a sigh of relief that there wasn’t a queue. I loaded my things onto the checkout belt quickly and looked over my shoulder as the couple attempted to discreetly watched me, pretending they were examining the contents of the tinned soup aisle, not fooling anyone.
‘Thirty-two pounds eighteen, please,’ said the cashier after scanning my items. I looked at her, realising I hadn’t until that moment. She was young, probably seventeen or eighteen with a ring in her nose and filled-in eyebrows. Her body language told me she didn’t want to be there any more than I did. I took out my headphones.
‘Sorry, how much?’
‘Thirty-two pounds eighteen,’ she replied like I was hard of hearing or stupid.
‘Are you sure, that seems like a lot?’
‘That’s what the till says.’
‘I see.’ I looked at the items sat crushed together, in the recess where they slide after being scanned, waiting to be bagged. ‘I’m sorry, can you tell me how much the wine is please?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Sorry, the wine, could you tell me how much it is, please?’
The young girl rolled her eyes and looked at the display. Quickly looking over my shoulder, I noticed the couple were inching closer. I needed to get out. I needed to go home.
‘Twenty-one pounds fifty.’
‘Oh.’
I didn’t have enough to pay for a bottle that much, but looked in my purse anyway, counting my money. Small coins included, I had around seventeen, maybe eighteen pounds at a stretch. I could feel my cheeks warm as panic began to set in. I could feel the young girl watching me, as were three people with baskets now queued behind me. Behind them, I couldn’t see the couple anymore. Perhaps the commotion had startled them away; they couldn’t follow me if I wasn’t moving. I took my bank card from my purse and mumbled an apology, hoping by some miracle it would go through. As expected, it declined.
‘Have you got another card?’ asked the girl, irritated by my delay. Another person had joined the queue. Impatience filled the air. I could almost hear their thoughts. ‘Come on dole dosser, move it along. Unlike you, we have places to go.’
‘Sorry. I’m sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘Let me count my cash.’
I don’t know why I said it; I knew I didn’t have enough. My hands shook, my breathing no longer something that was mine to control. I dropped my purse and coins clattered on the metal surface of the till scanner. A quick glance, another person in the queue. All eyes on me. Pity, annoyance, frustration. I could see it all on their faces. I tried to scramble back my money, counting as I did.
Is that three pounds or four? Concentrate, Claire. Concentrate.
‘I’m so sorry. I… um…’
‘If you haven’t got enough, I can take something off your bill?’
‘No, it’ll be OK,’ I said, again, not knowing why. The easiest thing would be to take the wine off, but my mind was swimming. With all the fallen coins back in my numbing hands I counted pointlessly, knowing I was well short. I couldn’t think. I wanted to leave. I wanted to abandon the shopping and get out of there as quickly as I could. My body moved, about to bolt for the door, and as I looked up the eyes of the pale woman and confident man were before me. Blocking my path.
The woman bagged my things, a small smile on her face. The man stepped past me to speak with the cashier, placing me between them both. Trapped.
Chapter 5
6th May 2018
St Ives, Cambridgeshire
‘How much does she owe?’
‘Thirty-two pounds eighteen.’
‘Here you are.’
‘Are you serious?’ asked the checkout girl incredulously.
‘Yes.’ The man pushed his card into the card reader and I heard four quick beeps as he entered his pin. Then the fifth, confirming the payment. The woman backed away, giving me space to run if I needed to, my shopping in her bag. She held out her hand, her eyes firmly on mine, and for reasons that baffled me I took it. She guided me from the tight space between cashiers to the entrance and outside. We stopped at a bench that sat next to a Postman Pat ride for children, the red paint cracked and faded.
The sun that had warmed my skin this morning was gone, dark clouds hiding it. Rain fell like a drifting mist, but that wouldn’t be for long. Somewhere in the distance the rumble of thunder sounded. An angry god. The smell of the cold rain water hitting the hot tarmac reminded me of being a little girl again, playing happily on the street outside my house.
I sat on the bench, the pale woman standing close.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked. I didn’t respond. I didn’t want them to pay for my shopping, I didn’t want a bottle of wine that cost twenty-one pounds fifty. I didn’t want charity. I didn’t want to be
out. I wanted to go back to the morning when the sun kissed my collarbones and the feeling that the day might be mine.
‘Here,’ the pale lady said, placing the shopping bag at my feet. Her eyes staying fixed on mine as she sat on the other end of the bench.
‘Yes, sorry. I’m fine. You shouldn’t have paid for my shopping.’
‘We wanted to. Can we take you anywhere?’ said the man, his voice deep and calming.
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Can we walk you to your car?’
‘I’m walking home, thank you.’
‘Do you have an umbrella?’
I didn’t respond; the answer was obvious. The man dashed out into the rain into the car park, as a flash of lightning streaked across the sky. I counted, like I had as a child in the meadow behind my house, waiting for the thunder to clap. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, eight, eight… I couldn’t get past that number, I doubted I ever would.
The clouds slapped together, making me jump, and I saw the man had returned with a small black umbrella. He gave it to the pale woman, keeping his distance, as if he understood. She placed it on the bench beside me.
‘Are you sure we can’t give you a lift? Those storm clouds look pretty ominous. It’s only going to get worse out here.’
I looked up at her. Her eyes filled with compassion.
‘You shouldn’t have bought my shopping.’
‘Again, we wanted to.’
‘I saw you and panicked and picked up the wrong wine.’
‘Then we needed to pay for it. I’m sorry we startled you.’
‘I can pay you back, if you give me your details.’
‘I don’t want you to pay me back.’
‘I’m so embarrassed.’
‘The only embarrassing thing is that we live in a world where someone like you needs help.’
I felt pathetic, a grown woman in her mid-thirties, ten years older than the girl before her, unable to pay for her own shopping. I wanted to cry. But not here, not now. Above our heads the rain started to fall with more force. The drumming of thousands of drops hitting the metal roof sounding like an ocean rolling in. We both looked up.
‘Please, can we give you a lift?’
‘No, thank you. I need to walk. I can’t explain why.’
‘I think I understand.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then could you tell me, because I don’t,’ I said, smiling, hoping it didn’t look as sad as I felt.
‘I think you walking home in a storm is a fuck you…’
I laughed quietly, her words unexpected and true.
‘Yeah, that’s exactly it. It’s a fuck you.’
The woman rose to her feet and touched my shoulder before walking towards her partner who, out of respect, kept some distance. Just before they left she turned once more.
‘Claire Moore. You are the most courageous person I have ever met. That’s why it stopped. Never forget that.’
She smiled at me and though I desperately wanted to smile back, I couldn’t. I stared at her as she and the kind man walked away, climbed into their car and left.
Gathering the broken bits of my dignity I rose, replacing the headphones in my ears. Before stepping out into what would soon become a deluge, I scrolled through my playlist and chose some music. Opening the umbrella, I stepped into the rain. Another flash of lightning shot across the sky.
One, two, three, four, five…
Another clap louder than the music in my ears. The storm was drawing in.
With my head down, I set off. The music drowned out the noise of the rain hitting the roofs of parked cars. My return home was far less stressful than the walk in, the footpaths deserted, the air fresh and clean. I took my time despite the rain hitting the ground so hard it bounced and soaked the hem of my trousers. I felt safe when everyone else hid.
The music finished, the end of the short playlist, and silence ensued. The sounds of the world returned. Cars driving through the puddles, splashing water over the footpaths that drained into the puddles once more. Another clap of thunder, which made me jump. Not a surprised jump, but one laced with fear. I hadn’t seen the lightning before. The rain hit the top of the umbrella, tiny crackles like a thousand exploding fireworks, their rhythm transfixing, seducing. It stopped me in my tracks, took the world away, the roads, the houses. The tarmac, the daytime. And I was back in the dark, lying on my side, covered in grass cuttings, raindrops forcing me to keep my eyes closed. My head hurting, my stomach screaming. My foot twisted in agony. Sodden soil covered me because of the distance I had crawled. Under my nails, in my hair. In the gum line of my teeth. I tried to keep my eyes open, see what was coming. Face it head on. A coat, lowered over me, making a canopy, blocking the rain. The sound similar to the one I heard right now, the sound of a thousand fireworks.
A car driving past splashed my feet, snatching me away from my thoughts. I hesitated to understand where I was. Then, hoping I hadn’t been seen zoning out, I made my way up the road and to my front door.
It took me a moment to get my keys out and in the lock. Closing it behind me, I pressed my back into the wall. Told myself to breathe. Sliding down the wall I sat, the shopping bag to my right, and removed my sodden shoes and socks. My feet felt hot, the veins bulging across the tops. My eyes were drawn to the edge of my right foot. The skin was still bright pink even after all these years and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t remember what my foot used to look like before two of my toes had been cut off. But I could still remember that moment as clear as if it was yesterday. I could hear the sound that came from my mouth, the sound of the bolt cutters slamming shut. These memories were always there, just behind my eyes in a box I kept locked, but its lid wasn’t airtight, the dark light spilled through the cracks and keyhole when my vigilance slipped.
I wanted to text Mum but stopped myself. I knew what had happened. I knew how I was feeling and what my response to my feelings would be. It had happened before. I knew, despite not feeling like I could at the moment, that I would manage this and then my skin would be just that bit thicker. Hopefully, after enough of these moments, my skin would be so thick they would stop troubling me entirely. Hopefully.
Pushing the awful thoughts back I sighed, defeated, and took my phone out, knowing how the rest of the day would pan out. Opening my messages, I tapped the thread with Paul, my excitement clear to see in the brief words we had exchanged.
What a difference a few hours can make.
Paul, I’m sorry but can we rearrange? Perhaps tomorrow we could go for breakfast somewhere, or a walk in a park. I’m OK, nothing to worry about. Just had a rough trip to the shops. I’m not feeling myself. I’m really sorry.
I hated sending it, I wanted to see him. But not like this, and this would not shift until a new day had begun. Flopping onto my sofa, I turned on the TV and opened my Netflix account. I would find a new show to get into and I would stay there until I fell asleep. Then, I would get up tomorrow and try again.
As I was told, nearly ten years ago when recovering, tomorrow was another day, a chance to start anew.
Hello, Claire,
I came to visit you today. I watched you battle with a carrier bag and umbrella against the rain. Jumping when thunder crashed above our heads. You walked past me, on the other side of the street, twenty feet from me, your right foot clearly causing you discomfort, which I found comforting. Just before you turned onto your road, towards your house, you stopped, lost in your thoughts. I wonder if you were thinking about me? I wanted you to turn and see me across the road – I thought for a moment you did see me out of the corner of your eye. But the storm above us was beautiful, its power undeniable, and you couldn’t see anything because of it.
I don’t know why I came today, I hadn’t planned to. Perhaps it was because it’s so close to a milestone date of our brief and climactic moment together. Our past, our night, created an improbable bond, a closeness, an understandin
g. What we have is something no one else has. And I know I am in your thoughts as much as you are in mine. Our past has drawn me to you once more.
You’re probably shocked to read that I came to visit you. Don’t be. I would be lying if I said this was my first visit. There is something about you that draws me in, something that I cannot shake. I know it’s linked to the intensity of that night, and with the anniversary of that encounter looming, the feeling is heightened. The psychological term is Lima Syndrome. I care for you because I want to kill you, and the absence created by not killing you only fuels the fire within.
And so, I’m compelled to write to you. I know it will be a long time before you read this. But one day, you will know everything. And I want to make sure you understand why – that you know the truth.
The first time I came to you was only weeks after our night. I came to you at a doctor’s surgery when you were waiting for your therapy session to begin. I sat behind you, so close I could smell the citrus of your shampoo. But you don’t seem to go to these sessions anymore. Is it because you have deluded yourself into thinking you are cured, or have you given up hope?
More recently I’ve watched you sitting in the park, enjoying the sunshine on your face. I have seen you in a coffee shop with your mother. I’ve only ever wanted to observe you, to see you as you are now, to see how you’re enduring, what you were achieving. What I have seen from you used to make me feel a sense of pride, but recently that sense has gone.
I’m disappointed, Claire. You are not the woman I thought you would become after me, but there is time to change that. I will make you see who you are – who you still are – and I will make you understand the mistakes you have made. I never intended to return. I have evolved, become something new. But I have watched you, Claire, and I know you have gone full circle, back where you started all those years ago. Only, you are remembering me less. And that is why I will come back for you.
Closer Than You Think Page 4