Closer Than You Think

by Darren O’Sullivan

  ‘Shit, Claire. Get a grip.’

  Holding my breath, pulse hammering in my neck, I opened my front door and stepped rather hastily into the street. Locking the door behind me I felt my fingertips tingle with each surge of adrenaline that coursed through my veins. Lowering my head, I started to move, hoping I wouldn’t pass out. I focused on two things. The mid-morning sun was warm on the back of my neck and the patch of ground where my shadow and feet connected. As always, I counted, this time deciding to find and log cigarette butts. It was harder than counting chewing gum as there seemed to fewer of them these days, but this meant I had to look harder and so it served its purpose. I found one still burning, its end glowing a brilliant red as the hot embers died. I stopped and watched the small fire within fade to black.

  I only saw a handful of people, all on the other side of the road and thankfully, heading in the opposite direction. As I turned onto London Road, I could see the beautiful St Ives Bridge that crossed the River Great Ouse, which distracted me, until I heard the sound of a man coughing behind me. I hadn’t noticed anyone follow me when leaving the house, which meant that they were already on London Road. I knew I shouldn’t panic. It was a busy road and a nice morning; I was bound to have someone behind me. And yet, I felt my blood move through my body that bit quicker. He coughed again, this time a little louder, or perhaps a little closer. I couldn’t tell. Up ahead was the bridge, and just on the other side, the café where I was meeting Paul. I knew as soon as I saw him I would feel calmer, so I upped my pace.

  I stepped onto the bridge, heard the cough again, and this time I was sure it was closer. Whoever it was, they were gaining on me and my anxiety was turning into a panic attack. I felt that icy hand on my diaphragm once more, plucking like a harpist, playing its tune as it had for years, and it took every ounce of my willpower to stop myself running as fast as I could. But I knew it was a battle I was losing. I heard a sniff, only a matter of feet away and, looking at the floor, I could see the tip of his shadow stretching out over my right shoulder. His head was disproportionately long, like a monster. I wanted to look behind but knew I shouldn’t, so instead I took my phone from my pocket and using the glass like a mirror I snuck a peek behind me.

  It was hard to make out his features but I could just see that the man behind me was older. His hair was thin, his face pitted with signs of wrinkles. I watched as he coughed again, lowering his head. Then when he looked up, I was sure his eyes locked onto mine though the screen and the icy hand pulled so hard I thought my lungs would tear away from my chest wall. My eyes began to brim, and my flight mechanism tried to power my legs into a hobbled run. But I knew if I ran now, I would run for years, as I had done for the last ten. I was tired of it, and I thought I had beaten it in recent months. I thought by agreeing to go to Ireland, by letting myself meet another man, by slowing down on my doctor appointments until I no longer went, and weaning myself off my medication, I was beating it. Evidently, I wasn’t. That part of me that wanted to create distance and then hide was still with me. The part of me that ended up cowering behind a tree or in a shop doorway hadn’t gone.

  I wasn’t supposed to be that person. I wasn’t supposed to be what Tommy Kay wanted me to be. He’d wanted me dead, like the others, like Owen, and being like this, someone who was too scared to be outside, I might as well be dead.

  But I couldn’t let myself hide anymore. I couldn’t let myself wish I was invisible. So, despite my head’s instruction to run, I didn’t. I stopped, turned and looked onto the river, pretending to immerse myself in the swans swimming towards the bridge, a mother followed by two cygnets. I leant on the ancient wall, my hands gripping the stone to pin me to my place.

  In my peripheral vision I saw the man come very close. He looked at me, and gave a smile that said, ‘I know all about you, Claire,’ and I drew a breath, holding it deep in my lungs. I stood firm. I would not run, I would not freak out. I would hold my ground. This was my patch of earth, my space, and I didn’t want to give it away. He passed so close I felt the air between us stir, and as he continued past me I kept my eyes on the swan with her babies. He turned left at the end of the bridge and walk along the river bank. Then, seeing him a safe distance away, I let out my breath. He looked back at me just before disappearing into a butcher shop, and I did something uncharacteristic. I waved. I told him, yes, I have seen you watching. I know you were there. And I’m not scared of you.

  He didn’t wave back but stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  I knew he wasn’t anyone I needed to be scared of. I knew he was just some man, and he looked at me because he was nosey or inquisitive. Smiling because he was being polite. I knew I didn’t need to be afraid, but I was anyway. And I had waved. Because of the wave, I felt like I had won. I was a victor, not a victim.

  And, after watching the swan and her young swim under the bridge I continued to walk towards the café, holding my head a little higher. I didn’t count cigarette butts. I didn’t try to hide in plain sight. I just walked, like anyone else would. And it felt bloody fantastic.

  Walking along the river, past the butcher’s that the man had gone into, I saw Paul up ahead, leaning against the wall to the café. As I drew closer, he squinted to see me properly and smiled broadly. I smiled back, and the invisible hand on my diaphragm loosened its grip.

  Paul wasn’t sure how to greet me, I could tell in his body language, his shuffling feet, his arms not outstretched but not by his side either. So, to help him know, I stepped into his space and wrapped my arms around his waist. I felt his lungs contract as he let out a long sigh, his arms became heavy on my shoulders as I felt tension release. Then he kissed me on the top of my head.

  ‘Hey,’ he said quietly, as he stepped back to meet my eye, a smile firmly on his face.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Yeah, I could eat. Are you?’

  ‘Starved.’

  ‘Starved? Well, we’d better go in, hadn’t we?’

  Taking his hand, I led us towards the door and opened it. I could see he wanted to take the lead and gesture me inside, but I insisted and awkwardly he followed. The café was busy, mainly filled with pensioners having tea. There were also a few mums scattered around a table, surrounded by buggies. They were all talking as they fed or held or rocked their little ones. One dad, sat near the window on his own was holding his newborn and stared vacantly out the window, wrapped up in his own thoughts. As Paul asked for a table for two, I watched the dad kiss his baby on the head before returning to his contentment. The scene forced a tingling sensation at the top of my nose, but before it could force its way up and become a tear Paul gently touched my arm, making my insides jump, and told me our table was in the far corner. I hoped he didn’t notice me staring at the man and baby.

  As Paul got up to order, I surveyed the room: noting where the exits were, how many people were seated, whether anyone seemed suspicious or anxious. As far as I could tell, only I fitted that description. I watched the dad who was lost in thought get up, pack his things away and leave. I watched the mums chatting loudly and an older couple becoming increasingly irritated by it. I listened to people’s conversations, my hearing flipping from one to the next, trying to gauge the mood of the room. I tuned into the music playing quietly behind. An old one by Stereophonics that I used to love. I plotted the route I would take if I needed to get out quickly, and what I could use in defense if required. I did all of this in the few minutes Paul was at the counter. It was something I always did when I wasn’t at home. My brain was programmed to know how to escape.

  Paul sat down and we chatted about nothing, the way normal people did. He spoke of work, how he was managing a difficult contract near Liverpool where the building of two hundred houses was behind schedule – as the contract manager for the estate which was being developed, it was his responsibly to get it back on track.

  As he spoke, the stress of the workload clear across the lines in his forehead, I wondered
again, might he have ever met Owen? Could they have been in the same place, at the same time? And again, I dismissed it, it was silly to connect them. I wondered if I was doing it to make myself feel better or worse? He must have sensed my thoughts were wandering and, assuming I was bored he stopped and changed the subject to one of his girls and the book by Harlan Coben he’d recently devoured. He was speaking a little quickly, as if my presence made him nervous. He hadn’t the last time we’d met up, but last time I hadn’t suggested ending our… whatever it was.

  As our brunch came the tension lifted and we both focused on our food. I tucked into my poached eggs, enjoying the fact I could eat in front of him comfortably, and watched as he lost himself in his bacon sandwich. I knew I needed to offer something to get conversation flowing and just as I was about to talk about my impending trip to Ireland, and how nervous I was about it, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I took it out, expecting it to be a message from Mum. I couldn’t hide my concerned expression as I saw it was another Facebook message from Killian.

  As I opened it, Paul stopped eating and watched me.

  Claire. I really want to talk, to see how you are. I want to help. I know next week will be hard for you, and I want to be there, as a friend.

  Locking the phone, I put it face down on the table.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Paul wondered, his brow furrowed intently at me.

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine.’

  ‘Claire, you don’t look fine.’

  ‘It’s just an old…’ I stopped myself. ‘Just someone I know who is behaving a little off lately.’

  ‘Off?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s hard to explain. I used to talk with him often, but over the past year he’s become a little… it’s hard to explain.’

  ‘Is he giving you grief?’

  ‘No, no he’s not, but he’s changed, and I don’t like it.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked, and I liked the question. He didn’t ask what he could do about it but trusted me to deal with it myself.

  ‘I don’t know yet. I think he’ll understand I don’t wish to talk and back away.’

  He smiled at me, but I could see he was worried, concerned, curious, trying to piece together what might be going on in my head. I knew he wanted to understand me and the reasons I did things, and I thought it would be easier to not tell him anything and distance myself. But I didn’t want to. Taking a deep breath, I prepared myself.

  ‘Paul? How much do you know about what happened? You know, when I was in Ireland?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Would you like to know more? I mean, more than the papers printed.’

  ‘I’ve never read a newspaper story about you.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No, I don’t follow the news much.’

  ‘And you’ve not been curious since we met?’

  ‘Yes, but only so I can understand you more. Out of respect, I’ve not looked – I figured if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m not interested in pitying your past. I want to be a part of your future.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, knowing it was the right thing to do as soon as he said he didn’t want to pity me; I’d had a lifetime of it already. Leaning over the table he took me by my hands, his touch warming them after the adrenaline of the bridge incident had sucked the blood from them. As he spoke, he focused on his thumb which gently stroked mine.

  ‘But you don’t have to tell me anything, Claire, you don’t.’

  Squeezing his hand, I brought my head up, our eyes meeting.

  ‘You’re right, Paul, I don’t. But I want to, I do, and although I can’t right now. I want you to know, one day I will tell you.’

  Chapter 8

  August 2007

  Churchtown, Ireland

  The second, third and fourth

  Turning off the N20, he drove along the single-track road that stretched towards the setting sun in the distance. Either side of the narrow lane, the endless miles of Irish countryside were punctuated by the spotting of cows. On the CD player ‘Paper Cut’ by Linkin Park played as it had done on repeat since leaving his house an hour before. Listening to the song didn’t send his adrenaline surging; if he was honest, he didn’t particularly like it. But he listened anyway, over and over again on his drive to the village where the third lived, because, by accident, he stumbled upon the power of music for stimulating memory recall with his second kill.

  The second was a man named Jamie Connell. A man who had divorced and remarried by the age of twenty-five, his first wife having the sense of mind to leave when his drinking and subsequent rage became something more than just a niggling concern. He hadn’t learnt to change his ways when marrying his younger bride, Felicity, and it didn’t take her long to learn Jamie ruled his home with a heavy hand.

  He met the second in the O’Callaghan’s pub in the middle of Coachford, a small village twenty miles outside Cork, a few days after his first kill. The media had just learnt that the victim died before the fire started, and his body had been the fuel used to ignite the house. Blair’s wife’s alibi was airtight, and images of her sobbing for her husband were everywhere. It was while watching a reporter talking about the fire that he struck up a conversation with Jamie, the murder being an easy way to lead into an ‘innocent’ chat. He noticed how people didn’t bond over the positive things in the world. A story about a good deed or heroic act wouldn’t be discussed out loud with a stranger. It was the darker things in life that drew humanity in, like a moth to the flame. He didn’t speak to Jamie to determine if the man beside him belonged on his list but instead, wanted to speak out loud about the murder he had committed, and to watch how his new ‘friend’ would react without ever knowing he was talking to the perpetrator. As they spoke, he enjoyed the power that came with the truth only he had knowledge of. Jamie Connell unknowingly called him a monster, the devil incarnate, and as he agreed he fought to suppress his smile at how wrong Jamie was. He wasn’t the devil; he was the opposite. He was doing God’s work and, although he didn’t know it yet, the man sat beside him was one of the real monsters in the world.

  That night they drank and got to know one another. As they played pool, Jamie was inebriated enough to speak of more personal matters: his work, his hobbies, his wife. As soon as Jamie mentioned her name, the energy changed, and recognising why, his senses heightened. He watched his drunk acquaintance with more intent, and listened a little closer. He discovered a person of interest. The others on the list would possibly have to wait. He suspected his new friend was right for his list not because of anything he said about his wife, but the way he said it. His tone, and the slight curl of his lip suggested she was below him, a lesser person. Jamie didn’t talk of his wife for long, but enough to awaken his instincts, and listen. They told him the man before him, Jamie Connell, was next. Jamie moved onto football, specifically the 2002 World Cup and the magnificent 1-1 draw with Germany, and the dreaded penalty shoot-out against Spain which ended the plucky boys in green’s run. He almost felt normal as they spoke, but not quite, because he was focusing more on the man Jamie was. His height, weight, whether he was left- or right-handed. Details that would be important to know later on.

  As they chatted and played, he noticed Jamie’s pint was empty and went to the bar to get two more, opting for a lager-shandy for himself. He didn’t want to be drunk but wanted to appear to be drinking. As he returned, Jamie was talking quietly into his phone, speaking with his wife. He listened as Jamie told her she couldn’t go out with her friends as he needed her to be at home when he returned. She must have asked what time that would be because after a pause he said, he would be home ‘when he fucking well pleased’. As Jamie hung up, he pretended he hadn’t heard the call and passed his new buddy his pint, knowing for sure, now, that Jamie Connell would be the second.

  It was on a cold and wet January
, eight months after he first met Jamie, that he killed the power to his house and the seven others in the close he lived in. He knew from the months of learning, months of watching, that Jamie would be alone. Felicity, his wife, was visiting her mother who lived in a nursing home. She only visited once a week, on a Tuesday, because this was the only night Jamie would let her go out, despite him being in the pub most nights. His wife did as she was told because she was afraid of his temper. But not now. He had lifted her from her fear and punished the man who created her suffering. On the night he killed the second, a Radiohead song played in the background. He knew Jamie loved this particular song, he’d mentioned he liked to fall asleep to it when he was drunk. As he worked on Jamie, preparing the body and the house to be incinerated, the song played, barely audible though his victim’s headphones, but enough to immortalise the moment in his mind. Now, when he heard that song, he felt the same emotions, adrenaline and excitement he did that night.

  As was Radiohead to Jamie, Linkin Park would be for ever linked with the night of the third, because the third mentioned once that ‘Paper Cut’ was his favourite song when it came on in the pub they were drinking in. From tonight, every time he heard that song, he would be reliving the final moments of thirty-eight-year-old Jack Merrill.

  Driving past the sign welcoming him to Churchtown he turned down the car stereo and calmly drove into the village. Parking his car opposite the Boss Murphy pub, the place he met the third, he collected himself before climbing out. Opening the boot, he grabbed his rucksack which housed the tools needed for the job. The bag was lighter than with the first two. He had fine-tuned exactly what was needed for his kill. Slowly, he made his way past the pub in which he met Jack and up the hill towards his house. His hands tingled with the knowledge of how tonight would be different – an evolution, God moving though him to ensure his message would be heard as it should be. Tonight, he would do something new. Something he only recently considered. Tonight, he would punish not just the husband; tonight, he would punish the wife as well.