Closer Than You Think

by Darren O’Sullivan

  When the thought first came into his head, he dismissed it. But, in the aftermath of the second and the country making the connection between the crimes, which led the media to suggest he may well be the first serial killer in the Republic of Ireland since the 1900s, he watched the victims’ families and friends say what saints they were. He listened as they called him a monster, while the dead were, by contrast, funny, kind, caring men. Men who didn’t deserve to die. Men who were now watching down from heaven above. And none spoke louder and with more conviction than the wives, the women who knew as much as he did that they deserved to die. He watched as they lied time after time to the cameras, crocodile tears falling. He watched them both declare they would love their husbands until the day they joined them in heaven. At first, he was stunned – he expected them to be happy that they were at last free, but he realised something. The men were on his list for two reasons. One: they had chosen to inflict hurt and suffering, they chose to be like his father. The second reason surprised him. The wives hadn’t left them, because they were weak. If he wanted change, men like his father and women like his mother needed to understand they had to look at themselves, alter their choices, evolve. If they didn’t, he would come for them.

  Life was about making choices, and these women, just like his own poor mother, were fated to die unhappy.

  The sub-generator was located at the end of the row of houses where the third and his wife lived. As before, killing the power was an easy task. This generator ran most of the village and from his elevated position he watched the houses below descend into darkness. Then, within minutes, the torches and candles shone, the dim light bleeding through the curtains. Although he couldn’t see anyone, he could almost taste their trepidation, their fear that quietly bubbled. Most would no doubt dismiss it out of hand, rationalising that it was just a power cut, nothing more. Because bad things didn’t happen to them.

  He entered the house via the back door, and once inside, he took the protective coverall from his bag and dressed over his clothes. Once confident he was suitably covered, with none of his skin or hair exposed and able to leave DNA, he waited quietly in the corner of the kitchen whilst the third and his wife moved around the house, Jack blaming her for the power outage. Quietly he took a roll of tape from his bag and waited. Ideally, the wife would come into the kitchen. Then he would grab her from behind, covering her mouth and tell her if she made a noise, he would kill her. Once she was bound and gagged, he could go to work on the husband. He hoped the shock and fear meant she would comply – if not, he would have to suffocate her.

  Eventually, the door between the hallway and kitchen opened, and in walked the slight frame of the wife. As she moved gingerly in the low light, he padded towards her and in one swift movement he placed his hand over her mouth, his other arm wrapping around her throat. He whispered his demands, and her body went limp as she passed out. It made gagging her and binding her wrists and ankles together, like a pig ready for the spit, far easier than he could possibly have hoped. Satisfied she couldn’t move or shout for help, he stood and stretched his back. Then, as he heard Jack’s voice carried from the living room, he held his breath.

  ‘Charlotte?’

  Putting the tape on the kitchen countertop, he removed the bolt cutters from his rucksack and sidestepped to the doorway. He held them above his head, like a baseball bat.

  ‘Charlotte?’ Jack called again, more agitated. That was good, it meant he would come into the kitchen soon, charging in like the bull he was.

  ‘Charlotte?’ he shouted, angry and full of contempt.

  He heard him mumble ‘for fuck’s sake’ before his heavy footsteps bounded towards the kitchen. As the third opened the door he spoke, only managing a few words before the bolt cutters silenced him as he was hit square in the face. In the low light he almost laughed as Jack’s legs flew up, cartoon-like, before his head hit the floor. Surprisingly, the blow didn’t render him unconscious, not fully. He lay mumbling incoherently. Blood oozed from his mouth and nose, and his jaw was badly broken. Standing over him, he picked up the gaffer tape and wrapped it around his distorted face, trapping in the screams that Jack tried to voice as his broken jaw tugged and squeezed. The pain was evidently too much, and like his wife, Jack passed out.

  Leaving him on the floor, blood still seeping from his nose, he dragged Charlotte by the ankle to the foot of the stairs, then lifted her over his shoulder and carried her up, placing her beside the radiator in the bathroom. She lay at a funny angle, and he had to check her pulse to ensure she wasn’t already dead. Her jugular vein thumped under his fingertips, for now. Using the tape, he bound her to the radiator, just in case she woke. Then going back downstairs, he stepped over Jack to get to the kitchen sink, filled up a glass of water and threw it on his face, waking him with a start.

  For a moment the victim didn’t know where he was, or what had happened, and he enjoyed the moment the realisation came, the fear in his eyes. The shock spasmed Jack’s body involuntarily, and he squirmed, trying to escape. Dragging him to his feet he punched him again in the jaw, the sound of it breaking further reverberating through the house, and Jack’s knees buckled. Calmly, he bound Jack’s wrists and ankles together, and throwing his backpack over his shoulder, he dragged him up the stairs, heaving him in the bathtub beside his unconscious wife. Jack tried to climb out but slipped. He hit him again, and the pain robbed Jack of his ability to use his body properly. The third looked like a bee drowning in a glass of water.

  With the first two kills he played with his victim before this moment, but he learnt that the anticipation of pain, real pain, was far more terrifying than experiencing it. Jack wouldn’t be cut like the other men were, he wouldn’t be maimed. He’d learnt with the first two that when experiencing real pain, people retreat into themselves, the shock too much for their conscious minds to take. They didn’t face their fate but hid from it, like the cowards they were. No, he wouldn’t hurt him, instead he’d suggest he might, ensuring Jack would remain present. After a few minutes of toying with his victim he took his bag off his back and removed a small canister and poured its contents over Jack. The smell of petrol on his skin made him panic, and Jack tried to climb out of the bath but again was struck hard for trying, and again, he fell limp. He wondered if it wasn’t for the tape holding Jack’s face together, would his jaw still be attached?

  Jack was no longer a concern, he wasn’t going anywhere now, and so he turned to look at his wife. She had regained consciousness and sat paralysed by her fear. Her eyes were the only part of her moving as they darted from side to side, her mind unable to comprehend, unable to process what she was seeing. A part of him was still sad that he had to do this to her. She had suffered at her husband’s hand for long enough. But then he remembered, it was her choice to be here now, not his. And he was doing the work God wouldn’t do. If he killed more, others would listen. Men would change, women would leave. What he was doing was for the greater good. Like when the rains came for forty days and forty nights to rid the evil in the world. Now, he was the rain.

  He opened the bolt cutters and placed one blade resting on the toes of Charlotte’s right foot. Knowing what he was about to do, she passed out again and he couldn’t help but feel mildly disappointed. Then, closing the cutters, he removed her toes. A symbol for her not running when she could. He expected it to be harder to do, but it wasn’t dissimilar to when he cut his buddleia after letting it grow wildly all summer. A small amount of pressure and the handles met. Collecting her toes, he dropped them in the bath and just before leaving he lit a match and threw it on Jack’s leg. The petrol ignited his trousers, spreading quickly to his torso.

  Jack’s burning body lit the room amply, almost romantically, and using that light he collected his belongings. Once content he hadn’t left any trace of himself, he removed the coverall, dropping it on the fire, and left the house. A few minutes later he was back in his car and driving away.

  It wasn’t until he was on the
N20 heading north did he see the first of the fire engines rushing past in the opposite direction. He wondered if they already knew, before arriving to the scene, that he had struck again.

  Chapter 9

  16th May 2018

  A14, en route to Stansted Airport

  Sat in the back of the taxi I watched the early morning world rush by. The blur of cars from the other side of the unmoving A14 became a constant stream of metal. I was vaguely aware Mum was saying something beside me, but I couldn’t pick out her words. I was unable to think about anything other than the pulsing sensation in my hands, which were clasped together so tightly my fingertips tingled. I considered prising them apart, but thought if I did, my anxiety would spill out of my palms.

  ‘Claire?’

  ‘Sorry, Mum, I was miles away.’

  ‘I can see that. How are you feeling?’

  I looked at her and she gave a smile back, one that told me she knew it was a stupid question.

  ‘It will be OK.’

  ‘Will it?’

  ‘Yes, this will do you good. I think it will do us both good.’

  I hadn’t considered that before. How Mum might need this as much as I did. She too loved Owen and the home that was all but destroyed in the fire had once been hers. And Ireland, that was her home too, before she left and moved to England to be nearer to Geoff. It wasn’t just me who hadn’t been back to Ireland in ten years, but her also.

  ‘Mum, how are you feeling about going?’

  ‘I’m nervous… scared, even. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘It has. I’m scared, too, I guess.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘So why do I feel like there is?’

  ‘Only you can answer that. Claire, how about me and you, we get through it together?’

  ‘That sounds great.’

  ‘And just know, if you want to talk about it – any of it – you can, and I won’t pass judgement, I won’t react. You can tell me anything, OK?’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  I smiled as best I could and turned my attention back to the window. The sun rising in front of us bounced off the damp road, blinding me. I knew what she was hinting at. Despite Mum being by my side for the last ten years, I hadn’t really talked about that night with her. Our response to the events that had changed who I was, the events that killed Owen, was only ever reactive. We dealt with the immediate recovery, or responded to the panic attacks, the media, the trauma. But we never looked back. We never talked through what happened. We only ever tried to move forward. I felt that this trip wasn’t about saying goodbye to the past but allowing me to talk about it openly.

  The taxi slowed, and I heard the indicator ticking as we veered left. In front I saw the terminal building for Stansted Airport. And the icy hand plucked inside me once more.

  Chapter 10

  16th May 2018

  Stansted Airport

  Because Mum was just as mischievous now as she was as a teenager, she carried a walking stick to make her seem more elderly. It meant people gave us some distance and allowed her to move freely through the busy airport crowds. We breezed along to the check-in desk. Mum pretended to struggle with her bags, so I helped her load her obscenely over-packed bag onto the conveyor belt. Its weight was a couple of kilograms over the 15kg limit. The man at the desk smiled, his teeth whiter than I thought possible and said sympathetically he’d let her off the extra weight, just this once. Mum thanked him with a fake tired smile.

  I couldn’t help wondering if she was laying it on thick because she hated queues, something she regularly told me and Geoff, or if she did it for my benefit – to give us space to make sure people were looking at her instead of me. I knew the answer was the latter without needing to ask, and I bloody loved my mum for it. If I mentioned it, asking if she pretended to be immobile for me, she would deny it, saying she was just abusing her position in life, followed up with something like, ‘It’s not always about you, Claire.’ So, I didn’t bother, and instead loaded my case on to the conveyor belt and watched nervously as it disappeared behind the check-in desks, hoping I would see it again in a few hours once we landed at Shannon Airport.

  We joined the queue for security clearance and I watched as people calmly removed their belts, emptied their pockets, stepped through the metal detector and collected their things seamlessly, barely blinking as they moved on to the duty-free shopping area. I also watched others stop when instructed to and have their bodies scrutinised with the wand to check for metal, sometimes being physically prodded. Most didn’t seem fazed by the airport security patting them down; one man even smiled, then apologised saying he was ticklish.

  As we got closer to the front of the line, I didn’t feel ready to go through, so stepped to the side, the people behind me giving me strange looks as they squeezed past me and through security before heading into the departure lounge. I realised that I must have looked suspicious, and just hoped people assumed I was a nervous flyer, not anything else. I knew I had nothing to worry about. I wasn’t carrying anything I shouldn’t be. But because I hesitated and kept letting people past, the security staff also gave me quizzical looks and, feeling them assessing me, I tried to turn and walk away. Before I completed my first step back towards the exit, and eventually home, Mum grabbed my arm, her thumb pressing into one of my scars by accident.

  ‘Mum, let go.’

  ‘Claire, we are doing this.’

  ‘I was just…’

  ‘I know what you were going to do, love, I’m your mum. We can do this. You can do—’

  ‘Mum, I can’t, I can’t. I want to, believe me I do, but I can’t. I want to go home.’

  ‘I know you do, and you will, after you have done this. You’re not alone, I’m with you, and I’ll look after you.’

  ‘How on earth would you…’ I stopped myself before I finished my thought.

  Mum opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, she was cut off by an approaching airport staff member, a big man with a deep voice.

  ‘Excuse me, is everything all right?’

  His voice startled me, and I instinctively took a step away, covering my abdomen. Even though it was a subtle movement, it caught the full attention of the man.

  ‘Miss, is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I’m just a nervous flyer.’

  ‘I see. Well, you know you’re more likely to die on the way to the airport than you are in a plane crash.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said flashing a glance to Mum who struggled not to laugh.

  ‘Happy to help,’ he replied, sounding pleased with himself.

  As he walked back to scrutinise the approaching passengers, I glanced at Mum who was looking at the floor, trying to hold herself together. I knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t be able to do it for long and as soon as she lifted her head and met my eye she laughed, her shoulders bouncing up and down as she did. Her contagious chuckle swept over me and I laughed too. The security guard’s awkward comment wasn’t that funny, not really. But it lifted the tension so, oddly, he helped.

  Before I realised what was happening, Mum and I were at the front of the queue. She approached the scanners first, her walking stick beeping as she stepped through, and I watched as they took out their wands. Then it was my turn. I walked through without incident, and just as I let out my breath, thinking I was all right, the security guard who was eyeing me from afar walked over, and asked me to step to one side. I did as instructed. My rational side knew he was only asking because I had looked suspicious in the queue. But my rational side wasn’t in the driving seat. A female officer came over and asked me to raise my arms. She felt across the tops of my shoulders and forearms, slowing when she felt the skin on my right one was different. Not knowing it was scar tissue, she asked me to lift my sleeves.

  ‘Do I have to? I haven’t got anything on me.’

  ‘Please, madam, roll up your sleeves.’

  I did as she asked, trying to
find Mum who had been ushered to one side to allow other people to collect their belongings. I raised my left sleeve and paused before rolling up my right. As soon as I did, I saw her expression change from suspicion to something else – shock perhaps, or pity.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, unable to hold my eye.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I replied, my voice quieter than I thought it would be.

  She checked my legs and sides, pausing again when she found scar tissue. I saw Mum, who had battled her way back to be in my eye line. She stood, unblinking, looking directly at me. I tried to smile and only managed a weak one. She nodded at me, telling me she was there. She was with me.

  ‘Could you take your shoes off, please?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your shoes, please.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, airport procedure.’

  ‘Please,’ I begged, and I could see she didn’t want to have me remove them.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s procedure.’

  Nodding, I slipped my left shoe off and then slowly removed my right. I was wearing pop socks, but even through them you could see the deformed mass that was once a foot.

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ she said as she stood, meeting my eye. Her shock or pity turned into recognition. ‘I’m sorry I stopped you.’

  ‘It’s all right, you’re just doing your job.’

  ‘Some things are more important, though, aren’t they?’

  Turning, she picked up my bag from the conveyor belt and handed it to me.

  ‘Mrs Moore, it’s been an honour to meet you.’