I nodded and stepped past her, clutching my bag to my chest. As I joined Mum, she didn’t say anything but squeezed my shoulder and I nodded at her, telling her I was all right. Walking away, I looked back to the security checkpoint and saw the woman who had searched me standing next to her male colleague, both looking in my direction. They smiled, and I turned away. Mum linked her arm through mine as we headed into the busy departure lounge.
Chapter 11
16th May 2018
Southern Ireland
I was glad Mum insisted on getting an automatic, so she could drive, because as we headed southbound on the N18 I couldn’t stop my right leg from shaking. It had been this way since just after the pilot announced we were making our descent into Shannon Airport. At first, I tried to hide it from Mum, but that was a pointless notion because as soon as it started she placed her hand on my knee, trying to calm me. It worked, too, just for that split second.
Mum drove in silence, as we covered mile after mile, drawing ever closer to Newmarket, to home. I looked out into the windows of passing cars, the drivers in their own metal bubbles like us, with their own worries and adventures and thoughts. None of which I would ever know. As they passed us by – Mum was an impossibly slow driver – I looked beyond to the views of the rolling countryside that lined the motorway. It looked so alien and yet it was something I once had known very well. The chlorophyll from the grass used to course through my veins. The pollen once filled my lungs. I was a stranger to something that was as much a part of me as anything else, and I hadn’t realised how sad that made me feel. I was sure Mum could sense my longing and interrupted my thoughts before I could spiral into a gloomy reflection.
‘Claire, do you want to do it tonight?’ She didn’t need to say what the ‘it’ was. We both knew.
‘No, Mum, I don’t think I’m ready.’
‘I understand, love, but tomorrow we have to, whether you think you’re ready or not. We need to get this done,’ she said hastily.
I turned in my chair to face her; she didn’t look back but focused on the fast-moving motorway ahead. ‘Get this done? Mum, this is hard for me, it’s not like we’re just popping over to visit a place I once knew. Owen…’
I didn’t finish, I couldn’t. It was so difficult to keep my emotions in check without speaking about the events of a decade ago. Saying them out loud would undo me. And I couldn’t be useless here. Not again. Mum turned to look at me, just for a second, before her eyes went back to the road and I watched something change in her, the steely persona dropped. And she looked, for the first time since I could remember, fallible.
‘Sorry, love, I’m just as anxious about it as you are. I mean, it is the place I nearly lost you.’ She paused, taking a deep breath. ‘You know, that night, when the call came in telling me what had happened I thought it was some kind of cruel joke, and I was angry at you for playing it. It wasn’t until I turned on the TV and saw that image, that image of you…’ She paused, unable to finish her sentence. And I was grateful. That image, the one of me the world saw that night, has haunted me ever since. I’ve not seen it in years, but I can remember every detail, even now.
‘I don’t always look at things through someone else’s perspective,’ I said softly.
‘And you shouldn’t, it’s not your job to empathise with how others might be feeling.’
‘But I never recognise how hard it must have been for you.’
I watched as Mum’s chin quivered slightly, before she took a deep breath, quelling it. Brushing the indicator, she manoeuvred on to the hard shoulder, pulled up the handbrake and turned on the hazard lights. As she spoke, her voice was as fragile as newly formed ice.
‘I would be lying if I didn’t say that night nearly killed me too, Claire. But it didn’t, and we survived. You survived, not just that night, but every night since. It doesn’t matter what I’m feeling, your only job is to look after how you’re feeling.’
‘I know but…’
‘But nothing,’ she said, taking my hands in hers. ‘Claire, yes, it’s hard for me to be here, but I cannot begin to imagine what is going on in your head. You take as much time as you need. I’m sorry I snapped at you.’
‘I promise to be more mindful too, Mum. We’ll help each other through this.’
‘You and me.’
‘Yes, Mum, you and me.’
She nodded in the way she did once her mind was made up about something, and putting the car in gear, we rejoined the motorway heading towards Newmarket.
Chapter 12
16th May 2018
South of Newmarket, Ireland
As the miles passed, the motorway became an A-road that became a winding country lane. After about an hour, I saw a sign for Freemount. Owen and I once had a picnic there, about a year after we married, but I couldn’t remember why we’d gone there specifically. There was nothing notable like a castle or lake. But it may have been the nicest picnic we’d ever shared. We found a quiet, open park and lay our blanket in the shadow of a huge old oak, with limbs as thick as the trunk, that bowed under the strain of their weight. We didn’t have a lot of money then, so our picnic was modest, consisting of a few sandwiches, some crisps, and a bottle of lemonade we drank from plastic champagne flutes. We spoke about everything and nothing and found shapes in the clouds. At one point a young family came and played in the swing park on the other side of the huge expanse of grass. The children’s laughs and delighted squeals hung on the warm breeze and floated over to us. As the sound drifted over our heads, I could see something in the way he was looking at the children imbue his gaze in way words couldn’t. There was a sadness about the way he looked at me afterwards, if something was missing. It told me that maybe – just maybe – Owen Moore, the man who didn’t want to have kids, had changed his mind.
As we passed the road that led to that park I hoped to glimpse the old oak across the fields. There was a half-built house blocking it. Disappointed, I faced the road again and tried not to look as we passed the turning on the right which, if we went down for about two miles, would lead to where I’d lived. Driving past Newmarket, the place I grew up, fell in love and eventually fled, we continued to our B&B in Cullen, thirteen miles south. We could have stayed closer, in Churchtown, Mallow or Kanturk. But they all had significance. There were victims from Churchtown, and Mallow was where Owen and I had married. Kanturk was a place I would visit tomorrow, for it was the place where they’d laid his body to rest. I knew of Cullen but had never been, and I guess that’s why subconsciously I chose it.
Once we pulled up outside, I took a moment to pluck up the courage to get out of the car. We were in the middle of nowhere, and no one expected that I would ever come back to Ireland, yet I couldn’t shift the thought I was being watched. Mum struggling with our bags forced me into action, and though she spoke as we walked up to the front of the farmhouse, I couldn’t hear the words she was saying – instead, my senses where heightened to focus only on my surroundings, the sounds of nature. I thought I heard something directly behind and spun quickly, my fear taking momentary control over me, before my rational mind wrestled it back.
‘Claire?’
‘I’m fine, just a little jumpy.’
We checked into our farmhouse-style room with twin beds and as I sat on mine, I suddenly felt exhausted. Mum said she would freshen up and disappeared into the bathroom. Shortly after I could hear the shower running so I changed into something more comfortable, a pair of loose-fitting tracksuit bottoms and a baggy top, and lay on the bed nearest the window. Digging my phone from my bag, I switched it on and noticed I had two messages come through. The first was from Paul. It was short, but sweet.
I hope you and your mum got there OK, I’m thinking of you. X
I responded that we were fine, and I was tired. I wanted to say I was going to miss him but felt like I shouldn’t. The second message was from Penny.
Hey, you, just wanted to say, what you are doing is bloody brilliant. Give me a ring whenever, you know me
, always on my phone.
I smiled – even in text messages she was bubbly and caring. I didn’t respond. I knew that I would probably call her later instead. I checked my emails, same old nonsense, and then checked my Facebook. I had a message. As I clicked on it I could feel that same unease creeping from my diaphragm again, the icy hand ready to play. When I saw who it was from, it played its tune, and as I opened the message it soared to a crescendo, sending vibrations through my body, literally making me shake.
I had another message from Killian.
Hi, Claire, I hear you’re back in Ireland. I would love to see you if you get the chance.
The phone slipped from my hands and bounced on the hard wood floor. I left it there and jumped up to lock the door before turning and slumping to the ground.
Only Paul, Penny and Geoff knew that I was in Ireland. How did he know I was back?
Chapter 13
17th May 2018
Cullen, Ireland
I didn’t sleep well, every sound that the farmhouse made turned into something bigger. The creaking of the old floorboards became, in my imagination, footsteps approaching. The door closing to the room next to ours morphed into the sound of someone breaking in and, in my half-asleep state, I was convinced what happened ten years ago was about to happen all over again.
When it was quiet enough for me to relax into my surroundings, my mind raced with questions of how Killian knew I was in Ireland. Killian unnerved me, and while his behaviour over the past year hadn’t drastically changed, I felt there something different about him. He seemed to linger longer, wanting to speak more – like he was trying to push my buttons. Something that told me to keep my distance. In the early days I leant on him a lot. I guess it was partly because he was kind, he listened, and partly because he reminded me of Owen a little.
I’d told Killian things I hadn’t told others. He knew about my dreams and my fear of going outside. He knew of a lot of the trauma I faced on that night in 2008. I wished now I hadn’t told him. He meant well, but when he created the Facebook group ‘in my honour’ as he told me, things got a little too personal, too involved. The gifts and money were bad enough. But the group knowing my movements, congratulating me every time I left the house… it made me feel like I was always being watched. He even took it upon himself a few years ago to set up a group investigation of their own to try and prove categorically that Tommy Kay was or wasn’t the Black-Out Killer. It made me feel sick, and when I asked him to stop, he seemed annoyed that I didn’t understand he was doing all of this for me. And now somehow, he knew I was back, and all I could do was hope I didn’t bump into him.
Eventually, exhaustion took over enough for me to stop thinking of Killian and drift off to sleep, and once I had dozed, I dreamt of the moment I smashed the bathroom window and fell out of it, landing heavily on my side, knocking the wind out of me. I could still feel the pouring rain beating down hard against my almost naked skin. I felt the pain as I dragged myself away from the house, I recalled my body covered in cold wet soil. It made moving difficult as I was heavy and sticky. And then I was lying at the bottom of my garden, curled into a ball, too exhausted to lift myself over the three-foot fence into the farmer’s field behind my house that was now a raging inferno. A man ran towards me, his features unidentifiable in front of the intense blaze. Then lights from a helicopter beamed down on me, a beam from the heavens.
In the early days of dreaming this dream I woke screaming in terror, remembering the pain as if it was fresh. Gradually the terror was replaced with waking and sobbing into my pillow. About five years ago the tears stopped, and my heart pounding in my chest was all I felt. Now I was so desensitised to dreaming about it, my heart only skipped enough to open my eyes.
Once awake, the creaks and doors banging and wind howling outside and thoughts of Killian all returned, and behind them lay the sense of dread knowing this was the day I was going to Kanturk to see Owen. Today was the day before the ten-year anniversary of that night. I didn’t want to go to see Owen on the anniversary of the day he died. I didn’t think it was right, because I wouldn’t remember him for the life he lived, but the way he passed. It had taken me years to push that out of my mind, and I didn’t want the image back. Also, Penny suggested the media might be there as it was a big anniversary, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being in the papers again.
I wanted to recall what we’d been doing on our final full day together, but I couldn’t recall anything. That day had always remained hazy, so it must have been just like any other day. Just another wet night in May. And knowing that I might not ever remember details of our final day together was desperately sad. The clearest thing I had of that night was the image of Owen’s arm, hanging out of the bath tub. I forced myself to stop thinking, and instead I propped myself up by folding my pillow and looked out of the window, watching the sky change colour as the sun rose. The rising sun threw a narrow beam of light onto the wall opposite the window. As the minutes passed the beam of light moved until it fell over Mum in her bed, making her stir. She rolled over and stretched, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy at how well she slept. She clearly had dealt with the demons of the past, and I didn’t know why that shocked me. She, like all of her generation, seemed like trees to me. The older they grew, the stronger they were. My mum’s wrinkles were like the rings of a wide trunk, each one connected to the earth.
I hoped it would be the case for me as I got older.
As soon as she stirred enough for her eyes to focus on me, she knew I had had a rough night.
‘Are you OK, love?’
‘Yeah, fine. Just didn’t sleep too well. Fancy a cuppa?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
As I flicked on the small hotel kettle, Mum got up and wandered into the bathroom. I heard a tap run and the toilet flush as I waited for the kettle to pop. Just as I was squeezing the bags and adding the milk she joined me, fully dressed.
‘Christ, Mum, are we going now?’
‘No, love, I just want to go for a walk. Get some air in my lungs.’
‘Thank God. I’ve not prepared myself.’
‘You take your time.’
‘How did you do it, you know, with Dad?’
‘Prepare myself for when I went to see him after he died? Honestly, I don’t know.’
‘Oh.’
‘When I first visited your dad, it had only been a few days since we laid him to rest. And despite thinking I would handle it… I didn’t, no one can.’
‘What if I can’t cope?’
‘Then you lean on me and I’ll hold you up.’
‘And what if it’s the other way around, what if it’s too much for you?’
‘Then I’ll lean, and you’ll hold me up. And if it’s too much for both of us at once, we’ll both crumble together.’
‘You make it sound like it’s OK to fall apart?’
‘Sometimes, love, it’s not OK… sometimes it’s crucial.’
I knew what she was referring to. Over the years, I’d cried when the media storm became too much, I’d cried when I woke from the dreams. I’d cried at the frustration of being trapped in my life. But I’d never cried for him. Maybe it was because I wasn’t there when they laid him to rest, and the evening of his death was just the flickers my subconscious would let me see. I was scared, both physically and emotionally, and yet it still wasn’t entirely real.
‘Do you fancy a walk, love?’
‘No, Mum, you go ahead, I’d only slow you down.’
‘I don’t mind strolling.’
‘Honestly, you go ahead, I’ll wash and get ready.’
‘You need me to stay?’
‘Could you, just while I’m in the bathroom?’ I asked quietly. Even after all this time, I felt embarrassed needing someone close by every time I shut a bathroom door.
Mum picked up her cup of tea and sat on the bed while I quickly washed and brushed my teeth. Once in the bedroom again she kissed me on the head and
opened the bedroom door, told me she would only be half an hour at most and left, taking her mug of tea with her. I locked the door behind her.
I quickly dressed, trying to push my anxiety down for the day ahead. Finishing my tea, I stood by the closed window, looking out to the view of green meadows. I watched the trees swaying gently in the breeze and the clouds moving overhead at a much faster pace, some of them heavy and rain-laden, threatening to burst. I remembered how in this part of Ireland the sun and rain constantly butted their heads. Although the sun was winning right now, I knew I’d better take an umbrella.
In the field beyond the B&B I saw a golden Labrador running with a stick in its mouth. At first, I couldn’t see the owner, but then, to my right and far away, there was a man with his back to me, and when he turned and our eyes met I felt the colour drain from my face. There was something about his way that said he knew me. I tried to see his face, hidden under the shadow of the peak of his hat, hoping he would smile or wave or look away embarrassed. But he didn’t, he just stood there, staring, his shaded face expressionless. Then, he lifted his head, allowing the morning sun to illuminate his face and I could swear that he nodded ever so slightly, as if to say, ‘Yes, Claire. It’s me.’
Stumbling backwards, I fell onto the bed and fought with the icy hand to release my chest, so I could take a breath. I saw speckles in my vision and my lips tingled. Lowering my head between my knees I tried to stop myself passing out.
The bedroom door knob rattled and panicking, I fell off the bed onto the floor. I watched as the knob turned; someone was trying to get in. Looking around for something to defend myself with, the only thing to hand was the bedside lamp so I scrambled over to unplug it, ready to hurl at him.
‘Claire? Could you let me in?’
Mum’s voice calmed me enough to stumble towards the door, the lamp still in my fist, and unlock the door. As soon as she stepped in, I slammed it behind her, locking it again.
‘Claire? What’s wrong?’
Closer Than You Think Page 8