He walked away from the bungalow towards the generator which was close to, but not quite in, Newmarket. He had prepped already, forcing the casing around the generator open. The other things needed for this evening were laid in a ditch, behind the Moore household, waiting for him to return and collect and use, as he had done each time before. In ten minutes the close would be plunged into darkness.
Then, he would execute his meticulous plan.
Tomorrow, the news would report of the deaths of Claire and Owen More, the seventh and eighth murders.
And their Black-Out Killer would have vanished.
Knowing he would never be found, never be caught, would ensure his legacy. And keep him in the minds of people who knew to fear him.
Chapter 20
18th May 2018
Stansted Airport
The flight home was far less eventful than I thought it would be; we were the last one of the day. An hour and ten minutes after taking off we landed, and within half an hour we had our cases and were heading for the exit. I was glad to be home and couldn’t wait to get in my own bed: doors locked, windows closed and trying to catch up on sleep. It wasn’t until we were in the baggage collection area that I stopped looking over my shoulder for Killian. Another benefit of the quiet flight was I saw everyone boarding, and he wasn’t among them. As we rounded the corner and walked into arrivals, I noticed it was quiet, apart from a handful of people, scattered, alone and tired-looking.
Geoff was waiting for us. Mum saw him first and laughed, but I didn’t know what was funny until I too spotted him. He was stood in a suit jacket, sporting a bow tie, but still in his old, threadbare jeans. In his hand he was holding a handwritten sign with ‘My beautiful missus (and her kid)’. Then I saw who stood beside him and stopped laughing. Paul was there, in a suit jacket also, smiling hesitantly.
Mum ran over and hugged Geoff tightly, kissing him on the lips and calling him a berk. He made a comment about how the jacket felt a little snug since he’d last worn it as he grabbed her bag and walked away with Mum, hand in hand. It left Paul and I stood opposite one another, separated by my suitcase and a thousand unspoken thoughts.
‘Hey,’ he whispered.
‘Hey,’ I replied nervously.
‘How was your flight?’
‘It was fine, thank you.’
‘Good, good, I’m pleased.’
He hesitated, taking a breath, clearly wanting to say more, but stopped himself. I watched as he wiped his hands on his legs and then grabbed my suitcase.
‘Shall we get you home?’ he said as he lifted the handle to drag my belongings out of the airport towards the car park. Without having time to reconsider I stepped near to him and kissed him on the lips, his bottom lip pressed between my two. He let go of the case and placed both hands on my cheeks, and I wrapped my arms around his waist, enjoying our closeness more than I thought I could. As we parted, I pressed my forehead to his. Something I’d done with Owen, something I hadn’t done with another person since. It took a few moments to form words.
‘Thank you for coming.’
‘I’m just glad you’re back.’
Our heads came apart and I looked into his brown eyes. Eyes with the same flecks of amber as Owen’s. The intensity passing between us felt like the air had been sucked out of the arrival lounge. Besides the bubble we stood in, the world was entirely silent and still. I knew then that, when we went home, I didn’t want to sleep alone, as I had done for so many years. I wanted to feel him beside me. I wanted to try, really try, to make this work. I couldn’t say any of that. Instead, I quietly whispered, ‘I’m glad too.’
Fourteen weeks later
Chapter 21
29th August 2018
St Ives, Cambridgeshire
I roused myself and rolled onto my side to look at the clock – it was just after 5 a.m. I hadn’t stirred early because of a dream, like I usually did, but because of birdsong filtering through the gap in the window and into my inner ear. I’d not had a dream that night, or the dark, cavernous mouth leaning over me, in nearly two weeks. I wouldn’t tell anyone; with my luck, as soon as I did, it would come back in full force.
Paul lay sound asleep beside me. I didn’t want to disturb him. I held my necklace so the keys wouldn’t jangle and quietly I slipped out from under the covers placing my feet on the rough floor, before turning off my lamp. Paul hadn’t been due to come to mine until later today, but instead of staying at the Travelodge his company paid for when he was away, he’d driven back late last night. I’d tried to talk him out of it, but he’d insisted, telling me he would rather be by my side with less sleep than not. I didn’t protest too much – over the past few weeks, I had wanted Paul with me more often than not. I still had my days where I couldn’t face anyone, even him, but thankfully they seemed to be less frequent. And when I had dark days, he was as good as ever. Paul didn’t live with me, but perhaps he wasn’t far from it. He had a few items of clothing here, as well as a few other bits, a spare car key, a phone charger, his Kindle and the all-important toothbrush. When he wasn’t away with work, he stayed at mine about half the time. He never asked me to stay at his, knowing it would be difficult to do. Being comfortable in my own home was hard enough.
Paul mumbled something in his sleep and I held my breath, trying not to move as he rolled over, his brow furrowed like he was deep in concentration, or having a troubling dream. Twisting round, I leant in closer to him and watched as his left eyebrow twitched. Behind his eyelids I could see his eyes moving, flitting from side to side. I wondered what was going on in the darker corners of his subconscious mind. Most nights at some point Paul would dream of something that troubled him; he’d make indistinguishable sounds and his brow furrowed deeper. I always wanted to wake him, lean in further and wrap my arms around him, telling him it was OK, but didn’t. He once said we all have a burden to carry, and I assumed he was working through his as he slept. His secret, something he wasn’t ready to share. I leant away, leaving him to work through it on his own. As I stood, I hoped one day he would share whatever it was with me.
Padding to the bedroom window I took a deep breath of the fresh air coming from outside. I hadn’t realised how much I missed the late-summer morning air in my home until a few weeks ago, when, with Paul here, I slept comfortably with the window on the latch for the first time since I moved to England. The birds that sang in the trees that lined the end of my garden sounded like they were singing just for me. I grabbed my dressing gown and limped out of the room, leaving Paul to catch up on some rest. I made my morning tea, stepped into the garden, and enjoyed the feeling of the sun kissing my collarbones.
Recently, following advice from Dr Porter, who I had started to see again once a week, I used my mornings to reflect – not on what happened ten years ago, but on the more recent past. The past since the trip to Ireland that I survived despite everything: visiting Owen’s grave and the house; the lack of sleep; Killian. I spoke with Dr Porter about it all, and she helped me see that the visit, however tough it had been, did what I needed it to do. It helped me realise that although I could never let go of Owen, of what happened to us, I could have a life, something new. Owen still came to my daydreams, I knew it would never change. But now when I thought of him I remembered what Mum said. I am Claire Moore, a woman inexperienced in surviving. Tommy Kay was a serial killer. There was nothing I could have done differently, if I were to stay alive. Of course, I’d been told this countless times before, but knowing it for myself liberated me from the intense guilt I felt. With Dr Porter’s help, the icy hand was still there inside me, and it still gripped my diaphragm, but now it held on a little lighter.
Paul had helped more than he would ever know. He had become an ear I could bend, a voice of reason, a man who I trusted – the only other man I could say the same for was Geoff. Paul made me feel like someone wanted me, made me feel less alone. I didn’t think I could ever be intimate with another man when I recovered, and although we had to make
love in the dark, we still made love. My scars, for now, were something only for me.
Putting my mug on the ground beside me, I tilted my head back into the sun and closed my eyes, allowing the heat to warm my neck and face. I sighed contentedly. The birds were singing in full voice, drowning out the sound of the cars on the A1. I sat there for nearly an hour before I heard noise coming from the kitchen.
‘Morning.’ He hummed as he landed a kiss on the top of my head.
‘Morning.’ I beamed back at him. ‘Did you sleep all right?’
‘Yes, did you?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, remembering I hadn’t dreamt as I usually did.
‘Want breakfast?’ he said, not waiting for an answer, as he went back inside.
I picked up my mug and wandered back into the house, rubbing his shoulder as he cracked eggs next to the cooker. I went back upstairs to get my phone. I was seeing Penny later today and knew she’d texted late last night to confirm plans, and I hadn’t replied.
I grabbed my phone and unlocked it with my thumb print to see I had eight new messages: four from Mum, two from Penny and two from numbers I didn’t know. On the screen was also a notification telling me I had seven new voice messages, and another telling me there were several messages on Facebook, most coming from the support group set up in my name. Feeling a sudden wave of sickness, I tapped my voicemail icon and listened to the first message, left just after 3 a.m.
‘Mrs Moore, my name is Guy Blakemore, calling from the Mail, I was wondering if you could call me back regarding recent events. You can reach me on…’
I deleted the message, before it went into the next one.
‘Hi, Claire. It’s Kyle calling from Nation’s Choice magazine. I’d love to…’
I hit delete again, panic rising. The next message had come just after 5 a.m., and probably had woken me unknowingly. The voice that spoke was one I knew well, and her tone sounded scared, unsure. It roused the familiar hand inside my chest which had recently lain dormant, its cold fingers chilling me from within.
‘Love, it’s Mum. Call me, OK?’
Clutching my phone in my hand so tightly it hurt, I had to hold on to the wall with the other as I made my way back down the stairs and into the kitchen. Paul had his back to me, stirring a saucepan.
‘I’ve gone for scrambled this morning, I hope that’s OK?’
I didn’t reply but held onto the doorframe for dear life, trying to work out why I had a newspaper and magazine contacting me. Sensing something was wrong. Paul turned, his smile replaced with that deep furrow of worry I’d noticed as he’d slept.
‘Claire?’
‘Something’s going on.’
‘What?’ he said, coming over and taking my arm gently, probably sure I would fall if he didn’t.
‘I don’t know,’ I babbled as my feet moved towards the kitchen table, guided by Paul.
‘I don’t understand: what’s happened, Claire?’ he said, his voice high and stressed, as he sat me down and perched on the chair beside me.
‘My voicemails,’ was all I could say in explanation. I felt my body close itself off, the nerve endings in my extremities shutting down, to protect me from whatever was coming. I watched, unable to speak, unable to move, as Paul took the phone from my hand. The screen was locked, so he asked me for the code, but I couldn’t remember. As I mumbled, trying to find some words to say, he took my hand and placed my thumb on the home button to unlock it with my thumb print. Then he lifted the phone to his ear to listen to my voicemails, and I saw the colour drain from his face.
Without offering an explanation, he moved quickly into the living room and swore loudly when he couldn’t find the television buttons. Eventually I heard a voice: female, a news reporter. I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Paul had turned the volume down, and I didn’t want to know either. Whatever it was, it was bad. And yet, I felt the blood rushing back to my limbs, the nerve endings refiring, and before I could stop myself, I stood and walked into the lounge. Paul was frozen to the spot, the remote he had used to turn down the TV still held at a ninety-degree angle. His mouth was agape.
I looked from him to the TV mounted on the wall and at first couldn’t see what had caused him to stand deathly still. The reporter, holding an umbrella but still damp from the rain, spoke, and I felt sick. Her words flashed on the screen as bullet points.
WHAT WE KNOW SO FAR…
• POWER CUT TO A REMOTE VILLAGE, NEAR BETHESDA, WALES. LOCALS SAY IT WAS JUST AFTER 11 P.M.
• A HOUSE FIRE STARTED JUST AFTER 12 A.M.
• THE BODY OF A WOMAN HAS BEEN FOUND.
The world spun, and before I could try to move to the sofa, I was already falling.
Chapter 22
29th August 2018
St Ives, Cambridgeshire
I don’t remember hitting the floor, or Paul lifting me and placing me on the sofa. The first thought was that my left hand stung as pins and needles shot through my fingers, suggesting I had been out for some time. As I sat, I thought what I had seen on the TV screen was just some weird hallucination, brought on by my own fractured mind. It had tricked me into thinking that I’d finally turned a corner in my life. But as my eyes refocused on my surroundings I saw Paul staring at me, the TV behind him off now, and images from the news came back to me in full high definition.
There was no mention of a male victim, so it was different – in every other killing, there had always been a man. Ending with Owen. Perhaps this was a domestic situation, the husband or boyfriend trying to get away with it by making it look like the serial killer from a decade ago. Or maybe it was just a tragic accident. Perhaps she fell asleep with a cigarette burning, or the oven on, and the power cut was a complete coincidence. Both situations were more plausible than a killer copying someone from ten years before, weren’t they?
Paul said something, but I didn’t catch it. I focused on his face, concern etched into the lines around his eyes and across his forehead, and tried to speak, but the words only came out as a choke. Paul tried to hold me, no doubt about to tell me everything was all right. But as he leant towards me, I held up my hand, stopping him. He seemed to understand and instead sat on the chair opposite. He smiled weakly, but I couldn’t return it. Behind me I heard the back door open, and I jumped, my flight mechanism ready to work, the shot of adrenaline hitting my bloodstream so fast I felt like I would faint again.
‘Claire, it’s OK, it’s all right,’ Paul whispered, his hands outstretched towards me, palms showing. ‘I called your mum.’
She soon came bounding into the room, and dropping to her knees, wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into her familiar embrace. I buried my head against her shoulder, just for a moment, just long enough to take a few breaths in, have her comfort flood over me. It was my transparent shield that kept my guilt and loss and fear and grief and rage contained. I gently moved her away and stood. I was being ridiculous; I knew how the media sensationalised everything they could. And from what I’d seen, there were no real facts about it. Nothing to suggest it was anything but a house fire. Something similar happened only four years ago. I’d assumed the worst then too; I’d assumed what the media suggested was actually the facts and didn’t sleep for weeks, thinking someone was out to kill me. I slept with a pair of scissors under my pillow, until they revealed that the fire was just a fire, and tragically, an elderly man and woman died. Husband and wife for forty-seven years. The smoke inhalation meant that when they went to bed that night, they didn’t wake. No pain, no suffering. Side by side. Nothing sinister about it – in fact, a part of me was jealous when I learned the facts. If only all things were as simple as that. Regardless, it set me back to square one. I had to relearn how to unlock a front door and step outside. I couldn’t go back to being that, not now. Not ever.
Grabbing the remote I switched the TV on, I wanted to see for myself that it was all some horrible coincidence, enhanced to gain ratings.
‘Claire, love,’ Mum started, but he
r gentle protest was shot down with a look.
‘I’m not being a victim every time there is a house fire, Mum.’
‘I really don’t think you should watch the news.’
‘I need to know.’
I turned my attention to the screen and the same images were there for me to see. The more I looked, the more I could see the obvious inconsistency. There was no dead man. This wasn’t a serial killer, this was a bitter husband or boyfriend. I felt myself relaxing a little. This had nothing to do with me, and although the media had assumed I would want to talk, I knew I had to keep quiet. If I kept myself to myself it would go away as soon as they realised they had it wrong. On the screen was mobile phone footage shot by a neighbour of the house on fire. Black smoke billowed from the broken upstairs windows and some of the roof had fallen through; tall flames licked the sky in a terrifying but hypnotic way. Then the screen went blank, snapping away from my transfixed stare. I turned to Mum, the remote in her hand. She told me to sit down.
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