‘Claire.’
‘I’m OK, Mum, I know this is just—’
‘The police called late last night.’
‘Why?’
‘They assumed you still lived with me.’
‘What did they say?’
‘They want to come and talk to you.’
‘What? Why?’
‘They didn’t say, but I think they think it’s a copycat. I think they think someone might be re-enacting what happened in Ireland.’
‘Why would someone do that?’ Paul said, rising to his feet. Mum said something else, directed towards Paul, but I didn’t hear her words. The world around me had been reduced to the sound of blood rushing in my ears. Muffled, her voice filtering through, but like she was talking underwater.
I didn’t want to believe it. I shouldn’t believe it. They had said time and time again that there was a copycat, and they had been wrong every time: surely, they had to be again, didn’t they? The police had always reassured us it wasn’t anything we needed to be concerned about. But now, they wanted to talk, they wanted to come over. That meant something, didn’t it? My mind raced, but my body felt lifeless as I slowly staggered out of the living room, down the hall and up the stairs. I could vaguely hear Paul’s voice, followed by Mum’s, but I didn’t understand what they were saying.
I counted the stairs, thirteen in all, and then walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. Sitting on the edge of the bed I lowered my head into my hands, my whole body shaking so hard it hurt. I couldn’t stop it, and I didn’t want to. I shook until my stomach muscles ached and then I let the tears come. I had lived through the attack a decade ago, and the few occasions since where the world thought someone was copying the Black-Out Killer. But this time was different. Something about that house, that poor woman who died, was different. Knowing the police wanted to talk face-to-face told me as much.
Mum quietly knocked on the door, asking if I was OK. I wiped my eyes and said I was fine, that I just needed a minute. She agreed and went back downstairs to put on the kettle and wait for the police to come. Standing up, I looked in the mirror above the chest of drawers. My eyes were puffy and my skin blotchy. I took a deep breath, and my bottom lip quivered as I started to cry once more, but I forced myself to stop.
If this was a copycat killing, I knew the media would be like pack animals once again, hunting en masse, stalking for the kill. I walked into the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water, the shock contracting my skin and snapping me back into focus. I had another look at my face, my bottom lip firmly under control once more.
Get a grip, Claire, get it under control.
As I walked down the stairs, Paul was standing at the bottom looking up, the worry furrows deeper than before. I told him I was OK, but really, I wasn’t, and on a loop in my head were two questions:
If this was a copycat, would they want to finish what Tommy Kay started?
Would they come for me?
Hello, Claire,
It seems you have been on my mind more in the past few weeks than in the previous ten years. Everything I do, everywhere I go, I see things that remind me of our time together. I’m wondering if you think of me as much as I do you. I’ve tried to push reflections of you back into the dark spaces. But you are only half a thought away. I know it’s because of the eighth, the woman from Bethesda and what I have done to her. I enjoyed it, as I always have, but I felt disloyal to you. You were my eighth, Claire, and I need you to know she wasn’t a replacement. She was the first brick in the bridge that will bring us back together. When I was with her alone in her bathroom, I wanted her to fight like you. I even gave her the opportunity to strike but she didn’t take it, or couldn’t. There’s no one else like you.
I wonder what you are thinking now? Are you frightened that I will come for you? I’ve asked myself, do you subconsciously know that the Wales incident was not the work of a copycat, that it was really me? I like to think that somewhere deep inside of you, a quiet place that only you and I know, there is a voice, as fragile as a bird wing that whispers the truth.
Claire, time is a wonderful thing, a gift, that cannot be taken for granted. And I feel you are wasting what time you have left. There is no time for secrets, for the unknown. Find the truth before I visit, Claire, so that when we meet, and you die, you do so enlightened.
I cannot wait for you to read these letters, and for us to be eye to eye after such a long time.
Until then, I am never far away. Closer than you think.
Chapter 23
29th August 2018
St Ives, Cambridgeshire
The police arrived an hour after Mum called back and said I was ready. When the doorbell rang I was in the living room, one hand clutching a cup of tea that had gone cold, the other fiddling with my keys around my neck. It was followed up with two loud knocks which made me jump. I got up to watch the front door from the doorway of the living room. Geoff answered. He had arrived half an hour before; staying at home initially, watching the news so he could get a more up-to-date account of what was happening, knowing I would be in meltdown and the TV would be off.
I don’t know why, but when the door opened, I was expecting a team of police officers to come in and was surprised when I saw only one. A tall, rotund man with a thick red beard who introduced himself as Peter. As he stepped into the house, I could hear the unmistakable sound of camera shutters from the front lawn. I could see the flash of blubs. The press had arrived, wanting to get a photo. He saw me look beyond him to outside, and when our eyes met he smiled sympathetically. He came into the lounge and I retreated to the chair and sat, picking up my cold tea and staring at it for comfort. He removed his hat and said hello. His voice was soft, a lot softer than his somewhat forbidding presence would suggest, and looking up at him I saw he had kind eyes. I didn’t say hello back, but gave him a nod. He took a seat opposite me, next to Paul who I could see wanted to be by my side but was respecting my need for space. Geoff emerged with a fresh tea for me, and also placed a cup next to Peter.
‘Do you want sugar?’ Geoff asked.
‘No, thank you. It’s perfect as it is,’ he replied before turning his attention to me. ‘How are you, Mrs Moore?’
‘Surviving, and please, call me Claire.’
‘Surviving. Good choice of words, Claire.’ He smiled. ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here with you and not telling you over the phone that last night’s incident is nothing to be worried about.’
‘Yes, we are,’ Mum chipped in, her anxiety spilling over a little, manifesting as a polite aggression.
‘Mum, let him speak,’ I said, my eyes staying firmly on the police officer opposite.
‘Sorry,’ she said, leaning into Geoff who rubbed her back.
‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ Peter continued, adjusting his sitting position. He leant forward in the chair to lower his gaze, and met my eyes. ‘The fire last night, we believe it to be someone replicating the events in Ireland.’
‘What has led you to believe that?’ Mum exclaimed, her anxiety completely in the driving seat. ‘Couldn’t it be a domestic thing? An insurance scam or something – you hear about people killing partners for the money?’ Geoff took her hand, pulling her closer.
‘Love,’ he said quietly, trying to reassure her. Again, she mumbled an apology.
‘Don’t say sorry, I understand this is a difficult time for you all.’
‘Thank you,’ I whispered, genuinely grateful for Peter’s calm demeanour.
‘Claire, there were many similarities between the incident last night and what happened to you in Ireland.’
‘What similarities?’ Mum asked, the aggression lost in her voice.
‘The manner in which it was executed,’ he said calmly. ‘The killer knew Kay’s methods and re-enacted them almost identically.’
‘And are you sure it’s a copycat?’ asked Geoff.
‘We believe it’s possible.’
‘So
, are you telling me that last night, in Wales, that was someone connected to him?’ I asked, my voice catching in my throat.
‘Yes, Claire, we believe so.’
‘Fuck.’ I dropped my heads into my hands, trying desperately to catch my breath. Paul sat beside me, his hand going onto my back, as if he knew where the tightness came from.
‘Claire, we think it’s best you come with us. We can put you somewhere safe.’
‘Are you suggesting she is in danger?’ Mum asked again, her voice shrill. Geoff placed a calming hand on hers once more.
‘No, there is nothing to suggest so, but you’re easy enough to find, and once the media know for sure it is a copycat, it will be a difficult time for you.’
‘Do the media know yet?’
‘They are speculating, as always when there is a fire. But we will actively dismiss any hearsay or gossip. At this stage, this is all precautionary. Claire, what do you think?’
I almost spoke, the words on the tip of my tongue, but Mum interrupted. ‘Where will she go?’
‘To one of our safe houses.’
‘Safe house? Is that even a thing? I thought that was just on the telly,’ said Geoff.
‘I assure you, we have them. And she would be perfectly safe there. No one will know where she is, and it’ll be just until we catch him.’
‘No,’ I said in my head, my voice failing as my diaphragm felt like it was being crushed from the inside. Aloud I asked, ‘How long will that take? I mean, you didn’t catch Tommy Kay for the fires.’
‘Yes, but we got lucky with him, prosecuting him for other crimes.’
Mum started again. ‘So then how can we trust…’
‘We will this time, Mrs O’Healy,’ Peter said confidently.
‘When will she have to go?’
‘Today if possible, just to be safe.’
I’m not going, I thought, as I instinctively reached for my keys and counted them, my words still unable to form.
‘OK, Geoff, get the suitcase out of her loft,’ Mum said, her anxiety now replaced with purpose, direction, her voice drowning mine out.
‘Yep.’
‘Paul, can you make a start on a few things for her?’
‘Of course.’
‘Can I come with her?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course. In fact, I recommend it. But you won’t be able to talk to anyone. So, when we leave, you’ll have to say goodbye for a while. We can let your employer know.’
‘Fine, whatever it takes.’
‘Great. We’ll get a car ready. I’ve got my colleague outside who can make sure the press gives you space. My advice: don’t say a word to them.’
I felt the icy hand melt; my chest was free, and my words erupted out of me like a volcanic explosion.
‘I’m not going.’
‘Claire, love? What do you mean, you’re not going?’ Mum said, worry etched on her face.
‘I’m not going, Mum, I’m not leaving. I’m not running away again. If he…’ I paused, shocked at the words coming out of my mouth, but immensely proud of myself for being able to say them. It didn’t matter; in the moment, I meant them with every fibre in my being. And I felt victorious.
‘If it is someone copying the Black-Out Killer, and if he is trying to find me, he will. Because if he is anything like Tommy Kay, he will be smarter than everyone else. I’m not hiding just to be found cowering in a corner. If he will find me, he is going to find me in my house, my space.’
‘Claire, please, I think…’
‘I know what you think, Mum, I do. And I understand…’
‘Then, surely we need to move you?’
‘I’m not leaving, Mum.’
‘Why?’
As I spoke the next five words I felt utterly terrified, like I was sealing my fate by saying them. And yet, those words gave me power.
‘Because fuck him, that’s why. Tommy Kay tried to ruin my life, and he succeeded for a long time. I’m not letting his copycat do the same.’
Chapter 24
2nd September 2018
Wrexham, Wales
He ordered a black filter coffee from a pleasant-looking girl behind the till and smiled as he took it from her, noticing her blush. He couldn’t help but feel taller. Stronger, more imposing. He hadn’t felt this good in ten long years. He wasn’t the little boy cowering from his father, waiting in a darkened room only allowed into the light to go to school. He was no longer forgotten, although the world didn’t know it yet.
It wasn’t the kill that made him feel like a giant. There had been others in the ten-year hiatus, people on the fringes of society who wouldn’t be missed. It was their terror which made him grow.
He had forgotten just how good it felt to be feared, and the power that came with walking around, weaving in and out of people who were reading or watching or listening to something that was his doing, it made him feel invincible. He could see their shock, disbelief, curiosity. Best of all, he could engage with them, like he was just any other person. It fuelled him. He found a table in the corner of the coffee shop and sipped his hot drink, watching the world around him.
The kill was now four days old, and what he had done was still on the front of all the papers. They drew comparisons to the kills in Ireland, finding the connections in style and delivery which led them to state categorically it was someone known to Kay, continuing his work. It was compelling reading, and part of him could believe it. Of course, he knew Tommy Kay had nothing to do with what he had done in Ireland, and his arrest in the months after that night with Claire Moore came as a pleasant surprise. When he didn’t kill again, the fingers started pointing and rumours started flying towards Kay being the Black-Out Killer. Kay weaved it into his tapestry to ensure immortality. One day they would know Tommy Kay had nothing to do with it, and therefore he had never been caught. When the time was right.
Beside him was an older man sat reading a tabloid, and as he glanced inside its pages he saw the eighth, Kath Brinck, staring back at him. It was the same picture that had been on every news report and splashed across the rest of the papers. She was dressed in a winter jumper and matching bobble hat, sometime near Christmas as decorations could be seen behind her. She was smiling at the camera, happy and full of life. He wondered for a moment about the person who took that picture, who they were, if they were still in her life. Looking away he saw another paper folded on the stand. Even with half the image obscured, he could see it was a photograph of the house on fire, the headline stating: Is there a copycat BOK on our streets?
Yes, and no, he thought. Enjoying the fact his ‘brand’ had become an acronym.
‘Do you think it’s a copycat? You know, that fire in Wales?’ he asked politely of the older man, who he guessed was in his late fifties, maybe as old as sixty-five.
‘Sorry?’
‘The man who started that fire? Do you think he is copying that killer, the Irish serial killer… oh, what was his name?’ he said clicking his fingers and looking away, feigning forgetfulness.
‘The Black-Out Killer,’ the older man prompted.
‘That’s it, the Black-Out Killer. It was awful what he did.’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘I’ve not read a lot about this one, what have they said?’
‘Not a great deal, but there’s a source here that says it was done in a very similar way. Almost like Tommy Kay was there himself.’
‘You know, they never proved it was him.’
‘It had to be.’
‘So, maybe it’s someone who knew Kay?’
‘That’s what they think. Sick world we live in, isn’t it?’ the old man said.
‘It certainly is. Let’s hope they catch him this time,’ he replied, as the old man got to his feet and made his way to the door.
‘Yes, let’s. Enjoy the rest of your morning.’
‘And you,’ he said as he sat back in his chair and watched the older man cross the road, blithely unaware that he had just conversed with a
serial killer.
Taking out his mobile phone, he logged into his online dating account and saw he had three new messages. Michelle, Cath and Jennifer. All women living in the Wrexham area. The demographic was important for his plan. Their messages – light, chit-chatty, informal – didn’t immediately suggest which one, if any, would be next. He would give it more time, allow the small talk to deepen. He wouldn’t instigate any sexual relationships with them but would instead see what they would do, allow them to control their own fate. But he had to give it time, which meant the feeling of power that washed over him now would fade. He had to stay disciplined, like he did before when talking with the men in the pubs. The right one would separate themselves from the rest. She would be someone like the other women, like Claire Moore, too afraid to be someone new. They would try to fake that they had changed, and he would see right through them. They would be women who had left their husbands but who also ached to return. Or worse, they would want to find a man who was like the one they’d left, keeping them in the cycle that was his obligation to break.
His target would talk of evolving, like he had, but would be unable to.
He didn’t respond to the messages; he’d do that later when he was alone. Instead, he planned and speculated. The heat from what he did four days before would cool, eventually going cold. People would assume, because of Kay being blamed for Ireland, that it was a copycat, and as shocking as that was, the fear would quickly fade. There was more than enough bad news to keep people occupied these days – that is, until he showed them how wrong they were and proved beyond doubt that he had returned. That he had never been caught. But only when the time was right.
As with Ireland, he had a justification, a plan, a final destination, and he hypothesised it would take four lives to complete it. The first, the woman from Bethesda was dead. The last would be Claire. Then, after he had achieved his goal, he would disappear again. And they would never forget he was still out there, and he was watching.
Chapter 25
6th September 2018
Closer Than You Think Page 13