Closer Than You Think

by Darren O’Sullivan

  Standing up I stretched, uncurling my fingers towards the ceiling, feeling the scar tissue in my stomach pull as I did. I realised I hadn’t eaten yet, and although I wasn’t hungry I forced myself to have a slice of toast. Hardly a filling breakfast but it was a slippery slope if I didn’t encourage myself to eat. After finishing my meal, if you could call it that, I did my checks. Because of Killian, the uneasy feeling was back.

  When I was happy I was secure inside, I allowed myself to sit by my back door, and look through the glass at the sky, cloud hunting. I hoped I would see a shape on them, as I once could. But they were just clouds.

  Chapter 32

  8th September 2018

  St Ives, Cambridgeshire

  I dreamt I was back at the bungalow, standing in the back garden, looking towards the kitchen window. I was wearing dark clothes that I understood didn’t belong to me and I was carrying something heavy in my right hand. The night was thick and heavy. The wind brought the lashing rain sideways, my wet hair sticking to my face. Stalking like a panther before it killed, I moved sideways to the bathroom window and looking in, I saw Owen’s dead, limp, bone-thin arm hanging over the edge of the tub. I strolled away, turning past the kitchen to approach the main bedroom. I pressed my hands to the glass and looked in. In bed was a woman, young and petite. She rolled over in her sleep, and I could see, even in the low light, that it was my head on the pillow.

  Above me came a rumble of thunder. I stepped back and counted: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight… the lightning lit up the sky and for a moment I could see my reflection in the glass. But it wasn’t my reflection at all. I was him; I was Tommy Kay. I couldn’t make out the details of his face, but I knew. I turned and walked towards the back door and paused, looking up at a deep purple sheet of heavy, foreboding cloud that stretched in all directions. At any moment it looked like it would crash on my head, smothering me. I looked at my feet, in heavy work boots, and taking a few steps back I readied myself. I would kick the door down, run inside. Subdue Owen, drug me, then kill us both. Above came another rumble of thunder. Three large steps and I planted my foot on the door. The crash it made as it burst open was deafening.

  Then I woke. The crash somehow lingered from the dream world into the real world.

  My bedroom was pitch black. The lamp beside my bed was off and reaching over I flicked the switch to turn it back on. I tried several times, but nothing happened. I listened out to see if there was anything strange. But all I could hear was rain water running off the broken gutter outside. In the darkness, I made my way to the main light switch on the wall by the door. Trying to fight the panic at being in the dark for the first time in over a decade, I told myself, with each measured step, the bulb had blown, that was all it was. The bedside lamp wasn’t designed to be on all night every night, and bulbs didn’t last for ever. The filament eventually died, and I couldn’t remember the last time I replaced it. Something easily fixed. I didn’t know how many steps it was to the doorway, and I bumped into the corner of my bedframe and the chest of drawers as I approached it. I realised that I couldn’t navigate my bedroom in the dark, because I had never needed to.

  I reached the door and fumbled on the wall until I found the light switch. As I flicked it I expected to be blinded by light.

  But nothing happened.

  I tried again and again but the darkness held, and the icy hand tapped like fingers on a piano inside my chest. Soon it would play its symphony, and I would be rendered useless. I ran from my doorway to the window, and as I pulled back the curtain I felt the air escape from my lungs in a whimper. The rain was coming down in torrents, covering the roads in water that, when the wind whipped up, made the tarmac look like an ocean. But that wasn’t what terrified me. The houses on the other side of the road were also in darkness, and I could see one or two lit from within with torches or phone lights. The street lamps as far as I could see were also out.

  I was in a power cut.

  I knew I needed to move, to grab my phone and turn on the light. But as much as my head told me to, my legs wouldn’t budge. Before I could correct myself I slid down the wall to the floor. I wanted to make myself as small as I could, to try and become invisible. I tried to find my mobile, but I fumbled in the dark – it wasn’t in its usual place on the bedside table. I must have left it downstairs, by my laptop perhaps? The noise I made as I knocked the lamp was amplified in the silence. I was declaring in the dark exactly where I was. Fearful I would be found, I decided to forget my phone and I dragged myself from my bedroom, trying to get downstairs, closer to the ground, ready to escape.

  From somewhere in the house I heard a crash, like the sound in my dream as I kicked the door open. I thought someone had come in; I thought someone was coming to finish off what Tommy Kay started a decade before. And as I pulled myself on to unsteady feet and tried to descend the stairs, I slipped and fell down half the flight before righting myself and coming to a painful stop midway down. During the fall I had hit my face on something, the bannister perhaps, or a step. I could taste blood in my mouth. My right hip was also hurt, but not enough to stop me moving.

  There was a flash, a camera taking a photo, and I covered my face. At least that’s what I thought for a moment until I realised it was the lightning outside, illuminating the house as it streaked through the darkness. And the crashing sound I’d heard wasn’t a door being kicked in, or a window being smashed, but the reverberation of the thunder. But that didn’t mean someone wasn’t coming, using the storm to hide their approach, wash away evidence like Tommy Kay did before, and so I fortified myself and prepared to move.

  I slid down the rest of the stairs as quietly as I could and made my way to the kitchen. I knew from researching, that the kitchen was the best room to be in if there was a home invasion. My phone was in the lounge, it had to be, and I almost went for it. But didn’t. I needed to be somewhere I could defend myself. In the kitchen drawers and cupboards there were plentiful potential weapons to throw and thrust to make an escape. I crawled towards it, fighting to control my breathing, to silence myself. The noise coming from my mouth seemed to be louder than the sound of the rain lashing against the window.

  Pressing my back into the cooker, I reached up and opened the knife drawer, grabbing the biggest I could find. I wanted to bolt out the front door, but knew he could be waiting for me there. And I couldn’t go for the back because he might assume I would and be waiting. It was fifty-fifty as to which entrance he would cover, and I couldn’t decide which one to risk. I felt trapped, and all I could do was pray the power came back on soon. I prayed it was just the storm causing the outage. I prayed he wouldn’t find me.

  There was a noise, something that wasn’t rain or my breathing or the song I fought to forget and never could. Something that my subconscious knew I needed to focus on. It stopped me breathing; it paused the tune the icy hand played. Then, there was silence. I heard the noise again, a creak, a snap, a footstep. Then another. And another. I saw a light on the floor, a weak beam that ebbed after a few seconds. A dim light, helping him get his bearings inside my pitch-black house.

  Staring ahead of me, towards the kitchen doorway I couldn’t see, I waited. Unable to blink. Unable to breathe, unable to run. Another footstep. Then a voice.

  ‘Claire?’

  I wanted to scream for help. I wanted to run, to hide. But I couldn’t. All I could do was raise my hands, the knife held firmly in both, like a child with a toy sword.

  ‘Hello? Claire?’

  The small torch came on again, this time a lot closer, this time with me being able to see the hand that held it. They pointed the light into my face, and I turned my head instinctively as it blinded me, the knife lowered, my guard down. The light hit the floor; it focused on the washing machine beside me and I saw the rush of black cut across it. I wanted to thrust the knife, but I was too slow, and I felt arms around me, trapping the knife down to the ground. The steel of the blade caught torchlight and refracted i
t onto my body. His grip was firm, and I tried to fight but it was no use, he was too strong. His wet clothes stuck to my skin like death itself was wrapping around me.

  ‘Claire, stop! Claire, it’s me.’

  ‘Get off me, let me go.’

  ‘Claire it’s me, it’s Paul, calm down. It’s OK, everything’s OK.’

  As soon as he said his name, I placed his voice and turned my head to make out his face in the dark.

  ‘It’s OK, everything is all right. I’m here.’

  ‘Paul?’

  ‘Yes, darling, it’s me.’

  Knowing for sure it was him was such a relief I burst into tears, sobbing long and hard into his chest. I breathed in his smell as he whispered everything was OK, everything was all right, and after a few minutes I calmed down enough to speak.

  ‘I thought you were him. I thought you were the copycat.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘I thought you were him, and I did nothing.’

  ‘Claire, everything is OK. I’ve got you. Everything is OK.’

  Paul stayed on the floor with me for over an hour, until the power came back on. The small lamp in the hallway lit the downstairs of my house enough for me to feel like I could move once more. Exhausted, more so than usual, I didn’t argue when he said we were going back to his. He led me upstairs and while I sat on the edge of the bed he packed a few things into an overnight bag. Then, taking me by the hand, he led me to the front door, and covering my head with his jacket, he guided me to his car.

  As we drove in silence I felt exhausted from the adrenaline crash. There was nothing I wanted to do more than to close my eyes and sleep, but as exhausted as I felt, I knew I couldn’t. I looked at the car’s dashboard clock, the time saying it was just before 1 a.m. I didn’t know why Paul was here. But I was so glad that he was. A few miles from his house, the storm still hadn’t relented, and I watched as a fork of lightning shot across, startling me.

  ‘Don’t worry, in a storm, a car is one of the safest places to be,’ Paul said tenderly, and reaching over, I placed my hand on his leg. The flash reminded me of the thought I had when I fell down the stairs, how I’d thought that the lightning was a camera bulb, and then I had remembered this had happened before. It happened on that night, and I must have suppressed the memory.

  The night Owen was killed, the killer had taken our photo.

  Chapter 33

  8th September 2018

  Ely, Cambridgeshire

  It was just after 1.30 a.m. when we got back to Paul’s house. He quietly led me to the sofa before disappearing into his kitchen and returning moments later, a glass in his hand.

  ‘Here, I got you some water.’

  ‘Thanks, Paul.’

  I drank it quickly, not realising how thirsty I was until the liquid touched my lips. As I finished the glass and sighed in relief, Paul smiled softly.

  ‘Have you got anything stronger?’ I asked.

  Paul touched my shoulder and left again for the kitchen, giving me a moment to look around. I hadn’t been in Paul’s home before, despite us having been a couple now for a few months. He always came to mine, to make it easier on me, but I felt guilty – his house was far nicer. The sofa was inviting and comfortable, and the rest of the living room was furnished to a much higher standard than mine. In front of me stood a real working fireplace, and I could picture him sat looking at the flames, a hot drink in one hand, a book in the other, the flames mesmerising and terrifying all at once. Above the fireplace were pictures of his girls; I was drawn to a thick silver frame that contained both of their graduation pictures. I’d not met them, and I suspected it would be a long time before I would. They looked like him. The same smile, and same mischievous glint in their eyes.

  Paul returned with a whiskey or brandy, I wasn’t sure which, and although I didn’t like either, I thanked him and drank. The liquid heated my throat and stomach and warmed up the icy hand.

  ‘Do you want another one?’

  ‘No, thank you, one is enough. This is the first time I’ve been in your house.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he said without passing judgement as he sat beside me. I rested my head on his shoulder, both of us looking at the unused fireplace.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For dragging you away from it so often. You have a lovely home.’

  He kissed me on the top of the head. ‘Don’t be sorry, ever.’

  For a while we sat looking into the fireplace. My head on his shoulder, his hand clasped between both of mine.

  ‘I used to love fires,’ I said. Paul didn’t reply but nodded his head as if to say he understood. ‘The crackle as wood split. The smell that came from them. I used to love watching them, feeling the heat on my face. When I was younger, I used to sit in the garden most evenings, regardless of how cold it was, with a fire pit burning away. No TV, no phones. Nothing but the fire that seemed to be alive, and the stars above my head.’

  ‘That sounds perfect,’ Paul whispered as he kissed me gently on the top of my head.

  ‘Now, the idea of sitting by a fire in the dark, terrifies me.’ I turned and looked to him and for a moment, his eyes weren’t on mine, but looking at my burnt foot and leg. ‘Paul, what if I never recover from what happened?’

  ‘You will, in time.’

  ‘It’s been a long time already, and I still end up in such a state because of a power cut. This thing keeps beating me.’

  Paul pulled his hand from mine and turned to face me, his eyes only inches away.

  ‘No, Claire, you’re winning. You’re still moving, still being. That’s more than most of us, more than I could do if I’d been through what you’ve been through.’

  ‘Paul…’

  Placing one hand on each shoulder he held me firmly. ‘And every day you do it, every day you get up, keep moving, do your shopping, water your flowers. You are beating it. Every time you see me or go for a coffee with your mum, you are beating it.’

  ‘It only seems that way because you or Mum are with me. I’m not beating it when I’m alone.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I said, at barely a whisper.

  Taking my hand Paul led me upstairs, grabbing my overnight bag that was by the front door, and showed me the rest of his house. Two good-sized bedrooms, one of them decorated ready for visits from his girls. His bedroom was clean and tidy, but needed a feminine touch. There were no pictures, no ornaments. Just the bed, a wardrobe and a bookshelf, mostly housing crime and thriller novels. I sat on the edge of his bed and he left the room, returning with two large, thick towels.

  ‘I figured you might want a hot shower?’

  ‘You read my mind,’ I smiled, enjoying the fact Paul was starting to know who I was, beyond the obvious facts about me and my ‘quirks’.

  ‘The bathroom is just here.’ He pointed to his left, before he lifted my bag onto the bed and unzipped it. On the top were my pyjamas which he took out and handed to me, knowing I couldn’t dress into them in front of him. Knowing that I still needed to hide.

  ‘Thanks, Paul.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’ll wait outside the bathroom door.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked as it was an odd thing to do, for anyone other than me. He didn’t respond but gave me a look that told me he understood. I thanked him, feeling incredibly grateful for his ability to know. If I had any doubt that I was falling in love with Paul, that doubt was gone. ‘Thank you, Paul,’ was all I could say despite wanting to say so much more.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘No, I mean, for everything. For understanding.’

  He smiled, and I kissed him before picking up the towels along with my pyjamas and disappearing into the bathroom.

  Chapter 34

  8th September 2018

  Ely, Cambridgeshire

  Resting my hands on the warm tiled wall I lowered my head beneath the shower and tried to enjoy the hot water as it hit th
e back of my neck and ran between my shoulders. I hoped it might release the tension. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d reacted to the power cut. I knew the day would come, everyone had them from time to time. I thought I would be more prepared when it happened to me. I thought I’d be more rational. I couldn’t even leave my bedroom without hitting into things, and the way I sat paralyzed on the kitchen floor… I was disappointed with myself.

  I was equally shocked that I was still learning new things about that night. Remembering the fact he’d taken my picture made it feel much more recent. Somewhere out there was a picture of me in my underwear, bleeding and no doubt looking terrified. And beside me, my dead husband. I couldn’t help feeling jealous that Kay could see my husband’s face that night, and I couldn’t. The only image I had of Owen was his left arm hanging out of the bathtub, a visual I couldn’t bring myself to dwell on. I had hundreds, thousands of other pictures of Owen. I didn’t need that one. I didn’t need to be back there like it was yesterday. Looking at my feet, the right turning pink as the hot water hit the scar tissue, I focused on it – scars cannot lie about how old they are, and their age comforted me, reminded me that that night had been a long time ago.

  After washing myself with Paul’s shower gel, his masculine smell shrouding me, I wrapped myself in the soft towels and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I saw a look I had seen in myself recently – just before I’d gone out with Mum for a coffee after the panic of having a parcel delivered. There was someone else who needed me to try. To be brave. There was a man sat in a room only ten feet away, someone who hadn’t pushed me to do anything I didn’t want to. Someone who, I knew, wanted to understand who I was, and the past that created me, but had never asked.

  Leaving the bathroom, I walked back into the bedroom to see Paul sitting on the bed, still fully clothed, waiting. He couldn’t hide the surprise in his eyes that I was still wrapped in a towel and not dressed.