Closer Than You Think

by Darren O’Sullivan

  ‘I’m just worried, that’s all. What if what the police told us is right, that the murder in Wales was someone copying Tommy Kay? What if he’s planning something else?’

  ‘Paul.’

  ‘Or what about that creepy bloke, Killian?’

  ‘He’s harmless.’

  ‘But you said you thought he was outside your house, taking photos.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about him. I told him about you last time he messaged and that I didn’t want any contact again, and I’ve not heard anything in weeks now.’

  Paul stopped pacing. ‘You told him about me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you say?’ he said smiling, clearly enjoying the fact I was starting to turn beetroot.

  ‘Just, well… Paul!’

  He laughed and sat beside me, taking my hand and squeezing it gently.

  ‘I still don’t think it’s a good idea,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I can’t be controlled anymore, I can’t. Killian isn’t a threat and if the copycat is planning something, then he is planning something, and there isn’t anything anyone can do about it.’

  ‘But if you stay with me…’ he continued, his voice tight and desperate. I cut him off.

  ‘If I stay with you, it wouldn’t stop him, anyway.’

  ‘Claire…’

  ‘No, Paul, please listen,’ I said turning to face him. ‘I lost everything ten years ago. I watched my house burn with my husband in it. I nearly died myself, and when I didn’t I was sure I would never feel happy again. Now I do, I am, because I have my independence.’ I paused, realising I was sounding like my mother when she was stressed. ‘And you,’ I continued, more softly. ‘But I have to fight for my happiness. It doesn’t come easy to someone who has been through something like I have. I love being around you. But if I stop being able to be around me, then there is no point. It’s just one night. Just so I know in my head that I can be alone.’

  ‘But what happens if…’

  ‘Paul,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m doing this. I get you don’t understand why, but you need to accept it.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, defeated.

  ‘Thank you.’ I leant over and kissed him gently.

  ‘Just leave your phone on. I’ll be back tonight, it’ll be late, but if you need anything just say.’

  ‘You should stay over at work.’

  ‘But what if you need me?’

  ‘Mum is around the corner, I’ll call her. You’ve been driving to and from work every day for weeks, you look exhausted.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I like being with you at night.’

  ‘And I’m grateful, I really am. But tonight, stay. Catch up on some sleep. I’ll be fine.’

  Putting down my coffee I took both his hands in mine. ‘You joked a while ago that you had a life that wasn’t about me. You need to not neglect it. I’ll be fine for a night or two, you should stay close to the site. Have some beers with your colleagues. Read. Catch up with your girls. Do whatever it is you do when you’re away.’ I smiled, and he smiled back confirming I had sold the idea of some space on him. He needed it as much as I did.

  ‘All right, you win. I’ll pack a bag.’

  Chapter 37

  27th September 2018

  Ely, Cambridge

  As Paul climbed into his car, I could see he was still reluctant to leave. I understood why. He was about to drive to the site he was inspecting near Chester – 160 miles, and about four hours away if you were in favour with the traffic gods, as he liked to call it. I had to remind him twice, as he threw a few things into a small bag, that I had survived for a decade without him, and Mum was only around the corner. Once he had reversed his car from the drive and then put it into first, he smiled at me nervously and I smiled back, trying not to look nervous myself. I hoped I appeared aloof, unfazed by his departure. Truth was, I was terrified. Just because I needed to be alone, didn’t mean I wanted to be or wasn’t frightened by the idea of it.

  As he drove away I stood on the doorstep and waited, watching his taillights until they disappeared around a corner. When I could no longer see any part of him, I felt the need to be back inside. I had to pick the right battles if I would win the war, so I listened and went back into Paul’s house, locking the door behind me. After a quick wash, I packed my things and rang a cab to take me home. I could have rung Mum, and she or Geoff would have happily come to get me. But I didn’t. If I was to be independent today, I would go all in.

  The cab arrived just before half eight, a text popping up on my phone announcing it, as well as giving the number plate of the car. I left Paul’s, locking the door with the spare set of keys he gave me. I noticed that I was feeling OK about going home on my own. The icy hand was still there, but only resting on my diaphragm.

  The driver climbed out of the car and was walking towards me, his hands extended to help me with my suitcase.

  ‘Morning, love.’

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Let me get that for you,’ he said taking the case from me and loading it into the back of his cab before mentioning something about how Indian summers weren’t a thing when he was growing up.

  I got into the back and told him my address. The whole journey he chatted like I was any other person. And I chatted back in the same manner. Light. Free. Liberated. The journey seemed to go by in a blink and before I knew it, I was home. I expected to see a police car outside, but there wasn’t one, and I realized of course there wouldn’t be. I’d not been home for weeks. I thanked the taxi driver for a lovely conversation and paid the fare. He thanked me also, saying most of the time people were too wrapped up in themselves to talk politely. And it felt like I had notched another victory. He offered to help me with my suitcase but I told him it wasn’t necessary. As I walked up to my front porch he beeped a goodbye at me and I turned and waved before unlocking my front door and stepping inside.

  The air was still, and stale. I could see dust particles floating, caught in a beam of light that filtered through the small window high above my front door. Dumping my case, I stooped and picked up my post that lay in a small pile near my feet, and sifted through it. There were the usual bills, a bank statement I daren’t read and two handwritten envelopes. Just looking at them awoke the icy fingers and before they could start to play I put the pile on the radiator shelf, making sure the handwritten ones were on the bottom.

  I walked into my front room, opening the curtains that had been shut since I left, and the light flooded in, highlighting the dust that hung like fog. I needed to open some windows. I did the same in the kitchen and my bedroom and it felt better, having clean air circulate through the house.

  Feeling empowered by my decision to have time alone, I decided to have the spring clean I’d needed for the past few years. I started in my living room. I hoovered the floors and couch, fluffed the pillows, dropped old magazines into the recycling bin. I moved my sofa to the opposite wall and dusted the pictures that hung above it. In the kitchen I threw out old food, cleaned the insides of my cupboards that had never been cleaned. I even opened the back door, picked some Japanese anemone from the plant pot close to the house and put them in a vase on the breakfast bar before I felt I needed to shut and lock the door again. Leaving windows open was one thing: the door, however, was an entirely different battle.

  After a break for a cup of tea, I started in my bedroom, then the box room, before finally I cleaned my bathroom. I scrubbed the tub, sprayed and wiped the sink and loo. And at no point did I feel nervous about doing it. Maybe I had learnt to manage my fear of such an innocuous space in the house. But I didn’t let myself get too excited. Relapses happened.

  Once I had finished, my bedroom felt loved, the box room was now free from junk and the bed could actually be slept in, if Penny ever again had one too many after our monthly takeaway, and my bathroom felt brand new. It had taken me five hours and I had worked up quite a sweat, my hair dishevelled and stuck to my forehead, and the exertion made m
y right foot throb. But I felt fantastic for it, almost how I used to feel after going for a run. I should have showered, but, as I was on my own, I couldn’t. Instead I climbed into my comfies, a pair of jogging bottoms and a vest top, and flaked on the sofa, kneading the pink tissue where my toes used to be.

  I remembered the two handwritten envelopes in my hallway and went to collect them. I put them on the arm of the sofa beside me and looked at them, unsure which one I should open first. One of them had a stamp in the corner, one didn’t. Opening the stamped envelope, I my heart sank when I realised what it was. An invitation from Nation’s Choice, the trashy national magazine who wanted my side of the story about the copycat killer. I didn’t want to do an interview with anyone, but even less so with the people who still hounded me long after I was forgotten by everyone else all those years ago.

  Throwing the letter on the coffee table, I grabbed the second envelope. This one made me feel more nervous, only because it had been hand delivered. Which meant someone had been to my front door. The letter felt heavy in my palm as I turned it over, trying to work out who it might be from. I held it up towards the window, so the sunlight filtered through, but I couldn’t see any distinguishable words. Digging my fingernail under the sealed flap I hesitated. Before I opened it, I wanted to know who it was from. Grabbing my iPad, I logged on and looked at the footage of the past few weeks. Someone had been to my front door and posted it. I wanted to know who.

  I went back to the night Paul saved me from myself and realised as the power was out there had been nothing recorded. The first image came just before 1 a.m. when the power came back on. Fast-forwarding through the footage, I watched night become day then became night again, slowing only when the shape of a person came close to my door. The postman, my usual, came several times. And on two occasions people I didn’t know approached and knocked before looking thought the letter-box – their invasive nature telling me they were opportunist journalists, perhaps.

  Then, just three days ago, the time stamp saying it was a little before four in the morning, I saw someone I know come to my door. In his hand, the letter.

  It was Killian.

  I watched as he left my front door and went around the back of my house, the camera losing him as he turned the corner. A few minutes later, he was back, and I could see he was shaking. He looked up and down the street and wiped his hands on his trousers, a dark smear transferring onto his thighs, before putting his head down and walking away quickly.

  What was he doing in my back garden? I needed to know so I went to my back door, unlocking it with trembling hands. I stepped onto the patio to see what he was doing in my garden. At first it wasn’t obvious. It was when I inspected the side wall and looked down the side alley that led to the front, that I saw what he had done, and sick flooded into my mouth. Running back into the house, the tears falling, I locked the doors and ran upstairs to close all the windows. Then, after searching in blind panic I found my mobile and called Mum who picked up after only two rings.

  ‘Morning, Claire.’

  ‘Mum, can you come over?’

  ‘Claire, what’s happened?’

  ‘Just come over, please. He… killed our cat. He killed Baloo.’

  Chapter 38

  27th September 2018

  St Ives, Cambridgeshire

  As soon as Mum came over, we called the police and waited for them to arrive. She made me a cup of sweet tea and I held it in my shaking hands, unable to drink it. The image of Baloo burnt in my mind, and held me on the brink of either throwing up, crying hysterically or passing out. I didn’t suppose the police would usually deal with incidents like this quickly, but given who I was they were at my door within the hour.

  It surprised me to see it was the same red-bearded policeman, Peter, I had met before. As he saw me, he smiled sympathetically. He and his colleague Beth didn’t stay long: they took my emotional statement, the camera footage and the unopened letter from Killian. Before leaving, Peter took it upon himself to ask for an old towel and after handing it to him I realised what it was for. When he asked if we wanted to keep Baloo to bury him ourselves, I said no. I couldn’t see the poor cat again. Mum said Geoff would take him back to their house, and respectfully Peter lay the towel with our beloved cat inside in a plastic crate from the shed. At my front door he smiled and told me he would be in touch and asked if it would be all right. I told him not to worry. Mum was with me, Geoff was coming, and Paul would be back tomorrow. He nodded, understanding that I was too tired to care.

  ‘Are you going to arrest Killian?’ Mum asked, her anxiety coming aggressively to the fore.

  ‘We will review what you have provided and if there is enough evidence, then yes. If not, we’ll definitely be having a word with him, anyway,’ he said.

  I nodded and squeezed Mum to stop her saying any more. With one last kind smile, Peter left and Mum closed the front door. Silently Mum guided me to the sofa, and I curled up under a blanket. She switched on the TV and sat in the armchair to my right. Mary Poppins was on and I tried to transport myself to that world, a place where colour was softer, and smiles were wide. A place where songs floated on the air like the clouds above London and magic was real. I tried, but instead my vision blurred as my body succumbed to the numbness that was comforting and familiar. Mum didn’t stay seated for long, and started to potter around me, complimenting me on how lovely my house looked, but I could tell she was just as upset as I was.

  Death had once again returned to our little lives and the icy hand that usually lived in my chest had found a way out crawl up my throat, escaping every time I exhaled.

  At some point, I must have fallen asleep because when I awoke it was dark once more. Mum was back in the armchair beside me, a blanket tucked up under her armpits. Even in the low light, I could see how haggard she looked. After a decade of having me so closely in her life, I understood why. Each wrinkle represented one of my meltdowns, each fine line, another panic attack. Her thinning lips were the work of my stints in hospital, her sunken eyes my sleepless nights. I wore my scars from that night, but so did she. I had to look away from the damage I had caused to such a beautiful woman.

  Grabbing my phone, I saw two messages from Paul; I didn’t message him amidst the trauma and shock that the day had brought. I replied, telling him I was fine, and I’d been asleep most of the day. He would understand, he knew how I had to catch up on my sleep. I didn’t tell him about Killian and what he had done. But I didn’t know why.

  Getting up quietly, I went into the kitchen and grabbed myself a glass of water. Knowing I wouldn’t get back to sleep I turned on the TV on the kitchen side, my finger hovering over the volume button to turn it down as soon as it sprung to life. The news was on; I didn’t pay attention at first, but then I noticed the text that scrolled along the bottom of the screen:

  BREAKING NEWS: A MAN HAS BEEN ARRESTED IN CONNECTION WITH THE ‘BLACK-OUT’ KILLING IN NORTH WALES

  I read and reread the message that scrolled slowly and deliberately from right to left. Someone had been arrested, someone who they were confident was connected to the murder of Kath Brinck, and I couldn’t help but think someone might be Killian. He was a man who had been in my life since I’d begun recovering from the night Owen died. A man who knew my movements, even when others didn’t. A man who knew so many details about what happened in Ireland, not just to me and Owen, but the six other people who died.

  A man who, after what he had done to Baloo, I knew could kill.

  Chapter 39

  28th September 2018

  St Ives, Cambridgeshire

  All night I sat and watched the small TV in the kitchen, my eyes glued to the news to learn more. I didn’t wake Mum, she needed her sleep. Details were sketchy but suggested a ‘tip-off’ got their man. When Mum awoke and noticed I was gone she called out, panic in her voice. I told her where I was and she came dashing into the kitchen to join me. I said good morning to her, unable to take my eyes off the screen. There ha
d been no new information, but there would be at some point and I wanted to see it before anyone else did. It was like I was watching for security camera stream again, waiting for something to happen, hoping it wouldn’t. Selfishly I felt I deserved to know before the world. Despite it being so early, I could hear the press arriving outside. Hoping for a photo, some words from me about how I must be feeling. I wouldn’t speak to them, not because I wanted to avoid them, but rather – if the copycat was really Killian all along – I didn’t know how to feel.

  As the day went on, I barely strayed from the news. Mum had become impatient and tried to ring Peter who had left his number, but each time it went to voicemail. Eventually he called me back on my mobile, and as I picked up I put it on loudspeaker so Mum, and Geoff who had come over, fighting his way through the gathering crowds, could hear. Sitting on the sofa with Mum beside me and Geoff stood next to her, we all stared down at the phone in my hand.

  ‘Claire, it’s PC Blackmore, Peter.’

  ‘Peter, what’s going on?’

  ‘I’m sorry it’s taken so long, I’ve needed to get the facts in line.’

  ‘OK?’

  Peter explained that yesterday they visited Killian at the hotel he was staying in and noticed he was being evasive. After securing a warrant, they discovered enough evidence to place him under arrest.

  ‘What evidence?’ Mum interjected, the pitch of her voice forced and tight.

  ‘He had a lot of details about Tommy Kay. We also found proof of him being in North Wales shortly after they reported the fire on the news, and a file with the victim’s details. We seized his computer and phone. There were a lot of pictures of you. In Ireland, in your house. We also found out that he visited Kay in prison on several occasions before his death in 2014.’

  ‘Do you think it’s him, I mean, do you think he is the copycat?’

  ‘It’s highly likely.’

  ‘Why would he do it?’ I asked, unable to comprehend that the man who had been so supportive in the months after Owen died could be capable of this.