Although I knew I should ignore it, I couldn’t, and for the first time since ten-year nightmare began, I was not the victim or hero. I was the villain.
I closed the Safari app and went into my recent calls list. I hoped Paul would answer. I needed to hear his voice, I needed him to tell me everything would be OK. It rang and rang, but he didn’t pick up.
Chapter 49
4th October 2018
Ely, Cambridgeshire
I couldn’t get hold of Paul all day, and left message after message. Whatever was happening at his work, it must have been big, and weirdly I hoped that meant he hadn’t seen what I had seen, what the rest of the world had seen. Mum didn’t come over for lunch, I told her not to. I lied, saying I was too tired and wanted to sleep. She was worried, as always, and I almost conceded until I reminded her that there was a police officer outside. I promised to call her after I had slept. And I tried, but I felt like I’d never sleep again.
Instead I paced and talked to myself, reassuring myself that it would be OK, and then, foolishly, I opened my news app on my phone and even though I knew I shouldn’t, read about the ninth victim. The woman who was murdered when Killian was in custody was called Lauren Hegarty. Again, I felt a crushing guilt. I shouldn’t have continued to read, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. There was a photo of her beside a tall, large man. Underneath was a description stating it was her husband, and the article went on to claim their relationship was volatile, that he ruled with a heavy hand. I read further down that they had made a similar link to the husband of the eighth victim.
Dropping my phone on the sofa, I forced myself away from the news, but for the next hour, I kept coming back to it, and the story of her life and what had happened in Ruabon – a place I’d never heard of until now. Her husband had been interviewed, not by the police, but by a tabloid, and I couldn’t help but think he wasn’t as sad as he should have been. Reading about her, on top of the few hateful reports about me, made me jumpy. Paul’s house was a place I felt safe in, but I still didn’t know the voices of the bricks and mortar like I did my own home. Each creak was a footstep on the landing floor, each bang from the noisy plumbing was a window being popped open at the hinge, and I knew I needed to distract myself, without reading anymore about his return.
I remembered how good I felt when I cleaned my house and I was sure Paul wouldn’t mind – especially after I’d spent the last day smashing up his garden and damaging his TV. Besides, his place did need a feminine touch. I started in the kitchen, dusting the vases I’d never seen flowers in, and then realigned the pictures on the wall – photos Paul had taken when he travelled. I cleaned the glass of each one, intently focusing on the images, picturing Paul behind the camera. Some of them were so beautiful I struggled to believe he had been there once, taking that picture. As I left the kitchen to dust the hallway and go upstairs, I vowed I would travel one day.
I cleaned his bathroom, tidied the contents of the cabinet, avoiding my reflection in the door mirror and then moved onto the bedroom. I fluffed the pillows, stripped the bedding and put on fresh sheets. As I moved the bed to tuck the corners in, I saw a piece of paper on the floor, and picking it up I looked and saw it was one of Paul’s fuel receipts. It was for seventy pounds and from a petrol station in Daventry. That must be where he was working. It was only about an hour away, but still I felt terrible for the time he was spending on the road because he felt he had to come home at night. Knowing he would need it to claim back on expenses, I put it in my pocket and carried on. With the bed perfectly made, I did the same in the guest room and then loaded all the old bedding into the washing machine. As the machine filled with water, I noticed the day was drifting to an end; the sun just hanging on, throwing the last of its light into the world. When I checked my phone I realised I had lost the last few hours to cleaning. And I felt grateful for it.
But the gratitude was short-lived as I still hadn’t heard from Paul, and was getting worried. What could have happened at work which meant he couldn’t reply to any of my messages? Because I had stopped being busy, or maybe because of the sound of the washing machine drowned out anything else I might hear, probably both, I felt a growing unease build inside me. Quietly and quickly, as if by moving fast it would quell the feeling, I meticulously checked and rechecked every window, every door to make sure I was safely locked in. I made sure the keys themselves were positioned in the locks, so I could leave quickly if I needed to. I wanted them around my neck, with my house keys, but felt I shouldn’t. If I had to leave quickly, I wouldn’t know which key was for which door. I counted mine, despite there being no point. Front, back, upstairs and down. I checked the garden; the security light was off and I hoped the sensor was working. And then I checked the front. The road was quiet, and I could see the police parked down the road, the officer behind the wheel looking at something on his phone which illuminated his car interior in an eerie glow.
I went upstairs to find the file or box where Paul put his receipts, so I could add the one he had dropped. If I kept myself busy, I could stop myself from calling Mum to come and rescue me. I knew he filed things in the spare room, and with it being small there weren’t many places it could be.
I looked in the wardrobe, the top shelf rammed with thick jumpers and jogging bottoms. Paul also had a chin-up bar that looked barely used. The base of the wardrobe was stacked high with books, mostly work ones. Getting to my knees, I opened the drawers that were under the divan bed. There were four drawers in all, two on each side. The first was full of photo albums, and I fought the urge to leaf through the one containing photos of his ex-wife. It was surely in one of the other three. The second was full of junk, an old phone, some batteries, but still nowhere he’d store receipts. Climbing over, I opened the third and found a filing box, full of receipts. I put in the petrol receipt and closed the box before putting it back exactly where I found it. Then, with only one drawer I hadn’t explored, my curiosity took over. Inside was another box identical to the one that held receipts, and wondering if I had put his petrol bill in the wrong place, I pulled it out and opened it.
What I saw inside pulled the air from my lungs.
It was a newspaper, one I knew the date of before I looked: 19 May 2008. The morning after Owen had died. The image covering the entire front page was the one I was familiar with. It was me, half-blinded, staring towards a light, unable to see what was behind it. My right hand stretched up, covered in grass and blood. My skin was ashen, my eyes hollow, desperately pleading to be saved. Underneath, where my legs were hidden in the grass cuttings, four words. The One That Lived.
Paul had a copy all along, he had followed what happened to me, and he had been lying about how much he knew.
Chapter 50
4th October 2018
Daventry, Northamptonshire
The tenth
Putting his tools back into his rucksack, he noticed he hadn’t packed it with the same level of attention as he usually did – the items had been haphazardly thrown in and then zipped inside. Checking the surrounding floor, he was confident he had left nothing behind. He stood and calmly removed the white protective coverall. Taking his camera from the front pocket of his bag, he took her photo, the flash sharp on his eyes, before putting it away again. He was likely to keep that photo for a long time, maybe it would never be seen by anyone other than him. The final thing he had to do was usually the thing he most enjoyed, and yet, as he took the lighter from his trouser pocket, he felt nothing. Perhaps it was because the tenth had something about her, and he was sorry she couldn’t save herself, like his mother hadn’t been able to. Perhaps it was because he had killed twice in four short days, and his feeling of control, of self-worth, was diluted rather than concentrated. But really, he knew it was because the next time he did this, it would be Claire Moore’s body doused in petrol.
Flicking the lighter, he touched the tenth’s damaged foot, and then watched as it reacted with the petrol he had poured on her body,
transforming her into an inferno. He watched her face, unable to look at the flames as they climbed up her leg, melting her pyjamas to her thighs before igniting her top. She was heavily sedated, more so than anyone before, due to her likeness to his mother. He didn’t want her to wake. She couldn’t know what was happening.
As he looked at her, he pictured his mother in the bath the day he found her, her face, just as peaceful as the tenth’s. He stopped himself remembering and acted before a tear could escape from his eye. He didn’t know why he wanted to cry. It wasn’t for his mother, or the woman before him, but something else, something he couldn’t find, something buried too deep within him. Focusing back on the fire engulfing her body, the only way he could tell she wasn’t already dead was a slight tremble in her lip that flickered just before the flames, now three feet tall, blocked her face from him.
He swung his bag over his shoulder, with more effort needed than usual, fatigue setting in. And then he left the house the same way he had come in. He didn’t look back until he was at his car parked close to the power substation. When he’d first turned off the power, he’d sensed movement coming from all of the houses. Like rats scurrying behind a wall; the fear leaking through the gaps in the curtains. People were hiding. He saw some jump into cars and drive away. Children crying in the arms of their parents because they had been woken with a start. But now there was just silence. The next breath would be one of relief, once those around the house of the tenth saw the fire and knew they were safe. He wondered, if people were less selfish, would he have been stopped? The answer was yes. If the streets suddenly filled with people, all looking his way, seeing him as a stranger in their community, it would be over.
But they never did.
As he climbed into his car, he felt exhausted. The adrenaline from the ninth still coursed through his body and with the tenth now dead as well, it was too much, even for him. Starting the car, he drove away silently. Knowing he should listen to the tenth’s song, ‘Sealed by a Kiss’, but not wanting to. Strangely, he didn’t want to remember this one with the same level of detail as the others. If he’d had more time between the ninth and tenth, he might have felt differently, but his instincts told him to move fast, and he didn’t question them. Those same instincts now said to wait, to give it time, to fall silent, and he would do as they instructed. Then, when the time was right, he would go to Claire Moore.
The death of the tenth, the number that was one below Jack the Ripper’s alleged total, wasn’t his finest hour, and as he drove into the night, for the first time, he wanted to forget what he had just done, what he had done before, what had happened to him as a child.
He wanted to forget. He wanted to sleep uninterrupted. Just for one night.
But he had one more job to do, one more thing to accomplish before he could go home and sleep. His final job would sow the seed for his future visit with Claire. And it would immortalise him, as well as his message, for all time.
Chapter 51
4th October 2018
Ely, Cambridgeshire
I didn’t know what to think. Paul had adamantly stated that he didn’t know many details about what happened to me, that he didn’t follow the news. And yet, under his bed was the first newspaper printed after that night. I put the newspaper on the bed and looked at the back of the drawer, hoping to find nothing else.
There was a hardback book. I lifted it out and opened it somewhere near the middle, finding a scrap of newspaper. A section about me. The date in the top right-hand corner said it was from three weeks after that night. The article was exploring the kind of person who could be a serial killer, with the tell-tale signs: broken home, trauma, neglect, propensity to kill animals, all highlighted. Glued to the adjacent page, they spoke in more detail of me, what had happened, and Paul had highlighted the details of my injuries in fluorescent orange. When I’d let Paul touch my scars, when I’d explained how I’d got them, he reacted like it was the first time knew. But now I knew he had lied.
As a wave of sickness flooded into my mouth, I swallowed hard, fighting to control my breathing, which was fleeting and sharp, like I had been running. I fought to get enough oxygen into me as I turned another page, hoping that would be it. It wasn’t, of course, and stuck down was an article discussing the psychological impacts of trauma and surviving something terrible. Lots of articles of that nature had circulated once I was out of hospital. I wasn’t shocked to see it, or I wouldn’t have been if it was anywhere else but here. I read one of the highlighted paragraphs; it talked about how someone might struggle to adjust to the new reality; it talked of nightmares and phobias.
I flicked to the beginning of the book. On the first page was an article about the first death. The column was only short as it was assumed Blair Patterson had died in a tragic accident. I hated reading it, but the icy hand enjoyed itself and conducted its familiar song. I turned over the pages and found exactly the same level of information about the second, third and fourth victims. These articles were more detailed, and carried by more papers. Paul had highlighted one of the headlines that stated, ‘Ireland is at the mercy of a serial killer.’ As blind panic set in, I skipped forward again, not understanding why I wanted to find out more. I found the reports from the murder of Kath Brinck, and Lauren Hegarty. But she’d been killed only four days ago? At some point, whilst I was here, he had added her death to his journal.
Closing the book, I sat on the bed not knowing what to do. Part of me, most of me, wanted to ring Mum, for her to collect me and take me far away from him, or call for the police officer who was still hopefully outside. But that part was the second version of me, paranoid and accusing, the second version who was in the driving seat when talking about Killian to the press, and it had been wrong. I was so blinded by my fear, I couldn’t see the truth.
I didn’t want to jump to the same conclusions with Paul. He had only been supportive, loving, caring. There must be a logical explanation as to why Paul had so much information about the Black-Out Killer, his victims, and me. I forced myself to focus and think, and could just about hear the other version of me, the third person, quietly whispering that I would want to know if it was the other way around, if this had happened to someone I care about. That had to be it. Yes, that had to be it. Still, I needed to talk to Mum about it. Realising it was late, I assumed her phone would be off but tried anyway. Her voicemail message spoke to me without it ringing first. I could ring her house phone, and she would answer, but it seemed unfair to worry her over something that might be just like my reaction to Killian. I scrolled down my call list to Penny and called. Thankfully, she picked up.
‘Claire!’ she said brightly, but with the undertone of concern.
‘Hey, Pen.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’
‘Listen, I’m sorry I’ve not called, I figured you’d want a little space to deal with what that little shit said, and what happened, you know, the other day.’
‘No, I get it, you don’t have to apologise.’
‘They’re all a bunch of dickheads if you ask me.’
‘Yeah. Listen, can I ask you something?’
‘Yes, sure?’
‘How much stuff have you got about me?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Like, papers and things. Did you keep any of it?’ There was a pause, a hesitation. ‘Penny?’
‘When we first met, I looked it all up. And yes, I had a few bits.’
‘But you don’t now?’
‘No, I chucked it all a few years ago.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you were my friend, and I knew you better than those shitty papers.’
‘No, I mean, why did you look it up?’ I knew the answer before she said, but I needed to hear it anyway, because she would inadvertently defend Paul, and I needed someone to do that when I couldn’t.
‘I wanted to know, so I didn’t do or say anything that would hurt you.’
‘Pe
nny, I know you wouldn’t hurt me.’
‘Not directly no, but, Claire, we both know you are a fragile person. It’s not a bad thing, it makes you who you are. And I love you for it. I was so scared about saying or doing something that would either push you away, or make you want to run.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said, smiling.
‘Well, not now, you’re stuck with me.’
‘Good.’
‘Claire, why did you want to know about me researching?’
‘Because…’ I paused, feeling silly for calling in the first place, annoyed I didn’t trust myself more. ‘Because I’m at Paul’s, and I’ve found a folder full of things, about me, about then.’
‘I’m sure he’s just doing what I did.’
‘Yeah, I should have seen that. I feel stupid now.’
‘Claire, you shouldn’t think that way. There is a lot going on. If it were me, I would have freaked out! I’m so glad you called, shows you’re much more together than I am.’
‘I’m hardly together.’
‘Give yourself some credit. You’re doing better than you think.’
‘Thanks, Pen.’
‘Are you going to be all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m gonna turn in, try to get to sleep.’
Closer Than You Think Page 24