The Closer I Get

by Paul Burston

  11

  For a few moments there’s just blackness, shock and the burning feeling of humiliation. He’s face down on the ground, one arm folded beneath him, numb with pins and needles. Then his vision clears and a voice echoes in his ear:

  ‘Sorry, mate. Are you okay?’

  Tom thinks he detects an accent – possibly South African, more likely Australian. He lifts his head and sees a pair of bright-red trainers. Then a man’s hand reaches down to him. There’s a Fitbit on his wrist and a muscular forearm glistening with sweat.

  ‘I didn’t see you,’ the man says. ‘I mean, I saw you coming towards me, obviously. But then you sort of dodged in front of me, and I wasn’t expecting it and … well, sorry.’

  The man helps Tom to his feet. Automatically, Tom looks towards the bench. It’s empty. Did he imagine seeing Evie sitting there? Is his mind playing tricks on him?

  ‘Are you okay?’ the other man asks. ‘There’s nothing injured, is there?’

  ‘Just my dignity.’ Tom forces a smile. He feels dwarfed by the other man’s stature. He’s well over six foot and has one of the broadest chests Tom has ever seen. Thick blond hair and sharp blue eyes complete the picture, putting Tom in mind of Chris Hemsworth as Thor.

  ‘I’m fine, really,’ he adds, ignoring the pain in his right knee. ‘It’s me who should be apologising to you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I don’t make a habit of bumping into strange men.’ It’s probably shock, or nerves, but the words blurt out before he can stop them. He feels himself flush with embarrassment and hopes it isn’t visible.

  Thor suddenly seems eager to get away. ‘No problem,’ he says quickly. ‘So long as you’re okay.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Right, well, see you around.’

  Tom watches as he turns away and is soon neck deep in a sea of people, blond head bobbing above the crowd. He pats himself down. His keys are still in his zipped back pocket, together with the £20 note he always carries in case of emergencies. But his iPhone must have fallen when he lost his footing. Frantically, he scans the ground around him, panic rising in his chest. The whole of his life is on that phone – emails, texts, social media, even a banking app. Losing it would be a nightmare.

  What if it isn’t lost? What if Thor collided with him on purpose? Thieves often operate in areas like this. Anywhere there are crowds of unsuspecting people is a haven for pickpockets. And he was so distracted, he must have looked like the ideal target. He might just as well have had a sign written above his head. Tom cranes his neck to see if Thor’s head is still visible, but of course he’s long gone.

  He feels a tap on his shoulder and spins round. Standing behind him is a bearded man in a filthy overcoat. By the looks – and smell – of him, he’s one of the many homeless people who make their beds from cardboard boxes in doorways and under railway arches along the South Bank. He doesn’t appear to be in too decrepit a state, though it’s impossible to gauge his age beneath the caked dirt and fuzzy facial hair.

  ‘Sorry,’ Tom says, shaking his head. ‘I can’t help you today.’

  The man looks wounded. ‘I wasn’t asking you for help.’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘I just wanted to give you this.’ He holds out his hand. The fingernails are long and yellow, and clutched in his palm is Tom’s iPhone, the earbuds still attached. Relieved, Tom takes it and inspects the phone for damage. There’s a slight crack on the top left-hand corner of the screen. But apart from that it appears to be in working order.

  ‘Thanks,’ Tom says, remembering his manners. ‘And sorry for, y’know…’

  ‘I saw it fly,’ the man says. ‘When you and the blond man collided. It landed right next to me. You’re lucky it didn’t land in the river. I’ve seen a few things land in the river. Phones. Bags. No bodies, though.’ He gives a meaningful look, as if he’s divulging some great secret.

  ‘Right,’ says Tom. ‘So you saw all this happen. Where were you?’

  ‘On my bench.’

  Tom’s skin prickles. ‘Which bench?’

  The man turns and points. ‘That one.’

  The bench where Tom thought he saw Evie.

  ‘I sit there all the time,’ the man continues. ‘I like to watch the people go by.’

  ‘Was there a woman sitting there?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On that bench. A few moments ago. Before I fell.’ Tom feels his voice rising. ‘Blonde hair. She was wearing a blue military-style jacket. And she had a bag, one of those bags for life. It had the logo for Foyles bookshop.’

  The man considers this for a moment, scratching his bearded cheek with one hand. ‘I haven’t been in a bookshop for years. I used to love reading. Y’know, before.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  The man shakes his head. ‘I didn’t see any woman. Not on my bench. I think I’d remember. It’s not often a young woman sits next to me. Most people act like I’m not even here.’

  Tom feels a pang of social conscience and softens his tone. ‘Well, thanks for returning the phone.’

  The man shows no sign of moving. He smiles again and cups his hand. ‘I don’t suppose you could help me out, could you?’

  Tom reaches into his pocket for some change, remembering too late that he only has a twenty-pound note. His fingers curl around it and he hesitates for a moment. But what choice does he have? ‘Here,’ he says, thrusting the note into the man’s hand.

  The man’s smile widens, revealing black and broken teeth. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Tom replies. ‘But please don’t squander it on, well, whatever. Get yourself something to eat.’

  The man winks. ‘Course I will. Now you have a good day, and I hope you sort things out with your lady friend.’

  Tom forces a grin and pockets his phone. Dusting himself off, he sees that both his knees are grazed and the heel of his right hand and much of his forearm is badly scraped where he reached out instinctively to break his fall. The skin on his hand is torn and there are already signs of bruising. He’s lucky he didn’t break his wrist. And all because he thought he saw that bloody woman!

  He stretches and tests his knee. There’s some pain, but nothing he can’t handle. But there’s no point in running any further, not if there’s a chance of injury. All things considered, he escaped lightly. Really he should be counting his blessings.

  As he starts walking back in the direction of Vauxhall, he wonders if he should phone the police. And tell them what exactly? That he thought he saw Evie. He can imagine what the response would be.

  Tom sighs. He’s had enough of police statements and court proceedings to last him a lifetime. Maybe he didn’t imagine it. Maybe she really was there. But even if it’s true, where does that leave him? Technically speaking, she might be in breach of her restraining order. If it can be proved that she’d followed him. If there’s sufficient evidence of stalking. But what are the chances of that? And how long would it take to go to court? Another six months? A year? Tom doesn’t want to put his life on hold for another twelve months. He just wants things to go back to normal, the way they were before he’d heard the name Evie Stokes. That crazy bitch has already taken up more than enough of his time. He needs to move on.

  He feels a drop of rain and looks up. The sky has clouded over, though nothing too ominous. A passing shower, probably. His mind turns again to Hastings. The sooner he can get away, the better. The weather forecast for the south coast is promising, and it’ll be good to put some distance between himself and the city he calls home but where so many things have gone wrong lately. He loves London, but it no longer feels safe. What if last night’s dream was a warning? What if she never stops stalking him? He’s afraid, not just of her but of himself – of what he might do.

  Tom has only really lost his temper on two occasions. The first time was in his final year at school. One of the boys who’d bullied him since day one had a brother who was younger a
nd slightly smaller than Tom but was keen to prove himself to the others by having a go at him. Tom was queueing for the canteen one lunchtime when the boy sidled up with a smirk, called him ‘queer’ and challenged him to a fight. Usually Tom would do anything to avoid a confrontation, but that day something in him snapped.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You go first.’

  The boy looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Tom said. ‘Hit me.’

  Grinning, the boy formed a fist and punched Tom in the face. And for the next few minutes Tom saw red. He has no recollection of what happened. The next thing he knew, the boy was flat on his back, and Tom was straddling his chest, pinning both arms to the ground with his knees and punching the boy’s head repeatedly as a crowd gathered around.

  A friend had grabbed him from behind, pulling him off with cries of, ‘He’s had enough!’ After that, the school bullies left Tom alone.

  The second time he lost his temper was with Aidan. He prefers not to think about it. Under the circumstances, his anger seemed justified. But later he was filled with remorse. He doesn’t want there to be a third time.

  And there needn’t be, he assures himself. He just needs to unwind. A change of scenery will make a world of difference, and Hastings ticks all the right boxes. He’ll find a place on the seafront, overlooking the ocean. He’ll wake up early and go for his morning run along the promenade, filling his lungs with fresh sea air. Then he’ll sit for hours over his laptop, cracking on with the new book. He’ll enjoy a light lunch at some seaside café and spend the best part of the afternoon exploring the coastline or simply lying on the beach and reading. How long has it been since he’s fallen asleep in the sun with a good book? Then back to his desk for another few hours writing before calling it a day and making plans for dinner.

  The more he thinks about it, the more convinced Tom becomes. He needs to get away from London as soon as possible. And as if to prove the point, there’s a sudden change in the air, followed by a crack of thunder and the first proper rainfall there’s been in weeks. He’s wet within minutes.

  By the time he arrives home, he’s soaked to the skin. Approaching his building, he’s struck how empty the wet streets are compared to a few hours earlier. There’s not a soul in sight. But then the silence is shattered as a delivery van turns the corner and comes screeching to a halt outside his building. A spotty youth in a red-and-yellow branded T-shirt leaps out and runs to the door of the building, ducking his head as if that offers some protection from the downpour. Under one arm he carries a large cardboard box. He presses a buzzer and waits for a few minutes before turning and smiling hopefully at Tom.

  ‘Alright, mate,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a package here for a Tom Hunter, only no-one’s answering. You wouldn’t mind signing for me, would you?’

  Tom smiles back. ‘Not at all. I’m Tom Hunter.’

  He signs for the package, swipes his key card and hurries, dripping, through the marble-floored hall, up the first flight of stairs and into his apartment. As he closes the door firmly behind him and places the parcel on the kitchen counter, he has the distinct feeling that someone has been here in his absence. The air in the room feels different somehow, as if it has been displaced by the movement of another human being in a space usually occupied by one. But Tom’s cleaner isn’t due for another two days, and his dirty coffee cup is still in the sink. There’s no sign of a break-in, no indication that anything is missing. One of the main selling points of the place was just how secure it is. Breaking in here would be like breaking into Fort Knox. If someone other than him has been here, they must have let themselves in. The only other person who has a key is Emma – and that’s just for emergencies.

  Tom fumbles in his pocket for his key card. Is it possible that someone could have cloned it, the way they use a hidden device to clone your bank card as they brush against you? He thinks again of the man he collided with at the South Bank. Was it all an elaborate set up? Then he remembers Evie. The woman who wasn’t there. Never mind his key card. He’s in danger of losing his mind.

  He stares at the parcel and wonders who it’s from. There’s no card attached and no return address or company postmark. Sometimes he’s sent proof copies of books in the hope of an enthusiastic quote, but the requests for endorsements have dwindled considerably since his last book bombed – and in any case the box is too big.

  Gingerly, he picks at the packing tape until it peels away. Inside the box are layers of bubble wrap and foam peanuts. Buried deep inside is a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label – the same champagne Tom polished off last night with the waiter. And there’s something else, too – a familiar black box with the initials T.F. in silver lettering. Tom doesn’t need to look any closer to know what it is – a bottle of his favourite cologne, Tom Ford Noir.

  He searches again for a card, a note, anything to tell him who the parcel is from. Is it last night’s sexual partner coming on too strong? First the early morning text message, now this. Luke would have spotted the cologne in the bathroom cabinet. Or could it be Evie Stokes, reminding him that she knows where he lives? Tom’s heart races.

  His phone rings and he almost jumps out of his skin. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Tom? Darling, are you alright?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he replies, struggling to steady his nerves, inspecting the outside of the box for a return address.

  ‘You don’t sound it,’ Emma says. ‘You sound strange. You haven’t heard from that awful woman again, have you?’

  Tom thinks of the nightmare that woke him in the dead of night. ‘No. But if she starts on me again, I swear I won’t be responsible for my actions.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘We’re always responsible for our own actions,’ Emma says. ‘But I’m sure it won’t come to that.’

  ‘What if it does? What if she turns up at my flat again?’

  ‘Tom, has something happened?’

  He thinks before responding. ‘No.’ Tucking the phone under his chin, he makes his way into the bedroom, where he peels off his damp running gear and slips on his bathrobe.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just about to jump in the shower.’

  ‘Then I won’t keep you. I’ve had a text from the courier company to say my little surprise has arrived.’

  Finally it dawns on him. ‘It’s from you? The care package?’

  ‘Who else? I know your tastes better than anyone!’

  Not all of them, Tom thinks. ‘Of course you do!’

  He wanders back into his bedroom and is surprised to see his laptop, open on his bedside table. Strange, he can’t remember using it last night. Sometimes he’ll wake in the middle of the night and write something straight onto the computer before it slips his mind – a telling phrase, a snatch of dialogue. It’s quite possible that in his drunken stupor he did the same last night. He sits on the edge of the bed and taps the touch bar on the keyboard, bringing the screen back to life. The screensaver is a photo of him on the red carpet at Leicester Square for the premiere of the film based on his first book. He looks flushed – and he was. Flushed with success. Flush with excitement. Funny how things change.

  ‘Em?’ he says. ‘You didn’t pop over and let yourself in here earlier, did you?’

  ‘What? No, of course not. Why would I?’

  ‘To check I hadn’t died of alcohol poisoning in my sleep?’

  ‘I’m your friend, not your nursemaid. Besides, I was too busy sleeping off my own hangover to worry about yours. Why do you ask?’

  Tom pauses, distracted by the ping of an incoming email. ‘Forget it. My head’s all over the place today.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You sound a bit odd.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Tom opens the email and smiles to himself. It’s from his mortgage provider, confirming an evaluation for tomorrow. ‘Better than fine,’ he adds, thinking of all the cash locked up in his property and how much easier life
could be if he released some of it.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. So when are you off to Hastings?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘I can keep an eye on things, if you like. Come and water your houseplants.’

  ‘I don’t have any houseplants. Everything I touch dies.’

  Emma laughs. ‘Not quite everything.’

  ‘I’m fine, Em,’ Tom says. ‘Really. And thanks again for the gifts. That was sweet of you. But I really need to go now. I’ll speak to you soon.’

  And without waiting for her response, he ends the call.

  12

  DAY 4 (726 DAYS REMAINING)

  My therapist thinks I should keep a journal. You have an agent – I have a court-appointed psychotherapist. I imagine they serve a similar function – at least in terms of encouraging us to write. She looked so pleased with her suggestion that I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’ve been writing one for years. Or maybe I was just keeping my cards close to my chest. I guess she’ll never know, will she?

  My therapist is one of those hideously empathetic women who smiles a lot as she speaks, and tilts her head and nods slowly as you answer. I think I’m supposed to find this reassuring. In fact I find her patronising. She arrived at our first meeting carrying a small desk clock and a large mug of herbal tea and wearing open-toed sandals. I noticed that her feet were in dire need of a pedicure. As she talked, she kept dunking the teabag in her tea, which I found even more distracting than the state of her feet.

  She introduced herself as Maria and asked if there was anything I wanted to say. There was a lot I could have said: ‘Why are you making such a public display of those toenails?’ or ‘What does that teabag represent to you?’ But as I’m here under duress and determined to volunteer as little as possible, I kept my thoughts to myself.

  She offered me a cushion. I told her my chair was quite comfortable, thank you.