The Closer I Get

by Paul Burston

  I nearly laughed at this point. Never was there a less caring woman than my dear departed mother. The only person she ever cared about was herself.

  ‘She wasn’t a well woman, Evie. She had mental-health problems.’

  ‘Alcohol problems, more like.’

  ‘She wasn’t always like that. Her illness … it hid itself for a long time.’

  ‘It didn’t stop her running off with other men though, did it?’

  ‘It wasn’t as simple as that. We both made mistakes. I wasn’t the perfect husband, not by a long way. I didn’t handle things as well as I could have. I let her down. I let you both down.’

  ‘Don’t make excuses for her!’

  ‘I’m not. It’s the truth.’ He looked at me meaningfully. ‘Things are never as simple as they appear to us when we’re children.’

  I didn’t like the way this conversation was going, so I tried to close it down. ‘I don’t know why you’re bringing this all up now,’ I said. ‘It’s ancient history.’

  He leaned towards me across the table. ‘It’s not though, is it? You were there the day she died. In Manchester.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I was here with you.’

  ‘No, you weren’t. You arrived later that evening. I remember the way you were – so agitated. Why did you turn up like that? So suddenly?’

  ‘Can’t a girl choose to visit her own father?’

  ‘Of course you can. You’re always welcome here. But I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest with me. Can you do that for me?’

  I smiled. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Only you haven’t always been entirely honest with me in the past, have you?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘This business with the writer. I was there, remember. In court. I heard the evidence against you.’

  ‘So now you’re on his side. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m saying I need you to be completely honest with me. Can you promise me that?’

  I nodded, feeling about ten years old again.

  ‘The day your mother died,’ Dad said. ‘You were in Manchester. Did you have anything to do with what happened to her?’

  ‘Of course not. You remember what the police said. It was an accident.’

  He stared at me for a few moments, before gathering up our plates and taking them through to the kitchen. I heard the tap running.

  ‘Don’t wash up,’ I called. ‘I’ll do it later.’

  The sound of the water stopped but he didn’t return to the table.

  ‘Dad?’

  Moments later, he re-entered the room, his face still serious. ‘This thing with the writer – that’s all over now, isn’t it? You haven’t breached your restraining order, have you? Because you know what’ll happen if you do.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I replied. ‘And that whole thing was just one big misunderstanding. I told you that.’

  ‘And is the therapy business helping?’

  I thought carefully before replying. ‘It’s helping me put things in perspective. So on the whole, I’d say yes.’

  ‘Good.’ There was another long pause. ‘I worry about you, Evie,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ve seen the marks on your wrists. The ones you try to cover with long sleeves and those bracelets you wear.’

  Immediately my right hand went to my left wrist, where a few small scratches were concealed beneath a cotton weave wristband. ‘It’s just eczema,’ I lied. ‘I’ve made an appointment to see the doctor for some steroid cream.’

  It would take more than steroid cream to salve the anger that produced those marks – marks that have your name written on them, as clearly as if you’d carved it there yourself.

  ‘And you’re having nightmares again,’ Dad said. ‘I heard you crying out in the night.’

  ‘Everyone has nightmares from time to time. It’s not against the law, is it?’

  He smiled at me kindly. ‘No, it’s not against the law.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then.’

  He held my gaze for a while. Finally he said, ‘I worry about what would happen to you if I wasn’t here.’

  ‘You’re not planning on going anywhere, are you?’

  ‘No, but…’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Then we’re all fine, aren’t we?’

  After dinner we watched a film. My dad is a big fan of Sean Connery. I think he’s the kind of man Dad always hoped he’d be, had he not been emasculated by my mother. One of the film channels was showing The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. I don’t think even Connery’s most ardent admirers would argue that it was his finest hour – and if they did I’d be forced to say ‘surely shum mishtake?’ in my best Connery voice – but Dad seemed content enough.

  During the first of many ad breaks, I fixed us both a drink – a gin and tonic for me (heavy on the gin) and a whisky on the rocks for him. I finished my drink pretty quickly and poured myself another. Dad’s remained virtually untouched. By the time the film ended, he was half asleep in his armchair.

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ I said. ‘Time for bed.’

  He looked at me strangely, as if he was waking from a dream or seeing me for the first time.

  ‘I meant what I said earlier,’ he said. ‘You need to take better care of yourself. Get out more. Spend less time on the internet.’

  ‘I will,’ I replied. ‘I promise.’

  I kissed him goodnight and went up to my room, where I looked to see if anyone had commented on my latest blog post. Nobody had, but it was still early. Most of my loyal followers log on in the morning, before work. I opened the Facebook account I’d created a few weeks earlier using a false name and a stock photo, and scoured a few profiles of interest before opening another tab on my browser. I have a new anonymous Twitter account, too – several, in fact, linked to various email service providers. Neither Facebook nor Twitter seem particularly keen to divulge information or help the police with their enquiries, but it pays to be cautious. I was checking my Twitter account when I remembered my conversation from earlier. I opened my mailbox and there it was – the email I’d been waiting for. Finally I had an appointment with someone I’d been dying to meet for a long time.

  24

  Colin’s flat is very different from how Tom imagined it. He expected wall-to-wall carpets, a three-piece suite and rooms crammed with enough clutter and soft furnishings to fill a small department store. In other words, the kind of decor his parents would have chosen. Instead there are polished floorboards and a minimalist look that borders on the austere.

  While the old man disappears into the kitchen to make tea, Tom follows his host’s instructions and waits in the living room. There’s a large oatmeal sofa and two wingback leather armchairs in different shades of green. Next to the sofa is a standing lamp with a sandy shade and a stem fashioned from driftwood. A smaller matching lamp sits on a large glass-topped coffee table alongside a stack of magazines. The overall effect is of the waiting room in a private doctor’s surgery, albeit one where the doctor is only qualified to dispense tea and sympathy.

  The wide bay window looks out onto the main road, the lower half of the frames filled with etched glass for privacy. Tom wonders how many nights the old man has spent sitting here in this room, watching silhouettes pass the window, thinking about his own mortality. Loneliness can be a killer, or so people say. Tom can only begin to imagine what it must be like to have spent the best part of your life with someone only to suddenly find yourself alone. No wonder Colin insisted on inviting him in. He must be glad of the company.

  In the alcove next to the fireplace is a large TV. In pride of place on the mantelpiece is a silver-framed photo of a much younger Colin with a full head of hair and a bushy moustache. Standing next to him is a handsome man with floppy blond hair. They’re both smiling at the camera, looking relaxed and tanned. Behind them, an olive tree is silhouetted against a deep-blue sky, and a bright-pink bougainvillea climbs against a white-washed wall.

  �
��Mykonos,’ Colin says, entering the room with a tray laden with mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits. ‘Nineteen eighty-four. Our first time there. Of course it was different back then. Not like today.’ He sets the tray down on the coffee table. ‘I forgot to ask if you take sugar.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Tom says. He’s never seen the appeal of places like Mykonos. A gay party island is his idea of hell.

  ‘Good,’ says Colin. ‘I’ve never understood people who put sugar in their tea. Totally destroys the taste. They say it’s good for shock, but personally I’ve always found brandy hits the spot far better. I have some if you like?’

  ‘Tea is fine. Thank you.’

  ‘Well, don’t stand on ceremony. Sit yourself down.’

  Tom glances at the sofa, conscious of the fact that he’s still in his running gear. ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit sweaty.’

  ‘I can fetch you a towel if you like. Or there’s an old dog blanket somewhere.’ The old man grins. ‘I’m just messing with you. A bit of sweat never hurt. Please. Sit yourself down. You’re making the place look untidy.’

  Not wishing to risk sitting in his host’s favourite armchair, Tom chooses one end of the sofa and lowers himself carefully onto it, perching as far forwards as possible. He can feel the sweat pooling in the small of his back and wishes he’d taken up Colin’s offer of a towel.

  ‘That’s better,’ the old man says. ‘And help yourself to biscuits.’

  Tom takes one, more out of politeness than appetite, and is surprised and somewhat embarrassed when his stomach responds by gurgling gratefully.

  ‘Sounds like you needed that,’ Colin smiles. ‘Feeling better?’

  Tom nods and speaks through a mouthful of digestive biscuit. ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’

  Colin waves one heavily veined hand. ‘Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all.’ He sits in the nearest of the two armchairs and reaches for his tea.

  Neither of them speaks for a few minutes. The only sounds are the rumble of traffic on the road outside and his host slurping his tea. Tom has never been in therapy or gone to confession but he can’t escape the feeling that Colin is waiting for him to unburden himself. And for some strange reason, Tom feels the urge to do just that. Maybe it’s the freedom of knowing that he and Colin are practically strangers and may never see each other again, so anything he says now will probably be forgotten. Or maybe it’s guilt. Guilt that he was so quick to dismiss Colin as some ridiculous old man in a bad wig. Guilt that he hasn’t been completely honest. He’s already cried in front of Colin, and the old man has shown him such kindness.

  ‘I lied,’ Tom says suddenly. ‘In court. I lied.’

  Colin raises his eyebrows so high, they disappear into his unnaturally low hairline. ‘Lied about what?’

  Tom thinks carefully before continuing. ‘I said I didn’t know her, that we’d never met. We did. She came to a book signing, and then a few weeks later I met her for a drink.’

  ‘I see,’ Colin says. ‘What on earth did you do that for?’

  ‘I felt flattered, I suppose. I was having a hard time. I’d taken a bit of a hammering from the critics, and she was so full of enthusiasm for me and my work.’

  ‘I meant, why did you lie?’

  ‘Oh.’ Tom lowers his eyes. ‘I was embarrassed. I felt as if I was somehow to blame for what happened, that I’d brought it on myself. I’d allowed my ego to get in the way of my common sense, and I was too ashamed to admit it. And once I’d lied to the police I thought I’d better stick to my story.’

  ‘Weren’t you worried that you’d be found out?’

  ‘At first, yes. I already had a story in place. I was going to say that she must have followed me there. It’s a pub I never normally go to. I took a chance that nobody would remember seeing me with her. It would be my word against hers. I thought it would come up before the case reached court, or her defence would suddenly spring it on me under cross-examination. But it was never mentioned.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. Because she’s mad? Or maybe her lawyer advised against it. Maybe the evidence against her was so strong, they thought it wouldn’t have made any difference. I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘I see,’ says Colin. ‘Well, maybe they’re right.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About it not making any difference. She’s still guilty of stalking you. Whether you met her for a drink or not. Some people are stalked by ex-husbands or people they once had a relationship with. It doesn’t change the fact that they were stalked.’

  Tom lifts his head. ‘I guess not.’

  ‘So stop being so hard on yourself. You’re not the first man to make a mistake and you won’t be the last.’

  ‘I suppose I’m worried that it’ll catch up with me.’

  ‘That’s just your guilty conscience talking. Do what I do.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I turn my hearing aid off.’

  Tom smiles. ‘What have you got to feel guilty about?’

  The old man winks. ‘Let’s just say I’ve had my moments.’ He points at Tom’s mug. ‘More tea?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s gone cold.’

  Colin reaches for the mug and rises to his feet. ‘Then you’d better wait here while I make us a fresh pot.’

  Left alone with his thoughts, Tom casts his mind back to that night. If he’d only known then what he knows now, he’d never have agreed to meet with her. But at the time it seemed so innocuous. A friendly drink with a woman who admired his work – where was the harm in that?

  In retrospect, he must have had an inkling that something wasn’t right; why else choose a pub he never visited? On some level, he was maintaining a safe distance between her and the world he inhabited on a weekly basis – a world where pubs rarely featured. It was a bit like going on a blind date with someone you’re not too sure about and want to avoid bumping into again, should things go spectacularly wrong. The last place you agree to meet them is at your favourite bar or restaurant. The one thing Tom hadn’t done was arrange for someone to call him on some pretext, should he need to make a quick getaway. Because that someone would have been Emma, and he’d already taken the decision not to tell her about his new Twitter friend. Emma could be a little possessive at times – something he attributed to her upbringing – and he had no desire to hurt her feelings or risk an argument.

  Evie Stokes was waiting at the bar when Tom arrived, sipping a drink and looking smarter and more groomed than when they’d first met at the bookshop. She wore a tight black skirt and a metallic-blue top with long sleeves that flared slightly at the wrists. Her hair was sleek and glossy, as if she’d just been to the hairdressers. She was wearing rather a lot of makeup and Tom remembers thinking she seemed quite agitated. He’d put it down to nerves. It never crossed his mind that a few nervous tics might be a sign of something more serious.

  She had a way of absent-mindedly tugging at the sleeves of her blouse or the hem of her skirt, as if they weren’t quite long enough or she wasn’t used to the feel of the fabric against her skin. She reminded Tom of the girls he knew at school, who’d shorten their skirts by hitching them up and folding over the waistband, then spend half their time fiddling with the hem and making adjustments. Like them, Evie looked as if she was trying out a new look and wasn’t quite comfortable with it yet. Tom had to remind himself that she wasn’t a schoolgirl but a woman in her mid-thirties. For one awful moment he wondered if she’d bought the outfit especially. Some men would have been flattered. Instead he felt a stab of anxiety – was she expecting more from this encounter than he was willing to give?

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Tom said, though a quick glance at his watch confirmed that he was actually dead on time.

  ‘I was early,’ she replied. ‘I was in the area.’ Why, she didn’t say, though Tom later wondered if she already knew his address and had been busy familiarising herself with his part of town.

  He bought her another drink – a whit
e wine spritzer – and they found a table at the rear of the pub.

  ‘Thanks for meeting me,’ she said as they sat down. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

  ‘I always keep my promises,’ Tom replied, though he was already beginning to doubt the wisdom of his decision. He took a mouthful of his pint of lager – not his usual drink of choice but one that seemed more fitting for the situation. This was a pub where men drank pints and women drank wine from enormous glasses on long stems. At the next table, two men appeared to be involved in a drinking contest, knocking back pints and belching their appreciation.

  ‘You look nice,’ Evie said, and Tom replied almost without thinking, ‘So do you.’ Then, eager to steer the conversation onto less personal ground, he asked her if she’d read any good books lately.

  ‘I’m giving Bret Easton Ellis another go,’ she said, as if she and the author were a couple who’d been through a rocky patch and had agreed by mutual consent to go to couples counselling and work through their differences.

  ‘Rather you than me,’ Tom replied, remembering the time he shared a platform with Ellis at the Southbank Centre. He felt Evie watching him and added quickly, ‘I always preferred Jay McInerney.’

  The conversation was stilted at first, but after his second pint Tom started to relax. He enquired about her blog and complimented her on her outspoken and often provocative opinions. She asked about his writing and told him again how much she loved his last book. Then she mentioned that she was working on a novel of her own. Alarm bells rang as she asked Tom if he’d mind taking a look at it, and he mumbled something about being extremely busy right now but maybe at some point in the future he could read a couple of chapters. If Evie knew she was being palmed off she didn’t let it show. For a few minutes it looked as if any awkwardness or social embarrassment had been avoided. Until she changed the subject.

  ‘So have you always fancied men?’ she asked suddenly. She was on her third drink by now, which may have accounted for the sudden rise in volume and the directness of her question. Still Tom found it impertinent, not to mention embarrassing. Already he could sense the two men at the next table exchanging smirks and meaningful glances in his direction.