The Closer I Get

by Paul Burston

  ‘What are you doing at Charing Cross?’

  ‘What? I had a client meeting. What does it matter? That’s hardly the point. The point is, she’s missing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So she’s probably in some kind of trouble. For fuck’s sake, Tom! I know you’re not her biggest fan, but she’s clearly vulnerable and under a lot of pressure right now.’

  ‘Not my problem,’ Tom says. There’s a feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach, but he refuses to give in to it. Not today. He had enough of that nonsense yesterday. Today he’s on the up. Nobody’s going to take this away from him. He won’t let them.

  ‘My mistake,’ Emma says sharply. ‘I forgot who I’m talking to. The man who’s never in the wrong. The man who bears no responsibility for all the abuse she’s suffered on Twitter.’

  ‘You haven’t put anything on social media, have you?’

  ‘What? About her going missing? I’ve only just found out.’

  ‘About me being in Hastings.’

  ‘Of course not. Why would I? You sound paranoid. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. Never better. Anyway, it’s been great talking to you, but there’s a chilled glass of champagne here with my name on it.’

  ‘Tom!’

  ‘Not now, Em. I told you. I’m celebrating. If you can’t be happy for me, the least you can do is not bring me down. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.’

  He ends the call and heads back inside. Moments later his phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s Emma again. He declines the call and switches the phone to silent.

  When the waitress comes to clear his plate, Tom asks for another bottle of champagne. ‘And make sure it’s chilled, please.’

  She looks at him as if he’s asking for the moon, then rearranges her features into a professional smile. ‘Yes, of course.’

  It takes a while to arrive – Tom begins to wonder if it’s being flown in especially – but when it does the bottle is perfectly chilled and presented in an ice bucket. As he tops up his glass, he feels several pairs of eyes boring into him. Let them look. It’s not the first time he’s felt out of place, and it won’t be the last.

  He’s still pondering this thought when the pub doors swing open and a man enters and strides over to the bar. He’s dressed in khaki shorts and a fitted white T-shirt that shows off his physique. His hair is cropped shorter than usual, with the tell-tale ruddiness around the back of the neck indicating a recent visit to the barber. Tom recognises him instantly. Luke hasn’t seen him and is busy ordering a drink. Confident that he’s unlikely to turn down the offer of a glass of champagne, Tom rises from his chair, raising a hand to catch his eye. Suddenly it looks like this won’t be such a lonely celebration after all.

  Luke’s face breaks into a grin. For a split second Tom thinks it’s directed at him. Then another, younger man appears, greeting Luke with a bro-hug and a pat on the back – the kind gay men give each other when they’re avoiding public displays of intimacy. But Tom isn’t fooled for a moment. These two are an item. He’d bet his life on it.

  He’s still standing, feeling increasingly awkward, when Luke finally spots him.

  ‘Tom Hunter,’ he says, walking over. ‘I heard you were still hanging around Hastings.’

  ‘Really?’ Tom replies. ‘Who’s been talking about me?’

  ‘My friend Adam. He’s an estate agent. He says you’re looking to move here. So I was right about you, after all. You’re not just down from London. You’re proper FILTH.’ Luke grins to show he’s just teasing.

  Tom smiles back, determined to save face. ‘Actually, I’m keeping my place in London. I’m looking for a second home. And how are you? Who’s your friend?’

  Luke turns and gestures to the younger man. ‘Kyle, come over here. This is Tom. The guy I was telling you about.’

  Kyle comes over – blond hair, blue eyes, too much space between his nose and upper lip. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he says, every word dripping with insincerity.

  ‘Pleased to meet you too, Kyle,’ Tom says, stressing the name with an amused grin that suggests some private joke.

  ‘Drinking alone again?’ Luke asks. ‘Are you okay? Only, if you don’t mind me saying, you look a bit rough.’

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ Tom fires back. ‘If you must know, I’m celebrating. I’ve finished my new book. My agent thinks it’s my best yet.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘A female stalker.’

  Luke frowns. ‘Didn’t you recently have one of those?’

  ‘Word certainly gets around.’

  ‘So it’s, like, art imitating life?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Luke says. Then, turning to Kyle, ‘Tom’s an author.’

  The younger man doesn’t look remotely impressed. ‘We should go.’

  ‘You have time for a quick drink, surely?’ Tom hopes he doesn’t sound too desperate.

  Luke and Kyle exchange a meaningful look. ‘We’d better be off,’ Luke says. ‘It was good to see you. And go steady on the champagne.’

  Tom wants to ask him about the message on the beach this morning, but with the other man present it feels awkward and even less likely that Luke had anything to do with it. ‘Good to see you too,’ he says and watches them both leave, the disappointment bitter on his tongue.

  No sooner have they gone than he’s reaching into his pocket, reminding himself that there are plenty more pebbles on the beach. He opens the Grindr app on his phone. The profiles are displayed in order of proximity, with the person physically closest to Tom’s current location in the top left-hand corner of the screen and the one furthest away in the bottom right. The distances range from a few hundred metres to several miles. One man’s profile has an arrow pointing left with the words ‘He’s closer!’ which makes Tom smile. It’s rare to find someone with a sense of humour on the dating apps. Sadly, a good sense of humour isn’t high on Tom’s list of priorities right now, and the man’s profile pic doesn’t excite him in the slightest.

  He tops up his glass and scans the bar at the top of the screen showing ‘fresh faces’. Most of them look anything but fresh, but there’s one that grabs his eye. The photo shows a handsome, muscular man in his early thirties, standing shirtless in front of a bathroom mirror, iPhone in one hand, the waistband of his Calvin Klein underwear visible above his lowrider jeans. Hardly an original pose, but you can’t have everything. According to the app, ‘Regular Guy’ is less than a kilometre away.

  What’s more, he’s interested. A private message arrives: Hi sexy.

  Tom feel a rush of excitement. He takes a gulp of champagne before replying. Hi there. What’s up?

  Not much. Been to the gym. Horny. Looking for fun. You?

  The phone vibrates in Tom’s hand and Emma’s name appears. Why won’t she leave him alone? He declines the call and returns to the app, his fingers fumbling over the screen as he types.

  Sounds good. Where are you? I can accommodate.

  Prefer to meet first, comes the reply. Make sure you’re not a serial killer! There’s a smiley face to show he’s half joking at least.

  OK, Tom writes. Where?

  At the pier.

  Be there in 10 mins.

  See you then.

  Not if I see you first, Tom types. He pauses and deletes each word before he screws things up and scares the lad off. On my way, he writes, and hits send.

  The pier is closing as Tom arrives. The sun has set, and a full moon hangs heavy in the sky, casting white light onto the black water. A cool wind blows in from the sea. The temperature has dropped considerably.

  A few people are still milling about on the promenade, huddled in hoodies or wrapped in scarves. None of them looks remotely like the man Tom is looking for. Great, he thinks. It’s going to be one of those guys using a photo from ten years ago or – worse – one they’ve stolen from another man’s profile.

  His phone chirps as another message arrive
s: I’m under the pier.

  Descending the wooden steps to the beach, Tom hears the crash and drag of waves on pebbles. The tide is rising. Another hour and there’ll be hardly any beach left. Not that he plans to be here then. He’s never resorted to public sex before, and he’s not about to start now. A quick introduction and he’ll take his prize catch home.

  Crunching across the shingle, he passes a couple of drunks sheltering against the sea wall. Engrossed in some incoherent argument over a can of lager, they barely notice him. He hurries on, catching his foot on one of the concrete groynes but managing to regain his balance despite all that champagne. So what if he’s had a few too many? He can still hold his drink.

  There’s a slight incline up ahead, and then the pebbles give way to a steep slope leading down to the base of the pier. Tom treads carefully, arms out to his sides for balance, feeling the stones shift and roll beneath him. He half walks, half slides down the slope and is relieved when the terrain finally levels off and he’s back on firmer ground. He steps across another groyne, narrowly avoids tripping over a chunk of driftwood and then he’s under the pier.

  Thick steel pillars rise up out of the shingle, supporting the enormous structure high above his head. The air is damp and smells of seaweed. Clusters of mussel shells cling to the pillars, glinting in the half-light. Stepping forwards into the gloom, Tom ducks under one of the cross struts joining the steel posts, steadies himself and looks around. There’s not a soul in sight.

  ‘Hello,’ he calls.

  There’s no reply, just the sound of the waves and the whistle of the wind. Frustrated, he reaches for his phone. Then a sudden movement catches his eye, and a familiar figure steps out of the shadows.

  He starts, his eyes still adjusting to the darkness. It can’t be. But it is.

  She smiles. ‘Hello Tom.’

  30

  Her appearance has deteriorated since the last time he saw her, outside the magistrates’ court. At least then she’d looked presentable – all part of her attempt to convince the judge that she was a fine, upstanding member of the community. Now she’s a mess, as if she just doesn’t care anymore. She’s wearing the blue military-style coat Tom remembers from court and thought he saw on another woman yesterday. But that’s where the resemblance ends. Her hair is lank and clings to her skull, as if it hasn’t been washed in weeks. She’s lost weight – her face gaunt, the eye sockets dark and hollow. Only her eyes remain the same. Pale and grey, they bore into him, barely blinking.

  ‘Evie,’ Tom says. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She grins. ‘What’s the matter, Tom? Expecting someone else?’ She reaches into her coat pocket and takes out her phone. Swiping her finger across the screen, she holds it up for him to see. ‘Him for example?’

  Tom sees the photo of a man that drew him here. It takes a moment for things to click into place, and he shakes his head ruefully.

  She laughs. ‘Honestly, Tom. You’d think you’d have learned your lesson by now. You can’t always trust people you meet online.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Do you think so? I don’t think it’s funny at all. Not even remotely. Take you, for example. You’re nothing like the man you pretend to be. We both know it. Only the police and the judiciary were too thick to work it out. But we know the truth, don’t we? You and me. We know who you really are.’

  Tom swallows. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I think you do. Pretending you didn’t really know me. Acting like there was never anything between us.’

  ‘But there wasn’t,’ Tom says. ‘Not really. It was all in your head.’

  ‘What about that night in the pub? Was that all in my head, too?’

  ‘That was a mistake. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I tried to let you down gently but you wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Let me down gently? By reporting me to the police?’

  ‘That was later. You wouldn’t leave me alone. I was at my wit’s end. I didn’t know what else to do.’

  Her eyes flash. ‘You think you’re so special, don’t you? You with your fancy flat and your photo in the paper. You’re far too good for the likes of me.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ Tom protests.

  ‘Wasn’t it? So tell me, what was it like?’

  ‘I liked you. I found you interesting. But then things got out of hand. You wanted something I couldn’t give.’

  Her lip curls. ‘You think I wanted you for sex? We’re not all like you, y’know. We don’t all go around using people for a little warmth and then dropping them as soon as we’re done. Some of us are a little more evolved.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘So what did you mean? What did you mean when you said we were kindred spirits? What did you mean when you agreed to read my book?’

  ‘I was being polite.’

  She snorts. ‘Liar. You’re lying now like you lied in court.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Yes, you are. You told the court you hadn’t read my manuscript. You said you hadn’t even opened the email. I know for a fact that you did.’

  ‘Okay,’ Tom says. ‘Maybe I did. What difference does it make?’

  ‘It makes a world of difference. We both know I sent that manuscript to you in good faith. What you don’t know is that I also included a little insurance policy.’

  He stares at her, uncomprehending. ‘What kind of insurance policy?’

  ‘The kind that allows me to keep tabs on you. A little bit of software, automatically downloaded onto your hard drive when you opened that zip file. It allows me access to all kinds of things – your desktop, your webcam. I’ve been monitoring you for months. I see you’ve stolen my book. Does your agent know you’ve been a naughty boy?’

  Finally it sinks in. Tom’s skin crawls. All those times he felt her presence, all the times he felt as if he was being spied on – he was, just not in the way he thought.

  ‘I’ve been watching you,’ Evie says. ‘Every keystroke. Every word. Poor Sylvie. You killed her off, like you’d have killed me given half a chance.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Tom says, though he wonders if there’s at least an element of truth in what she’s saying. ‘I’ve never wished you harm!’

  She laughs. ‘Never wished me harm? You’ve wished me dead!’

  ‘You need help,’ Tom says. ‘Seriously. When the police hear about this they’ll have you locked up.’

  She steps forwards, the corners of her mouth twitching as if she’s on the verge of laughter. ‘I’m not the one who needs help. And don’t even think of calling the police. The signal is terrible down here. They can’t help you now.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Tom fumbles in his pocket for his phone.

  ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you,’ Evie snaps. ‘I’m in charge now. I’ve lost everything thanks to you. Did you honestly think I’d let you get away with it?’

  Tom watches in horror as she pulls a kitchen knife from inside her coat, the blade glinting in the half-light. A voice in his head screams at him to turn and run, but his feet are rooted to the spot.

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Oh, but I am. Deadly serious. Ask your old friend Colin.’

  She raises the knife and Tom sees that the blade is stained with something dark and sticky. He clears his throat. ‘What about him?’

  She smirks. ‘Who’d have thought the old man would have so much blood in him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Macbeth. Lady Macbeth to be precise. Women are often the worst, aren’t they? I’m sure your friend Colin would agree.’

  ‘What have you done to him?’

  Evie laughs. ‘Old Wiggy. Full of spirit, he was. He’s not so full of it now.’

  ‘Tell me you haven’t hurt him!’

  ‘Why do you care? Oh yes, I forgot: you’re close, you two. At least that’s how it looked this morning. I saw you stepping out of the front do
or together – and you barely dressed, too. Was that the walk of shame? Because, let’s face it, there’s a lot you should feel ashamed of.’

  ‘The message on the beach. It was you.’ Tom’s gut tightens. He should have listened to his instincts.

  ‘Bingo! Not so stupid, after all. Though looking at you now I’d say you’re pretty drunk.’

  He can still feel the effects of the alcohol. It blurs his vision and dulls his senses, making everything seem unreal. He forces himself to stay focussed. She’s right here in front of him – and she has a knife.

  ‘Don’t do this, Evie,’ he says, glancing around, biding for time. ‘Whatever you think I’ve done, let’s just sit down somewhere and talk about it. I’m sure we can work this out.’

  ‘Like we worked it out before? I don’t think so. Remember that night I pleaded with you to drop the charges against me but you wouldn’t listen? The shoe’s on the other foot now, isn’t it?’

  ‘It wasn’t up to me,’ Tom says. ‘The police, the CPS, they were the ones calling the shots.’

  ‘Bullshit. You could have withdrawn your statement at any time. You chose not to. Then you went ahead and lied about me in court. You dragged my name through the dirt. All I ever wanted was to be close to you, but you twisted everything. You lied about me and humiliated me. Thanks to you I have a criminal record. I’ve had death threats on Twitter. And to top it all you robbed me of the only person who ever truly loved me. My dad is dead, and it’s all your fault.’

  Tom pictures the man he glimpsed briefly outside court. ‘I don’t know what you think I’ve done,’ he says, struggling to process the information being thrown at him. ‘And I’m very sorry to hear about your father. But I’m not responsible.’

  ‘You totally destroyed my life. Why should I spare yours?’

  For the first time in a long time, Tom feels physically afraid. Not just afraid. Terrified. He can feel it in his stomach and taste it in the back of his throat.

  ‘Please don’t do this, Evie,’ he says, his voice pathetic even to his own ears. ‘You don’t want to do this.’