When Your Eyes Close

by Tanya Farrelly

  Caitlin. Rachel. They’d existed, these women from his confabulation. What would Tessa make of that? But what about him, could he really be Johnny Davis, a jealous husband, a killer? No, there had to be another explanation. Maybe he’d heard about it, read about it somewhere, but even as he considered the possibility, he dismissed it. It was too real. He needed to go back – to be regressed again. If he could piece the whole story together, remember information that wouldn’t have been printed in the newspaper, then he would know. It occurred to him that the only person that could corroborate such personal facts was Caitlin. He looked at her Twitter profile again. Caitlin Davis. Whatever happened – he would have to find her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Caitlin

  Caitlin went through the motions of playing at the gig that night. She couldn’t shake the memories of David, but then anniversaries and the days surrounding them were the most difficult, everyone knew that. Andy tapped her lightly on the shoulder with the bow from his cello as they were packing away the instruments.

  ‘You okay?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Want to stay for a glass?’

  ‘I don’t think so; I wouldn’t be much company.’

  ‘Who says you usually are?’ He swatted her. ‘Just joshing,’ he said. ‘Go on; just one. We can talk about it.’

  ‘All right,’ she forced a smile and snapped her violin case shut. As much as she wasn’t feeling sociable, she didn’t feel like returning to the empty house either, not yet.

  She was sitting at a table in the corner of the wine bar, a tea light candle flickering on the table, when Andy returned from the bar with a bottle of Merlot and two glasses. ‘Don’t worry – you’re just getting the one. The rest is for me.’ He winked and sat next to her. ‘Now, what’s wrong, Caitie? What has you looking so glum?’

  Caitie. Andy was the only one who ever called her that, and it always brought back memories of her father who’d never used her full name. ‘The anniversary,’ she said. ‘Can’t believe it’s been a year.’

  Andy put a hand on her arm and squeezed it. ‘I tried calling you on Monday.’

  ‘I know, I got your text. I was with Gillian. God, it was an awful day. I’d just got home, and I got this call … a man telling me that David was alive. I thought it might be something, a real lead, but it turned out to be a hoax after all. Some sick fuck who’d seen David’s name in the paper.’

  ‘Oh God. I’m sorry, Cait. Any ideas why now?’

  ‘The Sunday World ran a supplement last week about people who’ve gone missing.’

  Andy sighed. ‘Have you thought about changing your number?’

  ‘No! What if someone really had information … what if David …?’

  ‘I know, but you should let the guards deal with it, Caitie. What if this person, or someone like him, finds out where you live … have you thought about that?’

  ‘He won’t. We’re not in the directory. Thank God, David talked me out of that.’

  They finished the wine, and then ordered another.

  By the time they left the wine bar Caitlin was feeling light-headed. It wasn’t an altogether unpleasant feeling. Andy guided her, hand under her arm, out the door and onto the street. It was a quiet night in the city. They walked towards the main street where she waved down a cab. Andy hugged her tight, then pulled back and tucked her hair behind her ears.

  ‘You can be sure of one thing, Davis,’ he said. ‘David didn’t up and leave. He’d have to be mad to do that to someone like you.’

  She smiled and extricated herself from his embrace. There were moments when she thought that Andy Quinn wanted to be more than her friend; it was evident in the way he looked at her. He’d been brilliant since David’s disappearance; he continued to listen when everybody else had grown tired of it, letting her talk it all out without chiding or judging her. She’d gladly do the same for him, he was a wonderful friend, but she hoped he knew it would never grow into anything more.

  It was dark when Caitlin stepped into the hall, but a bluish glow illuminated the living room; she’d left the computer on. She really ought to leave on a light when she was out late; Gillian was always warning her about that. She kicked her shoes off and sat down at the computer. She shouldn’t have drunk so much wine; she’d pay for it the next morning. Already there were only six hours until she was due at work. She’d just check her emails and fall into bed.

  There was nothing interesting in her mail, except a notification to say that darbryan1 had sent her a message on Twitter. Curious, she opened the website and logged on. There was a short message and a document he’d scanned, a newspaper article about a missing girl, which she skimmed through quickly before reading the message.

  @darbryan1: Hi Caitlin. It occurred to me I should have told you my story. Maybe you’re not interested or will think I’m odd telling you, a stranger, but I have a feeling that you’ve been through the same thing. If you want to talk, message me. And if not, best of luck on your own quest. I know I’ll never give up mine. Lisa was my girlfriend, she vanished after a night out with her colleagues almost six years ago.

  Caitlin clicked on the article again and read it in detail. Lisa Hunt, it said, had last been seen leaving O’Grady’s bar at around 1.30 a.m. on the morning of 5th September 2011. There had been an unconfirmed sighting of a woman of Lisa’s description getting into a dark-coloured car, possibly a Nissan. After that there was nothing. Lisa, it said, was a twenty-seven-year-old special needs assistant in St Malachy’s Secondary School. A picture inset showed a slim dark-haired girl with a beautiful smile. Caitlin sighed. This girl had vanished in the early hours of the morning, more than likely picked up by a predator. Most people would conclude that the girl had been raped then murdered and her body disposed of in the mountains. The least she could do was sympathize with darbryan1.

  @caitlindavis: Hi Dar. I’m so sorry.

  … for what? For your loss? That was as good as saying your girlfriend was murdered. She’s not coming back. Okay, she wasn’t a man who had disappeared in the middle of the afternoon, but she could still be alive, couldn’t she? She thought of that case where the woman had been a prisoner in a basement for fifteen years. She’d fallen in love with her captor, mourned him when he died. For most people it was incomprehensible. For Caitlin it was less so: she continued to love her father even after what he’d done. To begin with, people had told her it was an accident. She was five years old, she wouldn’t have understood. When she was older, she’d read the truth – how her father had killed her mother and the man, and then, unable to bear it, had collected Caitlin from a friend’s house, where she’d been playing, and had driven them both off the pier. At first when she’d read this, she had been sure it was lies. She had no recollection of the incident. Had no memory of the car plummeting into the water, or of the stranger who had rescued her. And yet she remembered everything from her life before. She remembered how happy they’d been, the three of them together. Those memories were as clear now as they had been back then.

  Caitlin shook herself from the past and started to type:

  @caitlindavis: Darren/Daryl? Thank you for sharing your story. You’re right, I do understand. A year ago, my husband walked out of the house and never returned. A police investigation and the hiring of a private detective led nowhere. Only my instinct tells me that David is still alive. I’m so sorry about Lisa’s disappearance. I know the pain you’re feeling and hope that someday, we’ll both find out what has happened to our loved ones. Best, Caitlin.

  She was surprised when a few minutes later, she got a reply.

  @darbryan1: Caitlin. I’m so sorry. I figured David must be your husband. It’s incredible to think that someone can simply disappear. The pain of wondering if you’ll ever see them again never stops, I know … And yeah, it’s Darren by the way…

  For the next hour Caitlin found herself exchanging details with Dar Bryan. At first, she was cautious, she had no idea who he was aft
er all, but then she thought what harm could it do? Everybody already knew what had happened. And besides, it might help to hear his story. To hear first-hand what other people went through. What they both needed was someone to listen. As Dar pointed out, it wasn’t long before people started to avoid you because they couldn’t bear to hear you go over the same things time and again. Caitlin had experienced that too, friends who had distanced themselves from her in her agony. One who had bluntly told her that she couldn’t do it anymore, that Caitlin would simply have to get over it. The last six months had seen the end of more than one of her fair-weather friendships. Dar Bryan understood; he’d been there. It was the first time she’d spoken to someone else who had.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Michelle

  It was less than a half hour later when Michelle stopped the car outside Nick’s house. She sat for a moment, looked in the rear-view mirror and attempted to smooth her hair. She looked a mess. If Nick had changed his mind, then he’d surely change it back again. A part of her wondered if she should’ve told him that she was busy, that she couldn’t meet, but his tone had sounded urgent, desperate even, and that wasn’t like Nick. She couldn’t abandon him, not if there really was something wrong.

  He didn’t answer the door immediately. She watched the window for movement, saw the hall illuminated briefly as he opened the kitchen door, then heard his step on the wooden floor.

  ‘Hey, thanks for coming.’ He stood back for her to pass, and even in the gloom she could see several days’ growth on his jaw, his eyes sunken for want of sleep. Whatever was going on, it was serious.

  Under the harsh ceiling light, he looked worse than she’d imagined. He indicated for her to sit but didn’t sit next to her, opting instead for the armchair where the dog usually sat. There was no sign of the dog, which was strange.

  ‘Where’s Rowdy?’

  ‘What? Oh.’ Nick got up, opened the back door and the big dog came hurtling through the door. He leaned to ruffle his fur, but the dog made straight for Michelle who welcomed the short reprieve, before whatever it was Nick had to say changed everything. She knew as soon as she saw him that it would.

  ‘I’m sorry, Michelle, for the other night, for not explaining …’ So here it was finally, the explanation, it didn’t mean that anything had changed.

  ‘The thing is … I’m sick.’

  ‘What?’ The surprise was so sudden, it was almost a relief, but for seconds only. ‘What do you mean? What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’d been feeling a bit off for a while, so I went for some tests, bloods. I didn’t want to tell you. The doctor says I need a liver transplant.’ He looked at her for the first time since she’d arrived.

  ‘Jesus, Nick. Is it definite? When?’

  ‘They won’t put my name on the list for six months, you have to be clean – no alcohol …’ Even as he said it, Michelle could smell the whiskey on his breath. She thought of the old woman, her question about whether he was a drinker. ‘And even then, there are no guarantees that a donor can be found in time.’

  She didn’t know what to say. She got up, crossed the room, crouched before him and took his hands. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘What can I do?’

  Nick shook his head, looked away from her. ‘Nothing. You don’t have to do anything. That’s why I wanted to finish it … it wasn’t you, it’s because there are no guarantees. A year from now, I mightn’t even be here. How can that be fair on you?’

  ‘So, what? You think I’m going to walk away? Don’t be stupid, I couldn’t, I-I love you, Nick.’ The words were out. She’d been biting them back for weeks now, afraid, waiting for him to say it first, but it didn’t matter now, did it?

  ‘All I’m saying is, I wouldn’t blame you. You don’t have to, you know? I wasn’t going to tell you at all, I just figured I owed you an explanation.’

  ‘Well, I’m sticking around whether you want it or not.’

  The look of relief on his face was heartbreaking. ‘Come here,’ he said.

  As he pulled her to him, she could smell the whiskey again. When they parted she looked round, but there was no sign of the bottle. He must have put it away before she arrived. That wasn’t good, not if he was supposed to have given up.

  ‘Nick, have you been drinking?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s the last one, I swear it. I have to get myself straight. I’m seeing someone, a hypnotist.’

  ‘Really? Wow. You’re the last person I figured would do that. I can’t believe it’s that bad … I mean, I’ve never even seen you drunk. No more than anyone else.’

  ‘That’s the thing. It takes more and more to get me drunk. When we were married, Susan insisted that I try to stop, made me sign up for AA meetings, but I didn’t really take it seriously. I thought she was exaggerating … but it turns out she was right, about that anyway.’

  The old woman’s words resounded in her head. A dark-haired woman and a child. ‘You and Susan, you didn’t have any children?’

  ‘What? No … there was a miscarriage. And after that, it didn’t happen … we tried.’ He leaned back to look at her. ‘You hardly thought I’d not have told you about something like that? If I’d had a kid, I mean.’

  Michelle shook her head but didn’t tell him anything about the old woman. ‘Of course not. Look, about the transplant, Nick. What about a live donor, they can do that, can’t they?’

  ‘Not in this country … maybe in the States. I don’t know much about it.’

  ‘Well if they could … the donor doesn’t even have to be a blood relative – just the same blood type. Which are you?’

  ‘Michelle, no – even if it was the same, which I’m sure you’re not, I wouldn’t let you do it.’

  ‘Why not? The liver rejuvenates – in a matter of weeks it would be like I hadn’t even done it. What type are you?’

  Nick sighed. ‘Right now, I need to get on that transplant list – and live donor or not, it’s going to be six months.’

  ‘Nick, your blood type?’

  ‘O negative. One of the rarest there is. Try finding someone with that blood type who’s willing to donate.’

  Michelle sighed. She was B positive. There was no question of her being Nick’s donor. They’d have to hope for a miracle. Even on the transplant list, his chances were limited.

  She took his trembling hand. ‘We’ll find a way,’ she said. ‘We’ll beat this.’

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ he said and bolted for the bathroom.

  Nick shivered through the night as Michelle watched over him. She read the labels on the drugs the doctor had prescribed, and when his stomach had settled to some degree, she gave him the pills and he slept. Even in sleep, he was fitful. He woke relieved, it seemed, to find her there.

  ‘Withdrawal,’ he explained. ‘It could go on for days.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.’

  In the kitchen, she looked for and found the bottle of whiskey, which she poured down the sink. She had to make sure he didn’t drink, no matter about the angry outbursts her interference might bring on. She was prepared for that. She cancelled her classes for the following day pleading sickness, she would stay with Nick until the withdrawal had passed. She knew she couldn’t watch him indefinitely. She’d have to rely on his strength and maybe the help of the hypnotherapist to see it through.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nick

  Nick had intended to tell Michelle everything, but he couldn’t. It was enough that he’d told her about his illness and she hadn’t fled. When she’d asked him if he’d like her to go with him to the hypnosis session, he’d said no, that she couldn’t be there every step to hold his hand.

  The withdrawal had taken days. Days of sweats and shivering and hallucinations. Michelle told him that he had talked in his sleep, and when he’d asked her what he’d said, she told him she didn’t know, just mumblings. She made sure that he took his pills every day, and much as he hated taking anything, it helped.

>   ‘You look better,’ Tessa told him, as he sat at her desk.

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it, what I’ve seen?’ he said. ‘I didn’t think it was possible but …’

  Tessa avoided his eye. ‘It’s too soon to say, Nick …’

  ‘I did a search,’ he told her. ‘The name, the year …’ He could tell by her expression that she already knew, that she had searched too – he remembered her scribbling the names and year on her pad.

  Tessa leaned forward in her seat. ‘Is there any way you could have read about it, Nick? Would you have had any reason … maybe while you were doing research, something like that?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m an architect.’

  She nodded. ‘And the abstinence, how is that going? Are you over the withdrawal?’

  ‘I think so.’

  She made a few notes on the pad. He noticed that she still recorded the sessions, but she never offered to send him the files.

  Nick took a breath. ‘The article, it didn’t mention the girl’s name, the little girl that escaped, but I searched, and it’s her. It’s Caitlin.’

  Tessa put down her pen and fixed on him. ‘Nick … I’ve been thinking, I’m not sure it’s going to do you any good to go on with this.’

  ‘What do you mean? I can’t stop now. I need to know what’s going on … You will help me?’

  There was a beat before she looked up. ‘I’m not sure I can help you, Nick.’

  ‘But you searched, didn’t you? You know that everything I’ve said is true.’

  She didn’t confirm or deny it. ‘Even if it is true, even if we have tapped into something, Nick, don’t you think it’s better left alone? It’s a past life, it’s done. There’s nothing you can do to change it.’

  ‘And what about Caitlin?’

  Tessa didn’t answer.

  ‘Caitlin is still out there living with the consequences of what I’ve done.’