Читать книгу: «Closer Than You Think», страница 2
Chapter 2
6th May 2018
St Ives, Cambridgeshire
I sat quietly in the kitchen for half an hour, thinking about how I hadn’t been to see my doctor for a very long time. Dr Porter had been great. She listened. She knew how I felt about most things. But the last few visits, we went around in circles, discussing nothing new. And so, I stopped going to see her. Dr Porter knew most of my secrets. Most. But not all. Some things I couldn’t say, and some things I wouldn’t ever say. My thoughts were interrupted when I heard Mum and Geoff moving around their room, and wondered when they’d join me in the kitchen. Eventually, Geoff crossed to the bathroom and called out good morning as he did.
‘Morning, I’ll make you both a brew,’ I called back.
‘Thanks, love,’ he shouted through the door.
As the kettle began to boil, I felt my phone vibrate in my dressing-gown pocket. I couldn’t help but smile to see who the message was from.
So, it turns out I’m not needed on site anymore. I’m coming back later today. Do you fancy a takeaway? No pressure to say yes.
Paul wasn’t due back till the weekend, and then he was seeing his daughters who lived in Cambridge. With my trip to Ireland in ten days, I wasn’t likely to see him again for another few weeks. I guess that was why our … whatever we were, worked. We were taking things slow, because we had to. Paul was also older than me, quite a few years older. He was divorced and had no intention of having more children, which made things less complicated. At first, knowing his children were adults felt weird. It was one of the first things I had commented on when Mum told me how old they were. But, if we became anything other than two adults getting to know each other, I would cross that bridge when I came to it. With everything else going on – every other bridge I had to cross on a daily basis – it didn’t seem that important.
We’d been spending time together for a few months now. We’d met online, which was something I wasn’t sure I wanted to do but Mum, the most forward thinking sixty-four-year-old I had ever known, insisted it would do me good to meet new people, get me out and about. She had been trying for years, so, finally I said yes. She crafted my profile, stating I was Claire O’Healy, her new surname after marrying Geoff. If she put my surname it would have undoubtedly drawn the wrong attention. She wrote things in the ‘about me’ section I wasn’t sure were entirely true, things she insisted were accurate but told me I couldn’t see. She cropped a photo of me and her in my garden from last year and then hit complete, making me real in the digital world. I didn’t want to see what was being said, assuming people would be unkind. And if I was honest, meeting someone was so terrifying I convinced myself I was happy on my own. It had taken me a long time to get to a place where I could manage my own company, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to share that with anyone. But still, under the fear, I was also lonely.
Mum told me she would vet the potential ‘friends’ I would talk to and be discreet in doing so. She told me most were just looking for sex, but this didn’t faze her. There were a few who appeared desperate, and only one she had seen who seemed nice. So, on a wet night a few months ago, both of us sat at my kitchen table between a pot of fresh tea and she told me all about him. A man named Paul.
When she stated he was forty-eight, I blew on my tea and raised an eyebrow. He was fourteen years older than me, and only fourteen younger than her. But after she read his profile to me, I understood why he’d made the shortlist. He seemed genuine, kind. Devoted to his children. Hard-working. He was a divorcee, but he didn’t seem to have baggage, and I believed it as divorce was so common these days, lots of people didn’t have complications after separation. That was the thing I was most drawn to – Paul appeared to be uncomplicated. Something I wasn’t. With my curiosity piqued, I asked her to show me his message.
Hello, I’m Paul. I’m new to this so not sure what the right etiquette is. You look nice, and it’s nice to be around nice people.
She showed me his photo on the dating website. He looked great. His hair was grey, but in a sexy George Clooney way, and he looked athletic and tall. Mum joked that if I didn’t want to meet him she would, stating that Geoff wouldn’t mind. We both chuckled at the idea. Mum and Geoff had their difficulties, as all couples did. But they loved one another dearly.
Looking back to the picture, in which he was grinning, standing by a river or lake somewhere, I could feel my hesitation rising. Meeting new people had become nearly impossible for me. With each introduction came a fresh wave of panic about who they were and what motivated them. An online introduction was unchartered territory I didn’t feel I could navigate. I didn’t know how you could get to know someone without seeing them face to face and reading their eyes?
‘I’m not saying you have to shack up with anyone,’ Mum said, interrupting my thoughts.
‘Shack up? Does anyone say that anymore?’ I replied, smiling.
‘Claire, stop deflecting. It will be good for you.’
I dropped the smile. She was right; I was trying to sidestep the conversation. ‘Mum, it’s been a long time.’
‘I know, that’s why we’re doing this. You shouldn’t be on your own.’
‘I’m not, I’ve got Penny.’
‘A friend who has a family of her own.’
‘I’ve got you and Geoff.’
‘And we’ve got each other, Claire – you know what I mean.’
‘I’m not sure I can, you know… be around somebody else.’
‘You can.’
‘Fine, I’m not sure I want to.’
‘That’s just your fear talking, Claire. After everything you’ve been through you deserve to have someone nice in your life.’
‘But what about—’
She cut me off by reaching over the table and resting her hand on my forearm, on my scar, and although it had faded and lost its raised texture, it was still there – a permanent reminder of the past. I pulled away awkwardly, and knowing why, she apologised.
‘Claire, we both know Owen would be all right with it, it’s been long enough.’
‘I have no idea how to do this.’
‘Do what? All you’re doing is saying hello. Getting to know him. The best thing about doing it this way is if it’s too much for you, if you decide you don’t like him, you close the app and lock your phone. God, I wish they had this when I was in the market after your dad.’
‘Mum!’
I’d taken another week to pluck up the courage to say hello. Our chat was slow, both he and I not responding quickly to one another. I half expected him to rush in, overload me with messages. But he seemed as tentative as I was. We kept our conversation light, commenting on the weather and things happening in the local news. Eventually we both opened up a little and spoke of musical interests, our hobbies and our jobs – well, his anyway. I wasn’t sure if it was weird or fated that Paul was in a similar line of work to Owen. But while Owen had worked on building sites, installing cables and switches into homes before they were decorated, Paul oversaw the building projects at a more senior level. I wondered, for a moment, if they might have met, but quickly quashed the ridiculous thought. When Paul asked me about what I did, I lied and told him I was taking time away from childcare. Well, part lied. Technically, I was taking time out: nearly ten years, in fact.
He spoke of his children often, and I spoke of not having any. We didn’t talk about our pasts and I was glad he didn’t ask. We exchanged emails, eventually numbers, and when we spoke over the phone, I couldn’t hide the nerves. My voice shook as I fumbled for words to say. He commented on my accent, asking where in Ireland I was from and I was surprised he knew the area. Paul had family near Limerick and had visited a few times when he was younger. Then, after a month or so of chatting, we had our first dinner with Mum and Geoff. As weird as it sounds to be going on a double date with my mother, I was glad she suggested it. I couldn’t face it alone.
We met at an Italian place in nearby Huntingdon. He made me laugh – made us all laugh, in fact – and appeared to be completely composed despite telling me after, via message, that he was nervous all evening. He was kind, we all could see it. Geoff, who was protective over me, treating me like his own daughter, told me as we drove home that night that he liked Paul a lot. When Mum noticed he didn’t drink after he opted for a soda and lime when we had a bottle of red, she was won over. I wasn’t so sure; both Mum and Geoff had to convince me I should see him again. Our next date, if you could call it that, was breakfast at a café nearby. I went alone, and for our short but lovely meet, the past didn’t matter; the future wasn’t real. We were just ‘in the moment’. Two people talking and sharing and laughing like nothing else mattered. I almost felt normal again.
What I liked about Paul the most was his patience. We had shared a few kisses, each time becoming more fervent. But no further than that – I wasn’t sure how ready I was for anything more. It had taken me years to be comfortable in my own skin.
It was a lovely surprise to know he would be back today. And, although I was still trying to be cautious, I couldn’t help feel excited by the idea of us spending time together. He was the first person in a long time I had let myself become close to (other than Penny, of course, but that was different).
Now he knew who I once was, and what I was. He didn’t know much, as he hadn’t followed the story when it happened, but he knew enough to not need an excuse to head for the hills. But here he was, for now. I wasn’t expecting it to be for ever. Not once he knew everything. And over the next few weeks, with the anniversary approaching, it was likely he would know most of the details. Someone, somewhere would dig up the past and force me to relive what happened in some magazine or online blog. Then the messages of support would come back, and my quiet life that I fought so hard to maintain would become noisy once more.
My phone vibrated again, lifting me from my daydream, as another message came through.
Or, if you prefer we could eat out somewhere?
I replied, the smile staying firmly in place.
No, a takeaway would be lovely.
His reply was instant.
Perfect. I’ll be leaving the site in a few hours, then another few to get home (if the traffic gods are kind).
Don’t rush, I’m not going anywhere.
Watching my screen, I saw the three dots telling me he was messaging back. It seemed to last a lifetime. Eventually he responded.
I hope not.
Regardless of the fact I was older and wiser and more battle-scarred than a teenager, I couldn’t help, for a moment, feeling like one. My heart fluttered.
Geoff walked from the bathroom back into his room as Mum came into the kitchen. I turned my back, busying myself with the tea. I hoped she didn’t see my cheeks had flushed. When I turned to face her she smiled, still groggy from sleep. She was wrapped in her dressing gown, which was frighteningly similar to mine. Was she young-looking, or was I dressing myself as an older lady? I wasn’t sure. She kissed me on the cheek, sat at the kitchen table and asked me what my plans were for the day, expecting the answer to be as it was most days: ‘Oh nothing, I’m just going to potter around.’ When I sat opposite her and flippantly said Paul was coming over for a takeaway, she couldn’t hide the mischievous glint in her eyes.
‘Oh.’
‘Mum! I know what that smile means, don’t be so crude!’
Geoff walked into the kitchen scratching his stomach and yawning, like an old bear waking after a winter’s sleep. He noticed I was blushing. It didn’t shock me; Geoff was one to notice the small things.
‘You two all right?’ he asked.
‘Oh, more than all right, I’d say,’ Mum replied, her tone playful and teasing.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Claire is on a promise.’
‘I’m not on a promise, Mum! Who even says that anymore? Paul’s just coming around for a bite to eat.’
‘Yeah, Geoff did the same thing nearly twenty years ago.’
‘She’s not been able to get rid of me since,’ he said, laughing and squeezing Mum’s shoulder with his wide calloused hand before sitting at the table beside her.
‘You two are hopeless,’ I said, smiling at them before getting up to grab the mugs.
‘So, what time is he coming over?’ Geoff continued, blowing on his tea.
‘I don’t know, later?’
‘Want us to pop out and get a bottle of wine or something?’
‘No, I’ll go,’ I said, and both Mum and Geoff looked at me a little too quickly.
‘Claire, shall I come with you?’ Mum asked delicately.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, I want to go for myself.’
‘Good for you!’ Geoff replied, a little too eagerly.
It wasn’t every day I had something to look forward to. It wasn’t every day I even needed to get dressed. Paul coming back and wanting to see me filled me with an unexpected sense of purpose. I needed to do something before seeing him. I decided I wanted to be out in the world, to get us a bottle of wine and something for dessert; I wanted to be the one to do it.
I had to prepare myself first.
Chapter 3
April 2006
Ballybunnion, West Ireland
The first
The wind gusting across the Atlantic hadn’t let up all day, and now dusk had settled and night taken hold, it intensified. The gusts roared so ferociously he could hear the trees that lined the Ballybunnion golf course moaning, their aching limbs struggling against the onslaught. The relentless wind, buffeting against his right side, had caused an earache that spread down to his jaw and behind his eye. But it didn’t deter him from what he had to do. If anything, the ache made the moment more poignant, his suffering reminding him of the necessity of his task.
Despite the weather, he didn’t walk fast, the pain in his ear a steadying friend. As he passed the ninth hole, he stopped and looked back to the bay that nestled against the town centre. His mother would have loved the view. The golf course itself was closed, meaning he could enjoy the last of the weak spring sun cast out to sea without the need to be mindful of other people. Once pitch black – a blackness you didn’t get in cities, a blackness that wrapped itself around you, a blackness that became a consuming void – he would carry out his violent act. He would work in a way God didn’t and he would punish the one his research told him needed to be punished.
The act he would commit was something his inner voice had whispered about for years, but he hadn’t listened. It wasn’t until his father died, and he had no one else in the world to listen to, that he allowed himself to hear what it had to say. It told him what to do, and why he was to do it. It was rational in its argument, composed, clear, and it made perfect sense to him. Once he allowed himself to fully commit to the thing that had monopolised his subconscious thoughts since he was young, he gained a purpose to his life.
It had taken another few months to find the right man to be the first. He had to fit the description he knew well; he had to be someone who needed punishing. So, he set about his research, compiling a list of his potential victim’s desirable attributes, and then sought him out based on the list. Opting to go to pubs both in the area and further afield, he’d listen as men drank and then bragged about how good their lives were, and if one of them said something of interest, he made a mental note of it. To these men he was Jim or Jimmy, Frank or Donny, and he said just enough for them to think they knew who he was, so then he could listen to what they said. Most he talked to weren’t of interest. But the few who stirred something inside, he obsessed over. He made a point of ‘bumping’ into them and then, after they were comfortable in his presence, he would help them get blind drunk so he could offer to drive them home and learn where they lived. They thanked him, thinking they were entirely safe with their new drinking buddy. Then he would watch their homes, watch how they lived once the front door was closed. His instincts about the ones that interested him were always right. They were the right breed of men. After a few months he had his shortlist, but knew he had to whittle it down to just one.
Blair Patterson.
Stopping to look at the violent waves rolling into shore he thought about the four others he had ruled out, and felt formidable knowing it was entirely his decision to let them live. One resided in a flat in Kanturk; another on a busy main road just outside Limerick. He would visit those when he felt more confident, if no other options became available. The other two had children, and he hoped that after the world knew who he was targeting, they would take heed and change their ways – if not, the children would become fatherless. It wasn’t ideal, but, he argued, it was perhaps better to have no father at all than one who was like his own. For a moment, he wondered what kind of man he could have been if someone like him had been around to change his own father’s ways. Or to have killed him before he could inflict the harm he had.
Blair, his first, had a house in the remote, furthest south part of Ballybunnion, along with half a dozen other houses. Behind the small, detached home was the closed golf course he walked across, and in front, an estuary to the Atlantic. The nearest neighbour was close, probably only thirty feet away, but he knew the noise emanating from Blair’s house would be minimal.
Darkness descended and, knowing it was time, he left the golf course via a small gap in the furthest corner that backed on to a car park for people wanting to walk along the estuary sands. Then, joining the footpath, he walked back past the house where his victim lived. He looked inside the window to see him sat in front of the television: one arm folded across his belly, his legs wide apart, and a bottle of lager in his other hand. In the other window at the front of the house, visible from the footpath, he saw Josephine, his wife. A nice lady he had met on the few occasions when he was invited in after dropping Blair home from yet another pub session. She was busy washing up after her man, her expression tired and numb. When he entered to kill Blair, she would be out of the house, because it was a Wednesday, and she always went to work on a Wednesday night.
Pressing himself against a tree, he sat and watched inside the house. Josephine fluttered around the kitchen, trying to keep busy. Blair sat motionless, staring at the TV. She would leave soon. He didn’t mind waiting. Watching them was exciting, because he knew that after tonight one would be dead, and the other would be free.
An hour later, Josephine put on her coat, said goodnight to her husband and left the house to start her night shift at the supermarket. He deduced she worked nights to have one night a week avoiding Blair. Watching her drive down Sandhill Road, he stood up, knowing it was time to begin something that would become talked about not just here, but all over Ireland, and eventually, the world.
Two hundred yards past the house was the sub-generator he needed to access. The three-foot green metal box contained the power supply for this small cluster of houses, and another few hundred at the other end of the golf course, closer to the town. Removing his bolt cutters, he let himself inside the fenced-off area and opened the door. Carefully, he removed the transformer and watched as the power died in the surrounding area. Then he hit the generator with his bolt cutters, to make it look like the break-in was carried out by an amateur. He slowly walked back towards his chosen house, watching as torches and candles lit up the others, the people inside unharassed, unafraid. Just as he hoped.
Turning off the main path he quietly walked behind Blair’s house and climbed over the back fence, torchlight shining out from the dining-room window. He could see Blair shuffling back into the lounge. Opening the back door, he stepped inside and quietly closed it behind him. Moving to the doorway between the two rooms he watched his target trip over the coffee table, swearing loudly as he did. Blair steadied himself, turned and headed back towards the kitchen. Without panicking, he stepped into the space behind the open door and held his breath. His victim walked into the kitchen and using his phone, opened a small cupboard where the fuse box lived.
Pointless looking there, he thought with a wry smile.
After Blair flicked on and off the fuse switches half a dozen times, he swore to himself before giving up and saying out loud that he may as well fuck off to bed. As Blair stumbled past him hiding in the shadows between the dining room and kitchen, he could feel the air move.
He listened as the kitchen clock ticked from one minute to the next for ten cycles of the second hand before quietly walking up the stairs behind Blair, who was now snoring in his bed. Pausing in the doorway he watched the mound of flesh rise and fall with each deep, vibrating breath and smiled to himself. Blair was oblivious to the fact his time on this earth had completely run out.
Crouching beside him, he observed his features. He looked entirely relaxed; he slept like a man without a care in the world. A man with no demons. Watching him and knowing what he was about to do, he couldn’t help but think of that summer from 1989 when he was just seven. His first ever kill.
It was so hot that summer the ground in his back garden had cracked, exposing inch-deep ravines. He had run away again, running until the tears stopped falling and exhaustion crept into his stomach. He came to his regular hiding space beside the old court, a seventeenth-century castle on the outskirts of Kanturk. Once there, he pressed his back against the cool rock of the ancient ninety-foot wall and struggled to catch his breath. Above him, birds fluttered from one side of the walls to the other. He knew he would be in a lot of trouble for running away again, but he couldn’t bear it, not anymore. His father’s voice shouting was like a whisper channelled directly into his eardrum, his mother’s muffled cries were deafening. He didn’t know it then, but what happened next would define who he was.
Under the trees that lined the castle was a black and white cat. It was playing with something, toying with it, slapping it with its paws, claws out. At first, he assumed it was a frog or a rat, and so did nothing, but when the little bird tried to fly away and was caught again, he took more notice. Frogs were rife, and rats carried diseases. But the little bird hadn’t done anything but fly and sing. Beautiful things. Anything that sang so sweetly shouldn’t be subjected to pain. He threw a stone, narrowly missing the cat, and jumped up shouting at it. The cat panicked and dropped the bird before running away, leaving the bird on the floor at his feet, its body broken, but still breathing. He picked it up, held the little bird in his hands, watching it fight to survive. Its tiny stomach lay open, the contents sticking to his fingers. He knew the bird was suffering, suffering because of another creature and he knew that despite his desperation for the bird to fly away to sing sweetly once more, it would die painfully. Gently he lay it on the ground and raising his boot high into the air he stamped on its little head. After he scraped the remains of the animal from the bottom of his shoe, he thought of his mother.
Something shifted that day. He knew if he wanted to, he could be powerful beyond compare. He could be in charge of it all – watching Blair sleep up close he felt the same wave of power as he had when he was seven.
Standing up, he undressed and calmly folded his clothes, leaving them by the door. What was coming next would be messy.
Afterwards, with raised goose bumps on his naked skin, he walked back to the bay he knew his mother would have loved. Behind him, the fire was starting to grow, soon to be all-consuming. Once in the bay the wind was less fierce, the bay protected by the cliffs on three sides. Even in the total blackness he could still see the beauty of the place. Yes, his mother would have loved it here. She would have brought a picnic and they would have sat and eaten it on a quiet midweek day, the sun beating down on their heads. She would walk in the sea shin-deep and stare out to the vast blue, trying to see beyond the horizon, and he knew he wouldn’t have interrupted it. She would look beautiful, and in peace.
Thinking about his mother made him realise he was covered in blood and needed to be cleansed. Carefully placing his clothes against the cliff, he walked into the icy sea. He let the cold water surge over him, relinquishing control. Because nature was the only thing that was incapable of punishing someone, even at its most violent.
Washing himself in the tide, he heard sirens in the distance. He looked back from where he’d just come: the house itself too far away and with a cliff blocking it from view, but in the sky, he could see his mark, the black clouds smudged with an orange glow as the fire raged. They would put it out, and then they would find Blair Patterson. His body, burnt beyond recognition, likely unidentifiable without the use of dental records.
It would remain a mystery, the power cut, the lack of clear motive, and then, just when the murder felt like yesterday’s news, he would do it all over again.
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