Closer Than You Think

by Darren O’Sullivan

  Taking another sip of wine, he noticed that his date, Jennifer, was looking at him intently. She was waiting for a response, but he did not understand what he was responding to. The last time he’d actually been listening to her, she was talking about her friend Sam at work, and just before that, she was wittering on about her dog. He couldn’t even begin to guess what she had asked.

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘I’d noticed,’ she said, sweeping her hair behind her left ear. ‘Is everything all right?’

  He didn’t know when it was acceptable to ask personal questions with someone you had only recently met. But he knew it wasn’t on the second dinner date.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, just a bit preoccupied with work.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  He smiled to himself, a smile that she would interpret as him being touched that she cared. But that wasn’t it. He was smiling because for a moment he imagined telling her his work troubles. How he would have to kill again in a matter of weeks, but he still didn’t have the right woman to kill, and that she was lucky because this evening he had concluded that despite her being at the top of his shortlist, it wouldn’t be her life he would take. She was too keen, too chatty, too self-sufficient. It was what he wanted all women to be, able to stand on their own two feet and leave their shit lives behind them. And because she was doing just that, she wouldn’t be the ninth.

  He wondered what she would do if he told her everything about his work. He assumed she would run, call the police and have him arrested. But then again, she was a pleaser. She wanted to keep the peace, be polite. So perhaps she would feel uneasy and want to leave but instead she would laugh it off. Thinking he was being funny, even though it would be anything but.

  ‘No, it’s OK. Just boring paperwork stuff.’

  ‘I hate paperwork, that’s why I do what I do.’

  She worked as a veterinarian nurse, a job that presumably involved ample paperwork. Again, she was trying so hard to please him, even when he was offhand with her. Seemingly unoffended by him not listening, she began talking again, saying how she liked to fill silences. No shit. As she waffled on, he became acutely aware of the clock on the wall behind her animated head. He was wasting time, sitting here with the final woman on his current shortlist, who had seemed perfect until now. His instincts told him it was right to be giving her his precious time; but it seemed, unusually, his instincts had failed him.

  After incessantly talking for another ten minutes, Jennifer excused herself and walked to the bathroom a little artificially, knowing he was watching her move. She wasn’t unattractive, and he knew she was interested in sleeping with him. She’d made comments about his physique, his perfect teeth and smile, to use her words. But he wasn’t interested in anything other than the task at hand. For him, the thrill of a perfectly executed kill far exceeded the thrill of sex with someone new.

  Once she was out of sight, he turned his attention back to the other couples who were eating, mostly in silence. The old couple had moved on to their desserts, the man on his own had paid and was putting away his book, ready to leave. The man and his trophy woman were still on their main, her knife and fork down, him shoveling food into his mouth. As he watched, the woman went to pick up her wineglass and knocked her knife from the plate, sending it crashing to the tiled floor, drawing people’s attention. She apologised quietly and picked it up, returning it to the table. Then, she locked eyes on him.

  At first, he thought she was apologising directly to him, although he didn’t know why. He didn’t care about her dropping her cutlery. But, as she turned her attention away from him, back to the man across from her, he watched as her shoulders rose towards her chin, just slightly. And he knew that it wasn’t an apologetic look she had shown him, but one laced with fear. She rubbed the side of her neck before raising her head a little too high, her chin protruding a little too much. Faking confidence. It made her interesting. He settled his attention on her companion, his back still turned, as he continued to shovel food into his fat mouth, but his body language had altered. He sat proudly as before, only now his right hand rested on the table, and was curled into a fist. He must have been staring too intently, because the woman looked again, prompting her companion to turn in his chair and stare back, trying to intimidate. It didn’t work.

  He muttered prick under his breath before he continued to eat. Jennifer approached from behind their table and smiled towards him. Just as she sat down and sipped her wine, he looked over her shoulder and the fearful woman caught his eye once more, a desperation, a need on her face. And he knew why his instincts had told him to come to this restaurant tonight.

  ‘What are you smiling about?’ asked Jennifer, and he replied by saying you, making her blush and tuck her hair behind her ear. But he wasn’t smiling because of the woman directly in front of him; he was smiling because of the one twenty feet away.

  He needed confirmation, but he felt in his gut that he may have just found his ninth.

  Chapter 30

  7th September 2018

  St Ives, Cambridgeshire

  I looked at the footage recorded on my security camera for hours. Watching and watching again the moment the man approached and took photos. Each time I viewed it, I became less and less sure that it was Killian until, just after two in the morning, I finally concluded it couldn’t have been him, just like it couldn’t have been him in Ireland. But, if it wasn’t him, who was looking into my house?

  Unable to sleep I tried to read, but couldn’t focus, and didn’t dare turn the TV on for fear of not hearing something, or someone, in the house. So I watched the live feed from the camera and observed the world outside my front door, a world that was mostly quiet. I saw a young couple walking arm in arm; the woman holding her evening shoes and wearing the man’s coat on her shoulders, both unsteady after a few too many drinks. Ten minutes after they wobbled out of sight. I saw a group of young men, boys really, running and climbing on one another in the middle of the road without a care in the world. I saw in the grainy image the police officer parked outside look at them, then quickly turn his attention back to the inside of his eyelids. Shortly after, another young man, hands in his pockets, head low, walking as if he carried the other boys’ troubles for them. And then later, I saw a fox cross the road in front of the police car before disappearing into the mist which had staked its claim over the night. And at some point, after that fox and before the sun was strong enough to burn away the fog, I had fallen asleep, fully clothed.

  When I woke, feeling like it was still yesterday, I gingerly made my way down for a cup of coffee which I cupped in my hands, the steam rising and the aroma tricking my brain into feeling more awake than I was. I looked at my back door, wanting to open it to let the sunny morning in, but I couldn’t. The unease about the man outside my house stopped me. With my head feeling slightly clearer I listed who it could have been. The obvious answer was it was just another reporter – they had been around since the fire in Wales – and yet my gut told me it wasn’t a reporter. There was something in the way he was standing, the clothes he was wearing, that meant it was someone else, someone taking pictures for a different reason.

  I knew I should tell Mum and Geoff about what I had seen; I knew I should show them the footage, so they could cast their slightly more objective eye over the image and tell me categorically if it was or wasn’t Killian, but I couldn’t put them through it, not again. I had always felt like I was being watched; I guess that’s just something I had to live with, something that made up who I was, and most of the time I managed it the best I could. But once, about four years ago, I didn’t manage, couldn’t manage. I was so convinced a murderer was watching me, I ended up being so sleep-deprived, and so malnourished that I collapsed one morning and woke in a hospital bed, where I stayed for two weeks and had to undergo rigorous psychological assessments.

  I didn’t want to go back to that place, not now, not after so long after fighting to win th
e battles I faced each morning. So, for now, I would keep quiet about the footage, and my paranoia, and I would push forwards with my day.

  I would call Penny or put on the TV or listen to music. I would also allow the air to move around my house freely. I would look like I was coping. Setting my coffee cup down on the kitchen counter, I took off my necklace and put the back door key in the lock. As I turned it I heard the sound of the mechanism freeing itself, the snap of the lock disengaging from the door frame. I told myself it was just another morning, just like any other, and there was nothing to fear: there was no reason I couldn’t step outside if I wanted. It was a hard-fought battle in my head, but eventually I made myself tentatively opened the door. The bracing morning air felt like another small victory, notched.

  Leaving the back door open I picked up my coffee and walked into the lounge where the air was circulating pleasantly, and curled up on the sofa. I wanted to relieve the silence, so grabbed my phone from my trouser pocket to put my music on shuffle. It was hard, almost impossible to not have an ear on my back door, another listening to sounds above my head. So much so, I couldn’t say what the previous song was. Then, the phone played a song I hadn’t heard in a long time. A song that reminded me of that night. As I heard the first piano chord, the sound of rain behind it, the icy hand tried to play along on my diaphragm. Jumping up I skipped the track, and as the next song played, I sat back down and focused on stopping my hands from shaking. I was amazed that after all this time that song would still make me feel so sick.

  The next song, an old one by Maroon 5, reminded me of a holiday I’d taken when I was about twenty. I forced myself to listen to it, just to stop my thoughts from going back to where the previous song tried to take me. As Adam Levine, an old crush of mine, sang, a memory from that time in my life surfaced. And I fought to hold on to the pictures in my mind from a girls’ trip. Back then, Owen and I were officially boyfriend and girlfriend and I knew it would probably be the last time I’d have a holiday with just the girls. I went with three friends – Michelle, Cassy and Molly – for a week of sun and drinking and dancing in Corfu. I let myself imagine I was back on that beach. Lying in the sun, nursing a hangover without a care in the world. I wondered what had happened to those friends I’d loved so dearly back then.

  What do they say – youth is wasted on the young? Thinking about those days was momentarily blissful, but then I got to thinking about what my life might have been were it not for the events of one night. I had to get up, stop the music and shut the back door again, my victory short-lived.

  I couldn’t listen to music, I couldn’t go outside, I couldn’t watch TV, but I needed to do something to keep my sanity. Then a thought entered my head, one I’d been trying to block out ever since Paul turned on the TV last week. It had been nine days since someone killed that poor woman in Wales, and I didn’t even know her name. I had to know more about who the eighth was, out of respect, because I knew all too well that the number was supposed to be mine. I grabbed my phone and Googled ‘murder in Wales’ to find out as much as I could.

  Chapter 31

  7th September 2018

  St Ives, Cambridgeshire

  The woman killed in Bethesda was named Kath Brinck, and was just twenty-six when she died. The same age I had been when he almost killed me. She had no children, just like me. She was also married, but that was where the similarities ended. Until that night, I’d lived a relatively quiet and sheltered existence, hers was anything but. From what I had seen scrolling through her public Facebook feed, she had lived a rich, full life. In every one of her pictures she looked happy, content, smiling without restraint. She was in lots of pictures with friends on nights out, but in most, she was with her husband. A man whose name I learned to be Neil when I hovered over one of their many pictures together. You could clearly see the love in her eyes.

  Her most recent pictures were from a holiday, the album on Facebook entitled ‘Zakynthos 2017’. Her sun-kissed skin was enviable, as was the obvious affection her husband had for her. One image that was particularly touching showed the pair standing in the calm sea, an island the shape of a turtle behind them. Their smiles, their eyes – they were living in bliss. I knew social media always showed the best versions of ourselves, the filters heightening our joy, glossing over the cracks. But still, I really believed she was as happy as she looked. Although I couldn’t help but notice Neil wasn’t in any of the recent pictures.

  Her timeline was full of messages from friends expressing their grief, their shock. Telling her that she was loved and missed and would never be forgotten. I scrolled down, reading the outpouring of love and kindness for hours, their words touching me but also making me feel more uncomfortable as I went on, like I was invading her privacy. Friends relived their best memories with her on her page, memories they would hold on to for ever. Reading them, I learnt she was a woman who was fiercely protective of the people she loved, standing up for several of them when they needed someone to do so. She was funny, daring, at times wild. Her friends reshared photos of her in the timeline of younger years, before she was married, she was mischievous and bold. I couldn’t help but like her, while feeling guilty at the same time.

  It took me a long time to scroll down far enough to find a post from Neil. It was short, four days after she had died and reading it, I couldn’t stop a tear escaping.

  Kath. I don’t know how I’ll go on without you. Please, please come back. I should have tried harder to show you how much I love you, I should have done more.

  I’m so sorry, my love.

  I knew what I was doing wasn’t healthy, I shouldn’t be looking into someone’s life, someone I didn’t know, someone whose death was tangentially connected to me. But for my own sanity, I had to try to work out why she had been targeted. Why her? Why now? I hoped that by looking at her life I would see some tragic connection. However, Kath Brinck was nothing like me: bright, engaging, in the world. She was not a ghost.

  I learnt she studied at Cardiff University and had been employed as a care worker on the Isle of Anglesey, near Bethesda, where she lived. She worked with people who needed support and care, which made me feel selfish – she was clearly a far better human being than I was, and that compacted my guilt even more. I couldn’t help but wonder, despite being a decade apart, if I’d been the eighth as intended – would she have lived? Would the path have been altered to let her live to be old and grey and content with her life? It seemed unfair that she should die and I, who had done nothing but waste the last ten years of my life, should continue to breathe.

  I felt the need to say something so, I typed on her page two words.

  I’m sorry.

  And for a while, I really believed she would read it.

  Baloo, who had been at Mum’s but sauntered over and wandered in whilst the back door was open this morning, purred at my feet. I looked at the clock and saw it was nearly 11 a.m. The cat was probably starving. So, I pulled myself away from the laptop to feed him. When I returned, I saw there had been traction on my post. People knew I was the Claire Moore. They told me it wasn’t my fault; that there was nothing I could have done and for a moment, I felt comforted. Then, scrolling, I saw her husband had left a message and the feeling of comfort was gone. He said I was being inappropriate, and even though he was grieving he was polite and respectful. I realised I’d crossed a line and hastily deleted my post. A new message popped into my inbox, I thought it was someone else from Kath’s page telling me I was being inconsiderate, but it wasn’t. It was Killian, and I felt my heart rate start to increase.

  Hey, I see you’re online, can we talk?

  If I ignored him, he would message again, or worse, he might turn up at my front door. I still wasn’t sure if it had been him I’d seen on the camera feed. I didn’t want to, but I knew I needed to talk to him. I needed him to back off.

  I’ve been meaning to message you, Killian.

  You have? What do you want to talk about? Are you all right?

/>   Why were you outside the cemetery in Kanturk?

  There was a pause.

  Yes, I didn’t think you saw me.

  I knew it. It was him, which meant it had also been him outside my house taking photos.

  Yes, saw you. Why were you there?

  I wanted to make sure you were OK. You didn’t reply to my messages; I was worried.

  That’s very kind, Killian, but you shouldn’t worry about me.

  Well, we have known each other a long time, it’s my job to care.

  It’s not.

  But you’re all on your own, Claire, I want to be there for you.

  This was it, if I told him about Paul, he would back away. I took the plunge.

  Killian, I’m not alone.

  There was another pause. This one longer.

  Oh, you’ve met someone?

  I knew I had to be delicate. But, worded right, I would protect his feelings, and make him leave me alone. If I worded it right.

  Yes, and I’m happy. You don’t need to worry about me anymore. I know you were outside my house last night. If you really cared, you’d give me some space. As you know, I don’t like being watched. I need you to respect my wishes, please.

  I waited for him to respond, but the green icon that indicted he was online had gone. I just hoped it would be a permanent thing. I’d wanted him to leave me alone for such a long time, and now I had finally said it out loud. I knew I’d upset him, but I couldn’t feel responsible for that – I knew that it was best for us both in the long run. Without me to obsess over, he might find someone else to care for him who had the capacity to care back.

  Closing the lid of the laptop I felt a rope being pulled, an internal tug of war. On the one hand, I was relieved that Killian might now leave me alone, on the other I felt deep shame at posting on a dead woman’s Facebook wall. I shouldn’t have done it, it was a mistake, but I knew I had to say something – whether other people liked it or not, we were now connected.