Closer Than You Think

by Darren O’Sullivan

  With my breathing under control I felt better and to further help myself I looked at the envelope in my hand. Opening it, I’d expected to pull out a handwritten note from my best friend. She would make me smile, make me feel OK. There were several pages. As I turned them over, I saw it wasn’t from Penny at all, but someone else. The back page fell from the stack and I picked it up, reading it.

  Hello, Claire,

  I have waited for this moment for a very long time. I have wanted you to know, to see, to understand.

  I suspect right now you are confused, wondering why the lights are out. You’re probably trying to convince yourself it’s just a regular power cut – it has to be? Because the Black-Out Killer is in prison. Well… I’ve got a surprise for you.

  My heart skipped a beat and I ran to my front door and looked through the peep hole to see if anyone was outside. But in the darkness, I could barely see the footpath. Whoever posted this was playing a cruel joke. I knew I should put the letter down, and yet, I couldn’t.

  Why did I come back? Why, after ten long years, have I made a reappearance? The answer is simple: it’s you. You’re the reason. A long time ago, I had to punish bad men, men like my own father. He didn’t start out as a bad man. I remember moments when I was young where he cared. He listened. He looked after my mother and me. But then things changed, and I learnt I could challenge men like him – men who need to learn to undo their wrongs. That’s what I tried to do at first. But then, I realised – it wasn’t only their fault.

  Your husband wasn’t good to you. He hit you. And I know your secret, Claire. I know you wanted to leave, to start again without him. I waited for you to leave, but you didn’t, you couldn’t. Because you were weak…

  He knew my secret. The secret I couldn’t even share with my own family. He was someone close.

  I planned to kill you for that weakness, to spare you a life of always being a victim. That night in the bathroom in Ireland, I saw that you weren’t weak after all. I saw you fight, I watched you burn yourself to survive. And it filled me with hope. You had become someone who could show others a strength they didn’t have, and so I let you live.

  Then you met Paul, a man with a past. Claire, did you never wonder why he didn’t drink? Did you never ask what happened to end his marriage before you? He was a man who hit his wife. The world knows that now. He is a man just like the man you married when you were young. When I discovered his secret, which was easy – so easy you could have too, if you’d tried – I understood that you had become weak again. So, I returned. Targeting the others who were just like you. I gave you a chance to see, but you have let yourself be blinded once more.

  Framing Paul was easy. His work dictated where he would be and I could plan my kills to place him near the scene around the time. And plant the compelling evidence found in the boot of his car. The day I came into your house, I found his spare key. It was one of those small things I knew you would never notice was gone.

  I expect you are confused right now. Wondering how this letter came to you. Wondering who I am if I am not Paul.

  You will find out very soon, because I’m closer than you think.

  I dropped the letter, along with the others, all in the same hand, all starting with my name. As they scattered on the floor, I saw a Polaroid photo slide out from the middle of the stack, face down. I slowly turned it over.

  In the light from my phone torch, I saw the picture was of me. Dazed, semi-conscious. I was staring up at the camera, my eyes glazed and unfocused. Beside me was the bath, Owen’s arm hanging out. Only now, looking at the picture, I could see it wasn’t Owen’s arm at all, it was just the sleeve of a top – one of Owen’s tops. But he wasn’t in the bath at all. Beside me on the bathroom floor, tucked under the sink was a small pool of blood, and in it small white objects that looked like teeth, alongside a pair of bloodied pliers. I recalled how they identified Owen by his dental records, by the teeth on the floor beside me. But my husband had never been in the bathroom with me. And if my husband hadn’t been in the bathtub, then where was he? The image of the dark, cavernous mouth that haunted my dreams came fresh to me, telling me the worst.

  Dropping the picture along with my phone, I let out a sob before running to my front door. As I got there, the keys were missing. Had I taken them out when I got home? Were they there only a moment ago when I checked to see if the door was locked? I couldn’t remember. Panicking, I made my way towards the kitchen but before I opened the door, I heard a noise from the other side. A muffled crack, like glass being broken under material. Someone was in my house.

  With nowhere else to go I ran upstairs, into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. Then using all my might, I dragged my bed to block it, before cursing myself for dropping my phone in my haste. Holding my breath, I waited to hear something – footsteps, Mum’s voice calling to me, Geoff telling me I was safe. But I heard something else. Something which confirmed my fears. I heard the sound of rain, and a piano chord played. A few seconds later a rumbling of drums, like thunder. It was that song. Owen’s song.

  The music grew louder, the sound coming up the stairs. Looking around, I tried to find something I could use as a weapon, and remembering the small nail scissors in my bedside drawer I moved quickly and found them. They were hardly dangerous, but they would have to do. I was the third version of myself now and would kill the man on the other side of the door. Holding them above my head like a dagger, I waited. The music grew louder still, and footsteps made their way across the landing to my door. And I waited. My heart pounded, the icy hand playing along with the song I’d once danced to in my living room, the night I drank too much and woke in a blackout.

  The Black-Out Killer was never Killian, it was never Paul. But the first man in my life.

  Then, over the song I heard a voice. One that was light. A voice I hadn’t heard for so long. He was singing along to the lyrics. A voice that was supposed to be dead.

  I held my scissors high. My heart was pounding, and I knew I would die tonight, unless I killed first. I had beaten him once, and although he would be ready this time, I could beat him again. I had to. The door handle turned and slowly the bed began to move as he pushed it. I dropped to the floor and using my feet I pushed. I didn’t have enough strength to close it, but I could just about hold him back. Then he stopped pushing and the door closed again. Keeping my feet wedged against the bed base I waited to hear something. All was quiet.

  Gripping the scissors so tightly my knuckles whitened, I slowly got to my feet. For a moment, I thought he was gone. I thought something had startled him and he had fled. But, then, the door handle moved.

  ‘Have you worked it out yet, Claire? Are you now enlightened?’ he said, his voice taking me back to the times I tried not to think about. I attempted to piece together my broken memory of that night ten years ago. I couldn’t understand why I, why everyone, had thought he was dead. Then, I remembered the picture he had taken. The blood on the floor, the teeth, and the dark, cavernous mouth that haunted my dreams. That night, he had pulled out his teeth to fake his own death.

  ‘Claire? do you want me to say it out loud, will that help?’

  He waited for me to respond, but I wouldn’t give him the gratification, and I didn’t what to hear.’

  ‘I was never in that bathtub Claire. The unidentifiable remains they found were of someone else. A homeless man from Cork I placed at the end of our garden a week before. One of those no-one cared about and wouldn’t miss. I placed my teeth where I knew they would be able to get my DNA. It’s funny what people will assume, with a little guidance.’

  Suddenly, there was a surge against the door and the bed jolted a few inches. After a second, another surge. I hoped he had left, I hoped someone would come to save me. But the fact was, he would get into the room and he would try to kill me. I took a step away and held the scissors in front of me. I told myself tonight I wouldn’t die. Tonight, I would instead end the life of a man who died a long time before
.

  After a few more surges the door was open enough for him to slip though. He stepped over the bed and stood in front of me. For a moment neither of us moved. My husband died ten years ago, and yet, despite the superficial changes, the new teeth I could clearly see in the dark as he smiled at me, I could tell that it was him. It was my husband. He was the Black-Out Killer. And if I let him, if I didn’t fight back, he was going to kill me.

  ‘Hello, Claire,’ he said quietly, barely whispering my name.

  ‘Hello, Owen.’

  Acknowledgements

  I used to think once that writing a book was a lonely task. But, as I’ve compiled this list of people I wish to thank, I can see that although it may feel isolating at times I haven’t been alone on this wonderful journey. Firstly, I would like to thank my agent, Hayley Steed at Madeleine Milburn Literary, TV and Film Agency. We met at the start of this book, and I want you to know your kindness, support and faith has changed who I am as a writer. I also want to say a huge thank you to Madeleine, Giles, Alice and Georgia, for making me feel so welcome in the Agency family.

  I would like to thank my editor, Dominic Wakeford – your faith and understanding has inspired me to work with more self-belief. You’ve always been on the end of a phone to answer the questions raised when writing Closer Thank You Think. I hope you know how much I value your ideas and suggestions. And thank you to Victoria Moynes, Anna Sikorsa, Jon Appleton and Dushi Horti. Your tireless efforts in making Closer Than You Think as good as it can be will never be forgotten. I’m truly honoured to have such support. Lisa Milton and Nia Beynon, I’m blessed to be a part of the HQ family, and I’m truly grateful to you.

  To Ross Futter, thank you for your guidance in helping me understand a little about the building trade, and to Richard and Graham Harris, thank you for your guidance in helping me understand how electricity works – without your help The Black-Out Killer wouldn’t have had the ability to do what he does so well. Another thank you is needed to my lovely writer buddies who keep me going through the tough times. So, Louise Jensen, John Marrs, Phoebe Morgan, Lisa Hall, thanks guys. You’re all blooming legends in my eyes.

  To my lovely family in Ireland, Bill, Helen, Laura and Christine Murphy. Thank you for housing me on my research visit. I had such a lovely time and cannot wait to see you all again soon.

  Thank you to Kath Brinck for allowing me to use your name in my book, and to Shelley Pope for helping me name The Black-Out Killer. I’m truly, very grateful. And thank you to Tracy Fenton and The Book Club (TBC) – without such a wonderful, supportive place for readers and writers alike, I would never have met Kath and Shelley.

  Thank you to the guys at my local Costa Coffee for allowing me to buy one cup and drink it over a course of six hours. and thank you to Chris Kay, the manager at that Costa, for lending me your surname to create the infamous Tommy Kay.

  To Wendy Clarke and The Fiction Café Book Club, thank you for your support and generosity. You have been such a champion of the work I do since I first popped up with Our Little Secret, I will always be grateful to the club.

  To you readers. The support you have shown and kind words you have shared have been overwhelming and wonderful. Without the retweets, posts in book clubs and word of mouth discussions, I wouldn’t be in the place where I am now. And this place is the dream!

  Finally, to Ben. I’ve said this once, but I need to say it again. You deserve all of the praise. Without you, there would be no motivation, no determination and no inspiration. And I will forever try to repay you for this.

  Turn the page for an extract from the thrilling Close Your Eyes…

  Prologue

  Daniel

  Sheringham

  5th January 2018

  Breathe.

  Just breathe.

  That was all I had to do. And yet it was impossible. Lying on the ground, the cold seeping through to my back and chest, I stared up at the sky. Unblinking. A sheet of nothingness stretching in all directions. Flat and smooth and devoid of anything I could identify with, devoid of anything I could latch hope onto. Just grey. I looked anyway, for something, anything that meant there was more. My eyes stung, I needed to blink. But I didn’t dare. I knew if I did, my eyes might not open again. And grey was better than the black of what was surely to come.

  Ironically, grey was the colour that made up my past, made up who I was, made up my memories. I had fought against it, now, it was all I had left. The only thing to hold on to. Grey was a friend all along.

  Breathe.

  Just breathe.

  The pain was too much, the knowledge of what was coming next too constricting. I knew I would pass out soon. I could feel it creeping up my arms and legs. A stillness as my extremities conceded defeat. The blood flowing from my body was unstoppable, it came from too many places. My life was leaking out, a millilitre at a time, forming a pool in which I lay. It warmed the concrete around me, inviting me to relax, to accept. And it didn’t hurt, it didn’t matter.

  I wasn’t scared of what was next, part of me knew it was inevitable. It didn’t even matter where I went once I died, all that mattered was that life would continue. The storm would end, spring would come. Summer would burn and then winter would return. It would do so for many, many years. There would be laughter and love. There would be success and change. There would be children growing to become adults who would have their own children one day. Then there would be peace as it came to an end, only to be replaced with another winter, another summer for ever and ever.

  I was just a very small part of a much bigger picture.

  I was just a single paint brush stroke on a canvas that was the entire world. A single small stroke of paint. One that was never very vibrant or colourful. More shading than subject.

  Just before I closed my eyes for the final time there was a small gap in the grey, just enough for me to see beyond it. A small space of the brightest blue I had ever seen. Pure. Untouched by the past five days.

  And that bit of blue, it told me everything would be OK, for the one person that it was all for.

  And that was what mattered.

  One week earlier

  Chapter 1

  Daniel

  Stamford

  29th December 2017, 7.48 a.m.

  A long time ago I was told that the moments that were truly important in life were the moments we carry forward and recall on our deathbeds. Things like the perfect sunset. The moment we fall in love. A passing of someone dear.

  As I lay in my bed, I was doing exactly that, as coming from the room next door was the sound of Thomas and Katie, talking and playing together. Their voices were my two most favourite sounds. Katie said something I couldn’t quite make out, but whatever it was it made Thomas laugh and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I wanted to join them. But not yet, first I would use my senses as I had been taught.

  It was a doctor who told me to let my subconscious take over when it mattered. A doctor who was one of the many I had fifteen years ago in the days, weeks and months after I woke up in a hospital bed. But he was the only one I would never forget. He was the one who first told me what had happened and helped me understand my life had begun again. He helped me make sense of the facts. I was a broken body that didn’t know where it was. A broken body that didn’t know its name. A broken body whose even more broken mind couldn’t comprehend that it once had a past that it may never see again. Its memories, my memories, like all memories, tiny bubbles that contained joy and happiness, sadness, fear. Only mine had all been popped.

  Our conversation, the one that helped to save me from the pit of despair I was in, came on a grey February morning. I was sitting staring out of the window nearest my bed, trying to find a reason to carry on and he, doing his morning rounds, approached. Noticing I was lost in thought he asked me what I saw. I told him I saw drizzle, darkness before looking away from the window, back to nothing in particular.

  ‘What about the trees?’

  ‘What about
them?’

  ‘What do you see when you look at them?’

  Sighing, I looked outside again, to humour the doctor. Thinking if I did he would go away and leave me alone.

  ‘They look dead,’ I said, holding his eye. I almost followed it up with a comment about how they were lucky, but stopped myself. The doctor sat on the end of my bed and looked outside. I watched him, wondering what he was doing. Doctors usually rushed in and out. I didn’t blame them retrospectively, I was intolerable to be around. I waited for him to say something, but for a long time he just sat, looking out of the window, a small smile on his face. The silence was too much.

  ‘What do you see?’ I questioned.

  ‘The same as you at first glance.’

  ‘So then why ask?’

  ‘Because I wanted to see how hard you looked.’

  ‘Doc, you aren’t making sense. If you don’t mind, I want to be left alone.’

  He looked at me, the smile unmoving and nodded.

  ‘Before I do, Daniel, humour me once more and look again at the trees, but this time, look closer. Focus on the tree tops. Look at the way they are moving in the wind. Look at the very tips of those branches. What can you see?’

  Reluctantly I did what he said and looked again, having to hide my astonishment when I focused on where he told me to. The trees may have looked dead at first glance, but as I focused I saw their tips starting to show the signs of sprouting buds that would become leaves eventually, they would attract birds who would nest and raise families. As he spoke I could almost smell the sweet scent a sapling gives off in spring. But I didn’t remember any springs, or summers, or autumns. Only winter, the one I watched from my window. I learnt that the small act of stopping to let my senses work properly helped me see something wonderful that was always there, and the morning wasn’t quite so dreary anymore. As he left my hospital room he told me if we embrace the stillness from time to time, we capture the moment entirely. His final words to me were that letting myself see the small things that really mattered wouldn’t help me remember my past, but it might just help me have a future. That day, I knew I could learn to hold on to the precious moments that were to come in my life. Things I would experience going forwards, and they could be wonderful if I let them, despite not knowing anything about the past. Shortly after that moment with the smiling doctor I was told I would be going home soon. I never saw that doctor again.