About the Author

DARREN O’SULLIVAN is the No.1 best-selling author of psychological thrillers Our Little Secret, Close Your Eyes and Closer Than You Think. Formerly an actor, theatre director, and teacher, Darren was accepted onto the Faber & Faber novel writing programme in 2015. After completing their extensive six-month training, his debut was born. Darren lives in Peterborough where he’s currently writing his fourth dark and unsettling novel which is due for publication in 2020. Darren loves to chat to readers and spends too much time on twitter, you can find him on @darrensully.

Praise for Darren O’Sullivan

‘An immensely talented new author’

John Marrs, author of The One and When You Disappeared

‘Engrossing, compelling and twisty from the first page to the shocking ending. This book grabbed me and didn’t let go’

Michele Campbell, author of It’s Always the Husband

‘Unique and utterly compelling. This twisty psychological thriller will chill you to the bones’

Gemma Metcalfe, author of Trust Me

‘A stellar and original concept, brilliantly executed. The final chapters had my heart in my throat! O’Sullivan is certainly one to watch’

Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll House

‘I was gripped by this taut and emotional thriller.’

Louise Jensen, author of The Sister

‘I thought it was absolutely brilliant – really fast-paced, and packed full of action.’

Lisa Hall, author of Between You and Me

Also by Darren O’Sullivan

Our Little Secret

Close Your Eyes

Closer Than You Think
DARREN O’SULLIVAN

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Darren O’Sullivan 2019

Darren O’Sullivan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008277871

Version: 2019-02-06

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Darren O’Sullivan

Also by Darren O’Sullivan

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Fourteen Weeks Later

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Epilogue

Extract from Dark Corners

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader

About the Publisher

For my family

Prologue

28th August 2018

Bethesda, North Wales

The eighth

He once read somewhere that people become who they are based on their environment and experiences. Their childhood memories, the interactions with friends and profound moments, good and bad, create the building blocks of existence, and once those blocks are set, they are solid, like a castle wall. Some people are kind, some passionate, some victors, some victims. Some are violent. He knew that more than most. And although people couldn’t fundamentally change, he knew, from personal experience, they could evolve. Transform. A switch could be thrown, showing a different way to be, without really being any different at all. It happened in nature: the caterpillar doesn’t change its DNA when it becomes a butterfly, but unlocks a part of itself that has lain dormant, patiently waiting for the right moment to create a cocoon. He had experienced several evolutions which had altered the direction of his thoughts and actions. But these didn’t change who he was. He would always be someone who killed.

And it wouldn’t be long before he would kill again. A matter of an hour or so. He wanted to fulfil his purpose now, but knew he had to wait, be patient, and watch. Standing in the shadow of a wide tree, he looked into the eighth’s bedroom window, waiting to see her enter, and he thought about when he would be in that room with her just before he ended her life. He knew she would panic and cry and scream before he sedated and killed her, because they always did.

He had planned to be outside her house after dark. But, with it being such a long time since he had done the one thing that made him feel alive, the thing that made him feel like he was flying, he arrived early and took time to enjoy that forgotten sense of anticipation. This also gave him a moment to reflect on the last person he’d failed to kill in this manner. A woman named Claire Moore. She played on his mind more than she should. The one that got away, so to speak.

Before coming to Bethesda, he’d felt compelled to write a letter to Claire. He wanted to explain the reasons for his absence from the world. He revealed to her that after their eventful night a decade before, he needed to regroup, re-evaluate. After her, he never intended to kill in the same manner as he would tonight. But then he discovered she was moving on, leaving that night, their night, in May of 2008 behind. He wrote that he had learnt she was becoming the same person he felt the need to visit before. Which told him she was forgetting him, and he didn’t want his last survivor to forget him, because if she did, everyone else would.

He knew, one day, she would read his letter. Perhaps, before then, he would write more. If so, he would let her read them all, right before he ended her life. He could have killed Claire Moore several times in the past few months but decided not to. He wanted to wait, savour the moment. He wanted her to know him as well as he knew her, and to understand his reasons.

He wanted to be able to taste the connection they once shared on the tip of his tongue, as the light in her eyes faded. Claire Moore would die, as she nearly did by his hand all those years ago, but not yet, not until he was in buried in the centre of her soul once more. He wanted every voice to sound like his, every shadow to be one cast by his frame blocking the light. It was the reason he was in Bethesda, and why the woman whose window he looked into would die.

The knowledge of what would happen within the next hour, and what would follow over the coming weeks – the speculation, the fear – coursed through his veins so hard his skin itched. He knew he needed to focus, to contain his excitement, until night staked its claim over the day. He centred on his breathing, regulated his heart rate. He pushed thoughts of what he would do to the woman in the house opposite him out of his head.

Then she, the eighth, walked into her bedroom. He watched her step out of her work clothes, her light skirt falling effortlessly around her ankles. He enjoyed the sight of her slim frame in just her underwear, and the tingle that carried from behind his eyes to his crotch. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt in a very long time. There had been plenty of kills since 2008, but not one reignited the fire he remembered from a decade before. For the past ten years, when the itch had been unbearable, he had scratched it discreetly, and taken those no one cared for. The old and alone, the homeless, the migrant. But this one was to be a spectacle, like in those wonderful days in Ireland, putting him back where he belonged, in people’s minds, in Claire’s mind – a destructive force touching everyone like cancer.

He missed being someone who was feared. In the days when a simple power outage caused widespread terror, he would often kill the electricity to a street, just to watch people panic, thinking they would be next. He especially enjoyed one occasion, three months after that night with Claire Moore, when a storm swept off the Atlantic and cut the power in Shannon. It caused the whole town to descend into terror, thinking he had visited. Police took to the streets, people locked their doors. News helicopters circled, expecting to see a house fire in the aftermath – his other calling card. But there was no fire, no death as he was in Greece on that day, on the island of Rhodes, enjoying the sunshine without a care in the world. He intended that trip to be one in which he learnt to be the man he would become, the man he had evolved into. But, seeing the news, the terror coming out of Ireland, drove the desire to kill once more. It was there, on the sun-bleached Aegean coast, that his metamorphosis began, as he felt a more primal calling. He needed to kill, not because it was his purpose, but for the thrill of it. After a brief search he found his victim, an unaccompanied male who had survived the Mediterranean Sea to start a new life in Europe, and he ended his life, luxuriating in the power he felt while doing so.

But the power didn’t last long, because no one cared about this man’s death. And upon returning home to Ireland, he could sense he was being forgotten. Over time, only the areas he had visited remembered the horror of those months between April 2006 and May 2008. To try and cling on to his power, he would still toy with their memories, killing the electricity from time to time, just to see the panic unfold. He would walk through the town and watch as whole families squashed together in one candlelit room. But time heals all wounds, and their outright terror diminished to a quiet readiness. Eventually, a power cut became just an annoyance once more.

The eighth hadn’t closed her bathroom door and he could see as she unclipped her bra and dropped it on the floor. He glimpsed her breasts, and the tingle intensified. But he didn’t want to fuck her; the very idea was repugnant to him. His pleasure came from somewhere else.

He visualised his approach as he waited for the sun to set. Once darkness held, he would go to the single distribution substation. It was less than two hundred metres away, and he knew it supplied the power to her house, along with a few hundred others. The enclosed five-metre wall containing the substation was built in the Nineties, along with the houses it supplied, and was secured with a padlock on its front gates. The bolt cutters that sat heavy in his rucksack would make light work of that. Then it was a case of isolating the switch gear and using a rewired portable generator that would intentionally overheat and blow. This simple and well-practised task would black out the entire street and beyond.

He pictured the walk from the substation to her back door, and then breaking in. He knew he would find her stumbling around upstairs with her phone as a torch. He suspected she would be in her nightwear. He thought about what he would do to her. The fun he would have. The joy he would feel feeding off her fear.

Then, once satisfied, he would place her body in the bathtub, douse her with petrol and ignite her. He would leave before the heat cracked the windows and smoke billowed into the sky. He would go home and cook himself a meal, a pasta dish to replenish the burnt carbohydrates from his evening’s work, as he knew from experience work drove his appetite. Then, full and content, he would watch the news, waiting to see what he did featured on it, and the assumptions they would make. And he knew he would get away with it, because he’d gotten away with it before.

His kills in Ireland landed in the lap of a brute of a man named Tommy Kay. Kay was a drug dealer with a reputation for being heavy-handed if a favour or loan hadn’t been repaid. He was sent to prison for running down a man in his Range Rover, nearly killing him over a hundred-pound debt. Kay’s arrest and that night with Claire Moore were a few months apart, and although Kay was never charged with the murders in Ireland, he was widely believed to be the serial killer that haunted the country, never saying otherwise. Perhaps he enjoyed the notoriety it gave him?

But Kay’s motivations for tacitly claiming his kills weren’t his concern, because one day they would know how wrong they had been. Until then, he would play on what the media would no doubt suggest: because Kay was now dead, tonight was a copycat.

After ten minutes the eighth came out of her bathroom, a towel around her body, another wrapped around her hair. She turned on her TV, then stepped towards the window, her arm outstretched to close her bedroom curtains. She couldn’t see him. He knew it. The fading sun directly behind him was low. The trees tall. She wouldn’t be able to see anything beyond the dusty orange skyline. But still he pressed himself further into the tree’s shadow. She paused before drawing the curtains, her eyes looking out above his head. The last line of sun painted colours in the evening sky. A perfect disguise for him. Hide the ugly thing that he had become in something equally beautiful.

It was almost time. Another thirty minutes and it would be dark enough to work. He smiled, knowing how tomorrow’s newspapers would read.

Chapter 1

6th May 2018

St Ives, Cambridgeshire

As I lay on my right side, left arm under the pillow that my head rested on, I fiddled with my necklace, counting the keys that hung from the thick silver chain. Four keys. Front door, back door and two smaller window keys, one up, one down. I watched the alarm clock flick from one minute to the next. I had done so for the last hour, waiting for it to say 05:05, then the alarm would sound, and I could get up. I’d wanted to get up at three minutes to four, a dream of fire waking me, but forced myself not to. By doing so, I hoped I could present myself as a woman who wasn’t struggling to sleep. Although, I don’t know who I was trying to kid. I was struggling to sleep, I always do at this time of year.

I watched the minutes turn into hours and waited for my alarm before rising, because it felt like a victory over myself. It was me telling myself I could be normal if I worked hard at it. And that was important, to be as normal as I could be. This daily victory was one of the few things I liked about the month of May. It seemed small, maybe even pointless, but the small things mattered more than I could have possibly foreseen. I had no choice but to enjoy the little things. Like the morning sunshine and the sound of the breeze in the trees; the buzz of bees in my garden collecting nectar from one of the many flowers I grew. If I focused on these details, I would get through the month I dreaded. Then June would come, and I would survive another year.

Rolling over to face the window, I looked through the small gap in my curtains to see pale blue sky outside. Not a cloud in sight. It made me smile. A cloudless morning was another victory. Stretching, I uncurled my arms and straightened my legs groaning as my muscles pulled, and blood flowed in my limbs. A feeling I liked. Reaching over, I turned off my bedside light and picked up my phone, checking the date. I didn’t know why I did that. I knew exactly what day it was. I had been checking and counting down for weeks now. The date that was the source of my sleepless nights, the date that ruined the month for me was only thirteen days away. Thirteen long days until I could reclaim the night for its intended purpose. I couldn’t help but feel a rising trepidation that started just below my belly button and slowly oozed up through my stomach and chest. I sat upright and tricked myself into thinking gravity would stem the flow. With a few deep breaths, it worked.

This year marked ten years since it happened. My mother had somehow convinced me it would be healthy to go back to Ireland, back home. I didn’t like flying; I didn’t like the idea of going back there again. But Mum stressed it would be good for me. It would cleanse me, and, she said, would help me remove the guilt I was feeling for enjoying the time I was spending with my new friend, Paul. She was right, of course, but it didn’t make me feel any better about it.

The red digital display flicked to 05:05, and the buzz made me jump. Gently, I hit the off button with my left hand. I looked at my emails on my phone. There wasn’t much going on aside from some spam emails from Groupon, trying to sell me unmissable deals on spa weekends. This was exactly what I needed, and yet another thing I couldn’t do.

There was also one unread Facebook message. Sighing, I opened the app and I saw who had sent it. Killian. He had messaged at 03:19. I shouldn’t have read it. But I did anyway.

Hi, Claire, how are you? Is everything OK? We keep missing each other. I’ve been thinking about you, being May and all… I hope you are all right. I am here to talk if you need a friend.

I went to reply but stopped myself. Instead I clicked on his profile, seeing his photo hadn’t been changed in all the years I had known him. The same lopsided smile, same thumbs-up gesture. The same mountain range behind him. I scrolled down to see the group page he was an administrator for: the Claire Moore Support Page. Tapping the bold letters, the next image I saw was a picture of me. I couldn’t bring myself to read things from the past written there, as kind as the words were. I just wanted to see if there was anything new. The last post was from January.

Claire, on behalf of everyone here at CMSP, we want to wish you a Happy New Year. 2018 will be a good one.

I hadn’t responded to the message, but remembered that shortly after a cheque came through the post from the support group, with a note attached saying I should go away somewhere nice.

I didn’t spend it, I never did.

I threw the phone on my bed and rolled onto my back. I regretted reading the message. The group have always been supportive, but recently, Killian unnerved me in a way I couldn’t put my finger on. To stop myself overthinking and ruining the day before it had begun, I looked towards the window. Lazy dawn light filtered through the thin curtains, casting beams of honey across the ceiling. I focused on the colours, letting myself enjoy the softness for a moment. Owen would have loved me observing this; he would tell me to enjoy the moment for as long as possible, as all things are short-lived. If only he knew how right he had been. I could almost hear him saying it, his voice light and melodic. I stopped myself. Perhaps one day it wouldn’t hurt so much.

Lifting myself out of bed I slowly placed my feet on the cool wooden floor and walked quietly into my bathroom, careful not to disrupt Mum and Geoff who were asleep in the room next to me. I hadn’t intended to stay the night at Mum’s. I’d only wanted to come for a quick cuppa and book the online tickets for our flight to Ireland, tickets she insisted she paid for. But a quick cuppa ended in me staying for dinner and then it was late. Going home by myself was too daunting. Mum knew this, and once it had crept past eight and the daylight had faded, she offered the spare room so I didn’t have to ask.

Closing the bathroom door behind me I switched on the light and waited as my eyes adjusted. Then, stretching again, feeling the blood move around my body, I considered how much I hurt. I did most mornings. Sometimes it was excruciating, sometimes tolerable. This morning I was OK. The only part of me that felt discomfort was my right foot – it always seemed to ache more in May than at any other time in the year, suggesting my pain was more psychological than physical. I popped a codeine tablet, just to be safe. Considering the mirror, I noticed that my eyes looked dark and heavy. Age was doing its dance on my face. Not that age really mattered anyway, it was all just borrowed time I would have to give back. I realised that getting older and watching a face wrinkle was a gift some didn’t receive.

I heard footsteps in the hallway, followed by my mum’s sleepy voice.

‘I’m outside.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’

She knew I was in the bathroom and had gotten out of bed, so I knew she had an eye on me. It meant I could have a shower. Something I cannot do unless I know I am safe, even after all this time. Removing my necklace, I hung it on the back of the door before stepping into the shower and turning the water on. After the initial shock of cold water hitting me, it quickly warmed until it was so hot my skin turned pink as I washed the night away. Another night survived. Another night in the countdown completed.

As the hot water poured over my head, I focused on the heat on my scalp. I couldn’t help wondering, as with most mornings recently, what I had been doing exactly ten years ago when my life had been so very different. Owen and I were probably still in bed, his heavy arm draped over me, our bedroom windows wide open, letting the cool breeze waft our net curtains, making them float like ghosts. We would get up, shower, maybe together, and then have breakfast before going our separate ways to work. He would kiss me goodbye at the door before jumping into his car and driving down the lane towards Cork. He might have been back that day, or he might have been going off-site for a few days in another part of the country. With his car out of view, I would climb into mine and drive to the pre-school where I worked. The children would arrive, and I would spend the next six hours playing, reading, cooking and helping with toilet breaks, giving gold stars to the little ones who went all by themselves. I would then come home, cook for us both, and go to bed with the windows wide open once more – oblivious to pain, heartbreak. Evil.

I knew it wasn’t healthy to reminisce; that wasn’t my life anymore and nothing would bring it back. I turned my attention to the torrent of hot water that ran over my forehead and into my eyes, sticking my lashes together. It stung a little, but that was good. It stopped my dark memories pushing forwards. I stayed there, head against the tiles, until thoughts of what my life had been like a decade ago washed down the plughole.

Wrapping myself in my dressing gown that I’d brought round to Mum’s a few months ago and left here, I put my necklace back on, comforted by the weight of the four keys, and walked down the narrow corridor of Mum’s bungalow into the kitchen. As I passed her room I could hear Geoff snoring. No sooner had I flicked on the kettle, the cat, Baloo, greeted me. He was named after the bear in The Jungle Book because of his colour and the huge paws he’d had as a kitten. He meowed and stared at me, unblinking.

‘Are you hungry, little man?’

He rubbed himself up against my shin to tell me yes, and acting on cue I rolled up my dressing gown sleeves and took out a pouch of his food from the cupboard beside the bin. As soon as I’d emptied the pouch into his bowl, he dismissed me. The bloody cat didn’t like anyone.

I made a cup of green tea, adding a slice of lemon, and walked to the back door, needing to take some measured breaths before opening it. With my heart beating faster than before, the door creaked open, letting the rousing spring morning flood in. The air was clean and fresh, making goose bumps rise on my exposed forearms.

Dawn was my favourite time of the day. The world was still asleep, and felt somehow different. The air smelt cleaner, richer, as if the lack of cars and noise and bustle of people wrapped up in their own sense of importance allowed the trees to sigh. Dawn brought a sense of peace and magic that didn’t exist at any other time in the day and, for a short while every morning, I felt like I had it all to myself. I drank it in, the peace. Again, it was in the small things, things I had only let myself see in recent years.

I stepped barefoot onto the lawn. The morning had not warmed the dew enough to evaporate it. As I walked towards the bench in the middle of the lawn, I felt the cold creep through my feet, soothing them. Broken blades of grass from yesterday’s cut stuck to my soles. I couldn’t look; the grass cuttings served as a powerful reminder of something I longed to forget.

I looked back towards the bungalow to see if Mum had come into the kitchen to make sure I was all right. The kitchen was empty. But I could see my footprints in the dew, perfect shapes that caught a glimmer from the rising sun. My eye was drawn to the impressions of my right foot. I had to look away. Then, sitting on the bench under a maple tree, I allowed myself to momentarily forget where I was, letting my thoughts and anxieties dissolve like sugar in hot water. This feeling of serenity wouldn’t last long, so I let myself be wrapped up in it. Although the sun was weak, I could feel it warm my skin. Undoing my dressing gown, I let it touch my neck and collarbones. I focused on what I had been taught by my doctor a long time ago: enjoy the sunshine on your skin. I took a deep breath and focused on my neck which was gently warming, and drew in the smell of morning dew.

After about five minutes the moment faltered, and without warning my mind drifted back to the thoughts of flying home with Mum in ten days’ time. It had been a long time since I’d last travelled any distance, and I wasn’t sure how I would cope. I felt the small ice-cold hand I’d housed for a decade pluck my diaphragm like a guitar string, making the next few breaths hard to draw. I didn’t want to go, but I knew I needed to. It was the right thing to do. I owed it to him, at the very least. But really, I owed him more than I could ever repay. Sighing, I sipped my now-cool tea and waited for the noise of the day to start. I heard a dog barking a few doors down, then a front door somewhere along the row of houses attached to mine opened and closed.

The world was awake, and it wasn’t mine anymore. Going back into the bungalow I tried and failed to not look at my footprints.

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.

Chapter 4

6th May 2018

St Ives, Cambridgeshire

An hour after deciding to go to the shops on my own, Geoff walked me home and checked the house. Once satisfied, he offered to come with me to the shops again, insisting it was no bother. I said I was OK, and he smiled, told me I was more than OK before kissing me on the head and leaving.

I prepared myself for the walk into town. I messaged Penny, telling her I was venturing out. She messaged back an emoji, the one with the bicep curling. I think she was telling me to be strong, but I didn’t really get emojis. Her message, although designed to be light was anything but, because it was obvious she was trying not to make a big deal out of something that was a huge deal. I wished I hadn’t messaged.

It took another two hours for me to leave the front door. It wasn’t often I went out my own. But today I felt bolstered, brave. I blamed the unexpected text from Paul and my even more unexpected reaction to it. I thought I would feel anxious at spending time with him, but far from it – I felt excited, nervous, but the kind that makes you smile.

I was only minutes from my front door, only minutes into my courageous day, and my smile was gone. The half-mile walk into the town centre was stressful, the footpaths busier than I would have liked. Mothers with glazed expressions through sleep deprivation pushed their babies in buggies; their children’s eyes shone in contrast as they drank in their new environments. Older people ambled as if they had all the time in the world – somehow defying its passing, as they gently walked for a morning shop. There were those who were on a day off or like me, unemployed. People. Lots, too many of them, all going about their day. Not one paying any attention to the small woman who scuttled through them.

And yet, I couldn’t help but feel I was being watched, a feeling I couldn’t shake despite the obvious truth. No one cared anymore. I was now just another face in the crowd. But I felt it, regardless. That was just how it was. A long time ago I had tried to combat the insecurity I felt in public, but it was a battle that wasn’t mine to win, so I learnt to make peace with feeling both watched and overlooked. The rational side of me knew there were worse problems to have, worse things going on. But still, the battle remained.

To help stop my fear from taking control and rendering me useless, I played with my necklace, fingering the four keys that hung from the chain. Front door, back door, downstairs windows, upstairs windows. As I repeated my mantra, I focused on the used chewing gum someone had trodden into the ground and counted each piece. I hoped once I made it into the supermarket, I would feel safe.

By the time I made it to Tesco Express I had counted forty-seven pieces of old gum and my hand ached from continually moving the keys back and forth. It was disgusting to think about, the amount of gum, all those germs, but counting helped. I thought I would feel better being indoors again, but I felt worse. Grabbing a basket, I walked down the aisles, acutely aware of the exit becoming further and further away. Each step became hard to take but I took them, regardless. I didn’t think I would ever remove the hand inside my chest which held me down and kept me afraid.

Heading into the back corner, the smell of fresh bread comforting me, I wrestled my headphones out of my bag. I put them in and pressed play, and as the sound of my music drowned out my own anxious thoughts, I moved on, grabbing the essentials, before heading towards the wine section to get a bottle of red, although I wasn’t sure if Paul drank wine. He wasn’t a drinker, that much I knew.

But as I turned towards the shelves of alcohol, my thoughts of enjoying an intimate glass of wine with Paul (both warming and nerve-wracking) were hijacked by thoughts of Owen, bringing me to a halt. A memory flashed of our honeymoon in a caravan near Tralee on the west coast of Ireland. It was all we could afford being so young and poor, but it was a magical five days. The wind kept us awake most of the night, the cold creeping in through the vents, and we drank wine, lots of it, to keep ourselves warm. But we wouldn’t have had it any other way. We would have lazy mornings in bed and then walk along the coastline, our hands interlinked.

Then my memories took me somewhere else, somewhere darker, and the warm feeling left as quickly as it came. The icy hand was back on my diaphragm, playing its tune. The same one it always played until I forced myself to move again. As I looked for a bottle of red wine I could afford, I felt I was being watched, but this time it felt different. This wasn’t me being controlled by my own fear. This was real. The air hung thickly around me, and my body reacted to it before I could think.

Looking to my right I locked eyes with a woman who was staring at me: short dark hair, pale skin. Maybe in her mid-twenties. Her expression was one I had seen countless times before, although not recently. I grabbed the nearest bottle and walked away. Just before turning the corner I looked back, and she was moving towards me, talking with a man who had joined her. He was confident and intimidating, and I felt a surge of terror, but I quickly quelled it. He was too young to be who my fractured mind told me it was. And I knew it couldn’t be him, because he, Tommy Kay, died in prison four years ago. Still, it didn’t stop me thinking the person following me was involved somehow, despite being told on countless occasions that Tommy Kay, the man who was widely believed to be the Black-Out Killer, was a lone wolf, a solo act. A loner.

I increased my pace, which made the ache in my right foot develop into a sharp pain. I tried to hide my limp. It was hard and painful to do, but I didn’t want anyone to notice. As I got to the till, I breathed a sigh of relief that there wasn’t a queue. I loaded my things onto the checkout belt quickly and looked over my shoulder as the couple attempted to discreetly watched me, pretending they were examining the contents of the tinned soup aisle, not fooling anyone.

‘Thirty-two pounds eighteen, please,’ said the cashier after scanning my items. I looked at her, realising I hadn’t until that moment. She was young, probably seventeen or eighteen with a ring in her nose and filled-in eyebrows. Her body language told me she didn’t want to be there any more than I did. I took out my headphones.

‘Sorry, how much?’

‘Thirty-two pounds eighteen,’ she replied like I was hard of hearing or stupid.

‘Are you sure, that seems like a lot?’

‘That’s what the till says.’

‘I see.’ I looked at the items sat crushed together, in the recess where they slide after being scanned, waiting to be bagged. ‘I’m sorry, can you tell me how much the wine is please?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Sorry, the wine, could you tell me how much it is, please?’

The young girl rolled her eyes and looked at the display. Quickly looking over my shoulder, I noticed the couple were inching closer. I needed to get out. I needed to go home.

‘Twenty-one pounds fifty.’

‘Oh.’

I didn’t have enough to pay for a bottle that much, but looked in my purse anyway, counting my money. Small coins included, I had around seventeen, maybe eighteen pounds at a stretch. I could feel my cheeks warm as panic began to set in. I could feel the young girl watching me, as were three people with baskets now queued behind me. Behind them, I couldn’t see the couple anymore. Perhaps the commotion had startled them away; they couldn’t follow me if I wasn’t moving. I took my bank card from my purse and mumbled an apology, hoping by some miracle it would go through. As expected, it declined.

‘Have you got another card?’ asked the girl, irritated by my delay. Another person had joined the queue. Impatience filled the air. I could almost hear their thoughts. ‘Come on dole dosser, move it along. Unlike you, we have places to go.’

‘Sorry. I’m sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘Let me count my cash.’

I don’t know why I said it; I knew I didn’t have enough. My hands shook, my breathing no longer something that was mine to control. I dropped my purse and coins clattered on the metal surface of the till scanner. A quick glance, another person in the queue. All eyes on me. Pity, annoyance, frustration. I could see it all on their faces. I tried to scramble back my money, counting as I did.

Is that three pounds or four? Concentrate, Claire. Concentrate.

‘I’m so sorry. I… um…’

‘If you haven’t got enough, I can take something off your bill?’

‘No, it’ll be OK,’ I said, again, not knowing why. The easiest thing would be to take the wine off, but my mind was swimming. With all the fallen coins back in my numbing hands I counted pointlessly, knowing I was well short. I couldn’t think. I wanted to leave. I wanted to abandon the shopping and get out of there as quickly as I could. My body moved, about to bolt for the door, and as I looked up the eyes of the pale woman and confident man were before me. Blocking my path.

The woman bagged my things, a small smile on her face. The man stepped past me to speak with the cashier, placing me between them both. Trapped.

Chapter 5

6th May 2018

St Ives, Cambridgeshire

‘How much does she owe?’

‘Thirty-two pounds eighteen.’

‘Here you are.’

‘Are you serious?’ asked the checkout girl incredulously.

‘Yes.’ The man pushed his card into the card reader and I heard four quick beeps as he entered his pin. Then the fifth, confirming the payment. The woman backed away, giving me space to run if I needed to, my shopping in her bag. She held out her hand, her eyes firmly on mine, and for reasons that baffled me I took it. She guided me from the tight space between cashiers to the entrance and outside. We stopped at a bench that sat next to a Postman Pat ride for children, the red paint cracked and faded.

The sun that had warmed my skin this morning was gone, dark clouds hiding it. Rain fell like a drifting mist, but that wouldn’t be for long. Somewhere in the distance the rumble of thunder sounded. An angry god. The smell of the cold rain water hitting the hot tarmac reminded me of being a little girl again, playing happily on the street outside my house.

I sat on the bench, the pale woman standing close.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked. I didn’t respond. I didn’t want them to pay for my shopping, I didn’t want a bottle of wine that cost twenty-one pounds fifty. I didn’t want charity. I didn’t want to be out. I wanted to go back to the morning when the sun kissed my collarbones and the feeling that the day might be mine.

‘Here,’ the pale lady said, placing the shopping bag at my feet. Her eyes staying fixed on mine as she sat on the other end of the bench.

‘Yes, sorry. I’m fine. You shouldn’t have paid for my shopping.’

‘We wanted to. Can we take you anywhere?’ said the man, his voice deep and calming.

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Can we walk you to your car?’

‘I’m walking home, thank you.’

‘Do you have an umbrella?’

I didn’t respond; the answer was obvious. The man dashed out into the rain into the car park, as a flash of lightning streaked across the sky. I counted, like I had as a child in the meadow behind my house, waiting for the thunder to clap. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, eight, eight… I couldn’t get past that number, I doubted I ever would.

The clouds slapped together, making me jump, and I saw the man had returned with a small black umbrella. He gave it to the pale woman, keeping his distance, as if he understood. She placed it on the bench beside me.

‘Are you sure we can’t give you a lift? Those storm clouds look pretty ominous. It’s only going to get worse out here.’

I looked up at her. Her eyes filled with compassion.

‘You shouldn’t have bought my shopping.’

‘Again, we wanted to.’

‘I saw you and panicked and picked up the wrong wine.’

‘Then we needed to pay for it. I’m sorry we startled you.’

‘I can pay you back, if you give me your details.’

‘I don’t want you to pay me back.’

‘I’m so embarrassed.’

‘The only embarrassing thing is that we live in a world where someone like you needs help.’

I felt pathetic, a grown woman in her mid-thirties, ten years older than the girl before her, unable to pay for her own shopping. I wanted to cry. But not here, not now. Above our heads the rain started to fall with more force. The drumming of thousands of drops hitting the metal roof sounding like an ocean rolling in. We both looked up.

‘Please, can we give you a lift?’

‘No, thank you. I need to walk. I can’t explain why.’

‘I think I understand.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then could you tell me, because I don’t,’ I said, smiling, hoping it didn’t look as sad as I felt.

‘I think you walking home in a storm is a fuck you…’

I laughed quietly, her words unexpected and true.

‘Yeah, that’s exactly it. It’s a fuck you.’

The woman rose to her feet and touched my shoulder before walking towards her partner who, out of respect, kept some distance. Just before they left she turned once more.

‘Claire Moore. You are the most courageous person I have ever met. That’s why it stopped. Never forget that.’

She smiled at me and though I desperately wanted to smile back, I couldn’t. I stared at her as she and the kind man walked away, climbed into their car and left.

Gathering the broken bits of my dignity I rose, replacing the headphones in my ears. Before stepping out into what would soon become a deluge, I scrolled through my playlist and chose some music. Opening the umbrella, I stepped into the rain. Another flash of lightning shot across the sky.

One, two, three, four, five…

Another clap louder than the music in my ears. The storm was drawing in.

With my head down, I set off. The music drowned out the noise of the rain hitting the roofs of parked cars. My return home was far less stressful than the walk in, the footpaths deserted, the air fresh and clean. I took my time despite the rain hitting the ground so hard it bounced and soaked the hem of my trousers. I felt safe when everyone else hid.

The music finished, the end of the short playlist, and silence ensued. The sounds of the world returned. Cars driving through the puddles, splashing water over the footpaths that drained into the puddles once more. Another clap of thunder, which made me jump. Not a surprised jump, but one laced with fear. I hadn’t seen the lightning before. The rain hit the top of the umbrella, tiny crackles like a thousand exploding fireworks, their rhythm transfixing, seducing. It stopped me in my tracks, took the world away, the roads, the houses. The tarmac, the daytime. And I was back in the dark, lying on my side, covered in grass cuttings, raindrops forcing me to keep my eyes closed. My head hurting, my stomach screaming. My foot twisted in agony. Sodden soil covered me because of the distance I had crawled. Under my nails, in my hair. In the gum line of my teeth. I tried to keep my eyes open, see what was coming. Face it head on. A coat, lowered over me, making a canopy, blocking the rain. The sound similar to the one I heard right now, the sound of a thousand fireworks.

A car driving past splashed my feet, snatching me away from my thoughts. I hesitated to understand where I was. Then, hoping I hadn’t been seen zoning out, I made my way up the road and to my front door.

It took me a moment to get my keys out and in the lock. Closing it behind me, I pressed my back into the wall. Told myself to breathe. Sliding down the wall I sat, the shopping bag to my right, and removed my sodden shoes and socks. My feet felt hot, the veins bulging across the tops. My eyes were drawn to the edge of my right foot. The skin was still bright pink even after all these years and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t remember what my foot used to look like before two of my toes had been cut off. But I could still remember that moment as clear as if it was yesterday. I could hear the sound that came from my mouth, the sound of the bolt cutters slamming shut. These memories were always there, just behind my eyes in a box I kept locked, but its lid wasn’t airtight, the dark light spilled through the cracks and keyhole when my vigilance slipped.

I wanted to text Mum but stopped myself. I knew what had happened. I knew how I was feeling and what my response to my feelings would be. It had happened before. I knew, despite not feeling like I could at the moment, that I would manage this and then my skin would be just that bit thicker. Hopefully, after enough of these moments, my skin would be so thick they would stop troubling me entirely. Hopefully.

Pushing the awful thoughts back I sighed, defeated, and took my phone out, knowing how the rest of the day would pan out. Opening my messages, I tapped the thread with Paul, my excitement clear to see in the brief words we had exchanged.

What a difference a few hours can make.

Paul, I’m sorry but can we rearrange? Perhaps tomorrow we could go for breakfast somewhere, or a walk in a park. I’m OK, nothing to worry about. Just had a rough trip to the shops. I’m not feeling myself. I’m really sorry.

I hated sending it, I wanted to see him. But not like this, and this would not shift until a new day had begun. Flopping onto my sofa, I turned on the TV and opened my Netflix account. I would find a new show to get into and I would stay there until I fell asleep. Then, I would get up tomorrow and try again.

As I was told, nearly ten years ago when recovering, tomorrow was another day, a chance to start anew.

Hello, Claire,

I came to visit you today. I watched you battle with a carrier bag and umbrella against the rain. Jumping when thunder crashed above our heads. You walked past me, on the other side of the street, twenty feet from me, your right foot clearly causing you discomfort, which I found comforting. Just before you turned onto your road, towards your house, you stopped, lost in your thoughts. I wonder if you were thinking about me? I wanted you to turn and see me across the road – I thought for a moment you did see me out of the corner of your eye. But the storm above us was beautiful, its power undeniable, and you couldn’t see anything because of it.

I don’t know why I came today, I hadn’t planned to. Perhaps it was because it’s so close to a milestone date of our brief and climactic moment together. Our past, our night, created an improbable bond, a closeness, an understanding. What we have is something no one else has. And I know I am in your thoughts as much as you are in mine. Our past has drawn me to you once more.

You’re probably shocked to read that I came to visit you. Don’t be. I would be lying if I said this was my first visit. There is something about you that draws me in, something that I cannot shake. I know it’s linked to the intensity of that night, and with the anniversary of that encounter looming, the feeling is heightened. The psychological term is Lima Syndrome. I care for you because I want to kill you, and the absence created by not killing you only fuels the fire within.

And so, I’m compelled to write to you. I know it will be a long time before you read this. But one day, you will know everything. And I want to make sure you understand why – that you know the truth.

The first time I came to you was only weeks after our night. I came to you at a doctor’s surgery when you were waiting for your therapy session to begin. I sat behind you, so close I could smell the citrus of your shampoo. But you don’t seem to go to these sessions anymore. Is it because you have deluded yourself into thinking you are cured, or have you given up hope?

More recently I’ve watched you sitting in the park, enjoying the sunshine on your face. I have seen you in a coffee shop with your mother. I’ve only ever wanted to observe you, to see you as you are now, to see how you’re enduring, what you were achieving. What I have seen from you used to make me feel a sense of pride, but recently that sense has gone.

I’m disappointed, Claire. You are not the woman I thought you would become after me, but there is time to change that. I will make you see who you are – who you still are – and I will make you understand the mistakes you have made. I never intended to return. I have evolved, become something new. But I have watched you, Claire, and I know you have gone full circle, back where you started all those years ago. Only, you are remembering me less. And that is why I will come back for you.

You’ll thank me one day, Claire. Until then, I am never far away. Closer than you think.

Chapter 6

9th May 2018

St Ives, Cambridgeshire

Wrapping my dressing gown tightly around me, I opened my back door and let the clean morning air flood in. I still felt weary, uneasy after my last trip outside. It had taken me three days to feel well enough to consider stepping out of the house. Three days of checking and double-checking locked windows and doors, unable to remove the keys from around my neck because I couldn’t bear the idea of not having my only means of escape on me. Three days of not being able to have a shower, even when Mum came over and sat on the landing. The sight of the water running made me feel sick and the noise dulled my hearing. Three days of sleeping on the sofa, jumping every time Baloo, who Mum decided should stay with me to keep me company, moved upstairs. The moment in the supermarket, as innocent and kind it was, rocked me to my core. I felt like a temporary prisoner in my own home.

I hadn’t felt like this in over a year, and although Mum told me to not be so hard on myself, that relapses happened, I couldn’t help but feel like a failure for the backwards step. She suggested I ring Dr Porter and tell her how I was feeling. But I didn’t see the point. I knew why I felt this way. Someone had recognised me. I had let myself believe the life in which I found myself labelled a ‘hero’ had passed me by. I thought I had completely vanished from people’s minds. I thought I had become a ghost, but I hadn’t. If two strangers could see me, who else could? The supermarket incident told me I wasn’t a no one as I had hoped, which meant I had to be someone. The woman who was out, unable to pay for her own shopping, she was a victim. I couldn’t bear to be her. For the past three days, I had placed myself under house arrest, crippled by paranoia. I couldn’t be her either, and thankfully I could feel her ebbing away, as I started to feel like myself again. Whoever that was.

After messaging Paul to say I couldn’t see him, he responded as he had the other times I had blown him out. He was supportive, understanding, telling me there was no rush and he would be around when I was ready, and his kindness made me feel guilty. With each passing week Paul and I were getting closer. We were learning the things about one another that other people might not know. And one day, I felt like I might just be able to tell him what happened ten years ago. More than the basic facts he already knew, more than the obvious truth that I had survived being murdered. I was sure it would shock him, even though a lot of the details were in public domain – a lot, but thankfully not all. Some were too horrific, even for the vultures of the world’s media.

I wasn’t worried that he’d run away when I told him. The problem was, I knew after I bared all, I would be the one to run away. In my mind it was inevitable. My attachment disorder meant I kept people at arm’s length. Everyone understood why, even me. But I didn’t like the term ‘attachment disorder’, it was too generic. I would have preferred if they used the term everyone was thinking but never said – I-think-everyone-is-going-to-try-to-kill-me disorder. A disorder that over the past year was showing signs of being managed – managed well, I thought, right until that moment in the supermarket.

I had realised over these past few days of being locked up at home, my mental health would always be complex. I would always be challenging to be around as I couldn’t predict when I would have a good day or a bad day. It wasn’t fair to expect or ask anyone to get caught up in my complicated little life. And with the fact I was flying back to Ireland in exactly a week, to visit the grave of my husband for the first time, I knew in coming weeks, maybe even months, my mental state would be even more delicate than usual. The supermarket taught me that although I sometimes thought I could be normal, it was only a delusion.

Paul didn’t need the shit I’d bring to a relationship. I would upset him, I would be too difficult, impossible to be around. I knew I had to call it off. I had messaged Penny, telling her I would cool things with Paul and she tried to talk me out of it. She told me I wasn’t baggage despite having it, and that to smooth over the ‘tricky’ few days I had, she should come over with her husband Robbie, so Paul and he could get to know one another. I knew what she was trying to do; she was trying to make my life normal. But really, was that ever going to happen? I politely declined, but promised I’d see her when I got back from Ireland.

Ireland. Just thinking about it made me feel sick.

I had enough to worry about without mistreating the only man I had let myself be close to since Owen died. I would miss Paul, but it was for the greater good. I’d wanted to call him the day after the supermarket and tell him I needed some space, but I wasn’t feeling strong enough to do anything but binge on Netflix box sets. Today, I was feeling much better about the world, and that meant I had to do what was right.

I never had identified what snapped me from my funks (my polite phrase for complete and utter meltdowns) but last night I managed to sleep a good six hours, and as soon as I awoke and saw the blue sky, I felt the need to be outside under it. So, I took the steps that only twenty-four hours ago had felt impossible, walked into my garden – away from the house, the place I could lock myself in – and wandered to the patio table where I sat and read most mornings. I aimed to convince myself it was just like any other morning, though I couldn’t stop my heart from racing. I tried to settle my hands, but needed to fidget with the keys around my neck. It helped, and stopped me from wanting to run back inside.

Sitting down on a cast iron chair, I leant my elbow on the round table and enjoyed the cold dew seeping through my dressing gown elbow. I pushed down the anxiety by watching small white clouds that smudged the deep blue of the sky. I tried to see animals in them, like I did as a child. Like I had with Owen in the days before we married. We would sit in the garden pointing out the things we saw in the clouds that floated past. Usually with a glass of wine. We did it so often the memories blurred into the same moment. All besides one. It was a mild autumn afternoon, the sun was moving towards the horizon, painting the sky the most beautiful colours. In the clouds I saw a bear, he saw a bird, one I couldn’t find, and then, as I was looking to see more animals, Owen dropped to one knee and asked me to be his wife.

I stopped myself thinking anymore. It was too painful.

I tried to see something in the clouds again, but I couldn’t. They were just clouds.

Disappointed, I took my phone from my pocket and held it in my hands, the black screen reflecting the sky above me. I needed to talk with Paul, but what I needed to say wasn’t something I could say over a text message. I didn’t want it to be misread or misinterpreted. He needed to hear my voice.

I dialled and held my breath. It rang and rang and just as it clicked into voicemail I hung up. Selfishly I was disappointed he was busy and didn’t answer. Then I realised, I didn’t even know the time. Looking at the clock on my phone I saw it was before six. He wasn’t busy; he was asleep. Putting my phone beside me I looked back to the sky and could feel the tension of making the call slowly travel from my chest into my stomach before leaving my body through my feet. I focused on the sound of the breeze and birdsong, the combination transporting me to a different time.

I let myself drift to where my mind wanted me to go, if only to keep me from thinking of Paul. The long summers in Ireland before my life changed. I used to wake at a reasonable time in those days, but still early enough to need to tiptoe out of the bedroom so as not to disturb Owen who was a light sleeper. I would get my running gear on and head out. The deserted lane where we lived near Newmarket was a perfect place to run. No traffic, no noise, besides the pigeons calling to one another. It was so quiet I would sometimes see a fox crossing the road or deer in the meadows who watched me run by. I used to run miles every day and if I thought about it, it was the thing I missed the most about my life before. Other than Owen.

Losing myself in the past, I didn’t notice my phone vibrating on the bench beside me until I scooped it up to see a missed call from Paul. Calling back, he picked up before the first ring finished.

‘Hey,’ he said quietly.

‘Hey.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Hi, Paul, yes I’m fine, sorry, I didn’t realise it was so early.’

‘No, it’s OK, as long as you’re OK.’

‘I’m feeling much better.’

‘Pleased to hear it.’

The line went quiet and I could feel the nervous energy between us building. The silence awoke tiny white butterflies in my stomach. I knew he wasn’t speaking because he was waiting for me to lead.

‘Listen, Paul—’

‘You don’t have to say sorry for anything, Claire.’

‘But I feel like…’

‘I’m not upset or annoyed.’

‘But this thing…’

‘… is whatever it will be.’

‘Will you let me finish?’ I said, more forcefully than I intended, the butterflies in my stomach growing bigger by the second.

‘Yes. Sorry, I’m talking over you. Carry on.’

I curled my toes on my left foot in the grass and took a breath. ‘I don’t like that I mess you around. My life is… complicated, and although I manage better, I still have my days. It’s not fair to subject you to it.’

I knew what I should have said next, but I couldn’t form the words in my mouth, and that was selfish of me, weak of me. But then again, that’s what I was, wasn’t it? A weak woman.

‘Can I speak now?’ Paul whispered, snapping me back into breathing, though I was unaware I was holding it to begin with. ‘I know you think you should call it quits on us spending time together, thinking it would do me a favour, but it won’t. I know you have a complicated past, and because of that I know you have your off days… Christ, if anyone alive is allowed to have problems it’s…’

‘You think I have problems?’

‘No, problem is the wrong word.’

‘What, the right word is baggage?’

‘No.’

‘What is it then?’

‘I mean your anxiety issues.’

‘So, I have mental health problems?’

‘Yes, but that’s not a bad thing.’

‘It’s a good thing?’ I said, my voice raising, ready for an argument I didn’t want to have, but my attachment disorder would ensure I did have, anyway.

‘No, Claire, it’s just a thing. We all have something, and it’s OK to call it what it is.’

‘You have something too?’ I asked, wishing I could take it back instantly.

‘Yes, no, right now I don’t. But I used to. And I still carry it with me. Everyone has something. A trauma, a grief. A mistake,’ he said, after a beat. I could hear something heavy in his voice.

I wanted to know which one of those three was connected to him. Was he grieving too? Had he suffered something traumatic as well? Had he made a mistake, or done something wrong in his past, like me. It made sense that I felt a connection to him. We both had a shadow.

‘Claire?’

‘I’m not mental,’ I said, trying and failing to stop myself causing a fight and making it easier to walk away.

‘Of course you’re not. Claire, we both know, the entire world knows who you are. And how brave and strong you have been. You are so strong, even with all of the struggles you have had to face.’

Somehow his words floored me and the fight in me dissolved. No one except Dr Porter had ever said out loud it was OK to have mental health struggles. It was refreshing to hear it called what it was. And unusual. My mum referred to my health as my ‘quirks’. It was anything but quirky.

‘Paul, this isn’t fair.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘Us, you know, getting close.’

‘Not fair on who?’

‘You.’

‘Maybe I should decide what is fair on me and what’s not. Yes, if I’m honest, it’s hard when you disappear…’

‘Then maybe—’

He cut me off, but this time it was OK. ‘But it’s only hard because I care about you. Claire, I’m old enough to know life is hard, and for you, harder than most, and that sometimes, you need to take a step back. I understand. It’s OK. I think you’re brilliant as you are.’

I felt tears begin press against the backs of my eyes and I let them out, forming a glaze over my vision, turning the bushes I was looking at in my garden into an underwater reef. As I blinked, a tear dropped onto my right foot, and with clear vision I looked at the matted pink scar tissue that ran from the place my toes used to be up my calf. As if knowing I needed comfort, Baloo had wandered out of the kitchen and rubbed his back against my leg. Reaching down I gently stroked the back of his neck.

‘Paul, I will never be uncomplicated.’

‘It doesn’t matter, you be who you need to be. We are all complicated, that’s just how it is.’

Another tear fell, and I had to move the phone away from my face, worried he would hear my jagged breathing as I fought to hold on. Baloo jumped onto my lap and stroking him calmed me. After a moment, I felt like I could speak again.

‘Paul, I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Then don’t. Don’t run away. Not yet. I know you don’t want to.’

‘I don’t,’ I replied honestly. ‘But I might one day.’

‘And we’ll deal with that then. As hard as it is, let’s try being in the moment. Just two adults, enjoying talking to each other.’ I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.

‘And when I need to back away, like I have done this week—’

‘Then we’ll text, and I’ll get on with on with the rest of my life – work, my girls. I’ve got lots of other things to do, you know.’

I laughed and wiped my eyes. He was right, of course he was. He had his own life, an adult life. I let myself forget that, instead assuming that things between us might be how Owen and I were. But it wasn’t; Owen and I, we were both just kids when we met. No jobs, no children, no mortgages, no worries. No scars. Just each other. This was different. We understood things kids couldn’t, we knew things kids didn’t. I needed to try and remember that.

‘So, what are you doing this morning?’ he asked, his tone suggesting he was smiling, like I was.

‘If I’ve not completely balls’d it up, seeing you?’

Chapter 7

9th May 2018

St Ives, Cambridgeshire

Paul and I mutually agreed to meet in St Ives town centre at a popular little café situated on the River Great Ouse. I went with Mum occasionally, and it always felt welcoming, safe. As I got ready, I couldn’t believe I’d been so sure about calling it off with Paul and yet I hadn’t. I questioned what that meant, and whether we had become honest and trusting friends, or something more? I didn’t know. It made me wonder for the first time, could I get back to where I was before? Could I be normal? In all of my battles over the past decade, I fought to find a ‘tomorrow’. But could it be, that tomorrow was finally here? Wondering hurt my head so I stopped myself. One thing was for sure, whatever Paul and I were, it was about to take a step forward. I just didn’t know which foot it would step on first.

I got ready to leave, dressing and changing a few times until I had an outfit I felt was right for the occasion. A pair of black skinny jeans and a loose-fitting, long-sleeved jade-green top. I felt daunted because I couldn’t wait to see him. I was still scared to leave the house, still carrying the icy hand that rested in my chest, waiting to pull my diaphragm into a panic attack. But sometimes, like now, it let me have a break, and I knew I had to seize the opportunity it presented.

I appraised myself in the mirror, making sure all the parts of my skin I wanted hidden were concealed. I wasn’t as slim as I was back when I ran, but I didn’t feel hideous for a change. I felt good, nervous, but good. Until today I hadn’t thought about how I looked – or rather, how I presented myself – in ages, and I’d missed the feeling. I hadn’t even considered what to wear on our first ‘date’, but let my mum guide my outfit decision. One that, in hindsight, made me look similar to her.

Slipping on my cream pumps I walked towards my front door, and the light feeling in my chest was gone. I was so caught up in the idea of being opposite Paul, hearing his voice, learning about his week, apologising for my behaviour, I had forgotten I needed to be in the world first. Before I could see Paul, I had to open my door and take that first step outside. The innocuous white UPC portal acted like a gateway. A passage to a place where I didn’t know who was behind me, I didn’t know what was around the next corner. Stepping towards it I quietly peered through the peep hole before removing the safety chain. Satisfied there was no one there I lowered myself enough for the long necklace to reach the lock and slid the key hanging from it in the door. I turned it slowly, hearing the lock snap open. Sliding the key out I grabbed the handle and readied myself to push down. The mechanics inside the doorframe would then slide the two latches in the top and bottom of the door and it would open. I had one more check through the peep hole and as I did, there was movement outside. A person walking away.

I panicked and stumbled backwards, grabbing the doorframe to the lounge to stop me falling. I crouched and moved into my living room and looked through the window so I could see the street. There was nobody there. I needed to lock the door again and had to fight against the paralysis in my muscles. I could feel myself shaking as I crept back to the door and lifted the handle, so it couldn’t be opened from the outside. I fumbled with unsteady hands at the chain around my neck to grab the right key. Sliding it back in the lock I turned, the snap of the mechanics engaging like music to my ears. Taking a few measured breaths, I placed my eye to the peep hole once more. The street outside my house was empty. I thought maybe, after being recognised in the supermarket, the young couple who helped me might have sold me out to the press, and they were doing a follow-up story about the ‘woman who lived’. But that was ridiculous, it was just a person, on their way to the shops or something. And I had blown it out of proportion.

‘Shit, Claire. Get a grip.’

Holding my breath, pulse hammering in my neck, I opened my front door and stepped rather hastily into the street. Locking the door behind me I felt my fingertips tingle with each surge of adrenaline that coursed through my veins. Lowering my head, I started to move, hoping I wouldn’t pass out. I focused on two things. The mid-morning sun was warm on the back of my neck and the patch of ground where my shadow and feet connected. As always, I counted, this time deciding to find and log cigarette butts. It was harder than counting chewing gum as there seemed to fewer of them these days, but this meant I had to look harder and so it served its purpose. I found one still burning, its end glowing a brilliant red as the hot embers died. I stopped and watched the small fire within fade to black.

I only saw a handful of people, all on the other side of the road and thankfully, heading in the opposite direction. As I turned onto London Road, I could see the beautiful St Ives Bridge that crossed the River Great Ouse, which distracted me, until I heard the sound of a man coughing behind me. I hadn’t noticed anyone follow me when leaving the house, which meant that they were already on London Road. I knew I shouldn’t panic. It was a busy road and a nice morning; I was bound to have someone behind me. And yet, I felt my blood move through my body that bit quicker. He coughed again, this time a little louder, or perhaps a little closer. I couldn’t tell. Up ahead was the bridge, and just on the other side, the café where I was meeting Paul. I knew as soon as I saw him I would feel calmer, so I upped my pace.

I stepped onto the bridge, heard the cough again, and this time I was sure it was closer. Whoever it was, they were gaining on me and my anxiety was turning into a panic attack. I felt that icy hand on my diaphragm once more, plucking like a harpist, playing its tune as it had for years, and it took every ounce of my willpower to stop myself running as fast as I could. But I knew it was a battle I was losing. I heard a sniff, only a matter of feet away and, looking at the floor, I could see the tip of his shadow stretching out over my right shoulder. His head was disproportionately long, like a monster. I wanted to look behind but knew I shouldn’t, so instead I took my phone from my pocket and using the glass like a mirror I snuck a peek behind me.

It was hard to make out his features but I could just see that the man behind me was older. His hair was thin, his face pitted with signs of wrinkles. I watched as he coughed again, lowering his head. Then when he looked up, I was sure his eyes locked onto mine though the screen and the icy hand pulled so hard I thought my lungs would tear away from my chest wall. My eyes began to brim, and my flight mechanism tried to power my legs into a hobbled run. But I knew if I ran now, I would run for years, as I had done for the last ten. I was tired of it, and I thought I had beaten it in recent months. I thought by agreeing to go to Ireland, by letting myself meet another man, by slowing down on my doctor appointments until I no longer went, and weaning myself off my medication, I was beating it. Evidently, I wasn’t. That part of me that wanted to create distance and then hide was still with me. The part of me that ended up cowering behind a tree or in a shop doorway hadn’t gone.

I wasn’t supposed to be that person. I wasn’t supposed to be what Tommy Kay wanted me to be. He’d wanted me dead, like the others, like Owen, and being like this, someone who was too scared to be outside, I might as well be dead.

But I couldn’t let myself hide anymore. I couldn’t let myself wish I was invisible. So, despite my head’s instruction to run, I didn’t. I stopped, turned and looked onto the river, pretending to immerse myself in the swans swimming towards the bridge, a mother followed by two cygnets. I leant on the ancient wall, my hands gripping the stone to pin me to my place.

In my peripheral vision I saw the man come very close. He looked at me, and gave a smile that said, ‘I know all about you, Claire,’ and I drew a breath, holding it deep in my lungs. I stood firm. I would not run, I would not freak out. I would hold my ground. This was my patch of earth, my space, and I didn’t want to give it away. He passed so close I felt the air between us stir, and as he continued past me I kept my eyes on the swan with her babies. He turned left at the end of the bridge and walk along the river bank. Then, seeing him a safe distance away, I let out my breath. He looked back at me just before disappearing into a butcher shop, and I did something uncharacteristic. I waved. I told him, yes, I have seen you watching. I know you were there. And I’m not scared of you.

He didn’t wave back but stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

I knew he wasn’t anyone I needed to be scared of. I knew he was just some man, and he looked at me because he was nosey or inquisitive. Smiling because he was being polite. I knew I didn’t need to be afraid, but I was anyway. And I had waved. Because of the wave, I felt like I had won. I was a victor, not a victim.

And, after watching the swan and her young swim under the bridge I continued to walk towards the café, holding my head a little higher. I didn’t count cigarette butts. I didn’t try to hide in plain sight. I just walked, like anyone else would. And it felt bloody fantastic.

Walking along the river, past the butcher’s that the man had gone into, I saw Paul up ahead, leaning against the wall to the café. As I drew closer, he squinted to see me properly and smiled broadly. I smiled back, and the invisible hand on my diaphragm loosened its grip.

Paul wasn’t sure how to greet me, I could tell in his body language, his shuffling feet, his arms not outstretched but not by his side either. So, to help him know, I stepped into his space and wrapped my arms around his waist. I felt his lungs contract as he let out a long sigh, his arms became heavy on my shoulders as I felt tension release. Then he kissed me on the top of my head.

‘Hey,’ he said quietly, as he stepped back to meet my eye, a smile firmly on his face.

‘Hey.’

‘Hungry?’

‘Yeah, I could eat. Are you?’

‘Starved.’

‘Starved? Well, we’d better go in, hadn’t we?’

Taking his hand, I led us towards the door and opened it. I could see he wanted to take the lead and gesture me inside, but I insisted and awkwardly he followed. The café was busy, mainly filled with pensioners having tea. There were also a few mums scattered around a table, surrounded by buggies. They were all talking as they fed or held or rocked their little ones. One dad, sat near the window on his own was holding his newborn and stared vacantly out the window, wrapped up in his own thoughts. As Paul asked for a table for two, I watched the dad kiss his baby on the head before returning to his contentment. The scene forced a tingling sensation at the top of my nose, but before it could force its way up and become a tear Paul gently touched my arm, making my insides jump, and told me our table was in the far corner. I hoped he didn’t notice me staring at the man and baby.

As Paul got up to order, I surveyed the room: noting where the exits were, how many people were seated, whether anyone seemed suspicious or anxious. As far as I could tell, only I fitted that description. I watched the dad who was lost in thought get up, pack his things away and leave. I watched the mums chatting loudly and an older couple becoming increasingly irritated by it. I listened to people’s conversations, my hearing flipping from one to the next, trying to gauge the mood of the room. I tuned into the music playing quietly behind. An old one by Stereophonics that I used to love. I plotted the route I would take if I needed to get out quickly, and what I could use in defense if required. I did all of this in the few minutes Paul was at the counter. It was something I always did when I wasn’t at home. My brain was programmed to know how to escape.

Paul sat down and we chatted about nothing, the way normal people did. He spoke of work, how he was managing a difficult contract near Liverpool where the building of two hundred houses was behind schedule – as the contract manager for the estate which was being developed, it was his responsibly to get it back on track.

As he spoke, the stress of the workload clear across the lines in his forehead, I wondered again, might he have ever met Owen? Could they have been in the same place, at the same time? And again, I dismissed it, it was silly to connect them. I wondered if I was doing it to make myself feel better or worse? He must have sensed my thoughts were wandering and, assuming I was bored he stopped and changed the subject to one of his girls and the book by Harlan Coben he’d recently devoured. He was speaking a little quickly, as if my presence made him nervous. He hadn’t the last time we’d met up, but last time I hadn’t suggested ending our… whatever it was.

As our brunch came the tension lifted and we both focused on our food. I tucked into my poached eggs, enjoying the fact I could eat in front of him comfortably, and watched as he lost himself in his bacon sandwich. I knew I needed to offer something to get conversation flowing and just as I was about to talk about my impending trip to Ireland, and how nervous I was about it, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I took it out, expecting it to be a message from Mum. I couldn’t hide my concerned expression as I saw it was another Facebook message from Killian.

As I opened it, Paul stopped eating and watched me.

Claire. I really want to talk, to see how you are. I want to help. I know next week will be hard for you, and I want to be there, as a friend.

Locking the phone, I put it face down on the table.

‘Everything all right?’ Paul wondered, his brow furrowed intently at me.

‘Yes, fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Honestly, it’s fine.’

‘Claire, you don’t look fine.’

‘It’s just an old…’ I stopped myself. ‘Just someone I know who is behaving a little off lately.’

‘Off?’ Paul asked.

‘Yes, it’s hard to explain. I used to talk with him often, but over the past year he’s become a little… it’s hard to explain.’

‘Is he giving you grief?’

‘No, no he’s not, but he’s changed, and I don’t like it.’

‘What are you going to do?’ he asked, and I liked the question. He didn’t ask what he could do about it but trusted me to deal with it myself.

‘I don’t know yet. I think he’ll understand I don’t wish to talk and back away.’

He smiled at me, but I could see he was worried, concerned, curious, trying to piece together what might be going on in my head. I knew he wanted to understand me and the reasons I did things, and I thought it would be easier to not tell him anything and distance myself. But I didn’t want to. Taking a deep breath, I prepared myself.

‘Paul? How much do you know about what happened? You know, when I was in Ireland?’

‘A bit.’

‘Would you like to know more? I mean, more than the papers printed.’

‘I’ve never read a newspaper story about you.’

‘Never?’

‘No, I don’t follow the news much.’

‘And you’ve not been curious since we met?’

‘Yes, but only so I can understand you more. Out of respect, I’ve not looked – I figured if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m not interested in pitying your past. I want to be a part of your future.’

‘OK,’ I said, knowing it was the right thing to do as soon as he said he didn’t want to pity me; I’d had a lifetime of it already. Leaning over the table he took me by my hands, his touch warming them after the adrenaline of the bridge incident had sucked the blood from them. As he spoke, he focused on his thumb which gently stroked mine.

‘But you don’t have to tell me anything, Claire, you don’t.’

Squeezing his hand, I brought my head up, our eyes meeting.

‘You’re right, Paul, I don’t. But I want to, I do, and although I can’t right now. I want you to know, one day I will tell you.’

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