Closer Than You Think

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 (#ulink_67942107-271c-5f5f-bea3-4df69d4252d4)

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?’