Читать книгу Closer Than You Think - Darren O’Sullivan - Страница 12

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.