Darren O’Sullivan - Closer Than You Think

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.’