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Dear Reader (#uba427452-719e-5929-807d-c2f2a891be5a)
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About the Publisher (#u987a114d-3b49-57c7-aaf2-bf7792458dc5)
For my family
Prologue (#ulink_9e58a72f-df01-5b0f-9739-bf63a72bb93b)
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, experiences 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 (#ulink_22e388b9-8f0a-5d68-a1dd-562b77357f72)
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 (#ulink_1a1c2de1-7598-5a6c-b9d9-8e8ebf6b0f2d)
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?
