Closer Than You Think. Darren O’Sullivan

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       Chapter 8

       August 2007

      Churchtown, Ireland

       The second, third and fourth

      Turning off the N20, he drove along the single-track road that stretched towards the setting sun in the distance. Either side of the narrow lane, the endless miles of Irish countryside were punctuated by the spotting of cows. On the CD player ‘Paper Cut’ by Linkin Park played as it had done on repeat since leaving his house an hour before. Listening to the song didn’t send his adrenaline surging; if he was honest, he didn’t particularly like it. But he listened anyway, over and over again on his drive to the village where the third lived, because, by accident, he stumbled upon the power of music for stimulating memory recall with his second kill.

      The second was a man named Jamie Connell. A man who had divorced and remarried by the age of twenty-five, his first wife having the sense of mind to leave when his drinking and subsequent rage became something more than just a niggling concern. He hadn’t learnt to change his ways when marrying his younger bride, Felicity, and it didn’t take her long to learn Jamie ruled his home with a heavy hand.

      He met the second in the O’Callaghan’s pub in the middle of Coachford, a small village twenty miles outside Cork, a few days after his first kill. The media had just learnt that the victim died before the fire started, and his body had been the fuel used to ignite the house. Blair’s wife’s alibi was airtight, and images of her sobbing for her husband were everywhere. It was while watching a reporter talking about the fire that he struck up a conversation with Jamie, the murder being an easy way to lead into an ‘innocent’ chat. He noticed how people didn’t bond over the positive things in the world. A story about a good deed or heroic act wouldn’t be discussed out loud with a stranger. It was the darker things in life that drew humanity in, like a moth to the flame. He didn’t speak to Jamie to determine if the man beside him belonged on his list but instead, wanted to speak out loud about the murder he had committed, and to watch how his new ‘friend’ would react without ever knowing he was talking to the perpetrator. As they spoke, he enjoyed the power that came with the truth only he had knowledge of. Jamie Connell unknowingly called him a monster, the devil incarnate, and as he agreed he fought to suppress his smile at how wrong Jamie was. He wasn’t the devil; he was the opposite. He was doing God’s work and, although he didn’t know it yet, the man sat beside him was one of the real monsters in the world.

      That night they drank and got to know one another. As they played pool, Jamie was inebriated enough to speak of more personal matters: his work, his hobbies, his wife. As soon as Jamie mentioned her name, the energy changed, and recognising why, his senses heightened. He watched his drunk acquaintance with more intent, and listened a little closer. He discovered a person of interest. The others on the list would possibly have to wait. He suspected his new friend was right for his list not because of anything he said about his wife, but the way he said it. His tone, and the slight curl of his lip suggested she was below him, a lesser person. Jamie didn’t talk of his wife for long, but enough to awaken his instincts, and listen. They told him the man before him, Jamie Connell, was next. Jamie moved onto football, specifically the 2002 World Cup and the magnificent 1-1 draw with Germany, and the dreaded penalty shoot-out against Spain which ended the plucky boys in green’s run. He almost felt normal as they spoke, but not quite, because he was focusing more on the man Jamie was. His height, weight, whether he was left- or right-handed. Details that would be important to know later on.

      As they chatted and played, he noticed Jamie’s pint was empty and went to the bar to get two more, opting for a lager-shandy for himself. He didn’t want to be drunk but wanted to appear to be drinking. As he returned, Jamie was talking quietly into his phone, speaking with his wife. He listened as Jamie told her she couldn’t go out with her friends as he needed her to be at home when he returned. She must have asked what time that would be because after a pause he said, he would be home ‘when he fucking well pleased’. As Jamie hung up, he pretended he hadn’t heard the call and passed his new buddy his pint, knowing for sure, now, that Jamie Connell would be the second.

      It was on a cold and wet January, eight months after he first met Jamie, that he killed the power to his house and the seven others in the close he lived in. He knew from the months of learning, months of watching, that Jamie would be alone. Felicity, his wife, was visiting her mother who lived in a nursing home. She only visited once a week, on a Tuesday, because this was the only night Jamie would let her go out, despite him being in the pub most nights. His wife did as she was told because she was afraid of his temper. But not now. He had lifted her from her fear and punished the man who created her suffering. On the night he killed the second, a Radiohead song played in the background. He knew Jamie loved this particular song, he’d mentioned he liked to fall asleep to it when he was drunk. As he worked on Jamie, preparing the body and the house to be incinerated, the song played, barely audible though his victim’s headphones, but enough to immortalise the moment in his mind. Now, when he heard that song, he felt the same emotions, adrenaline and excitement he did that night.

      As was Radiohead to Jamie, Linkin Park would be for ever linked with the night СКАЧАТЬ