Closer Than You Think. Darren O’Sullivan

       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 of the third, because the third mentioned once that ‘Paper Cut’ was his favourite song when it came on in the pub they were drinking in. From tonight, every time he heard that song, he would be reliving the final moments of thirty-eight-year-old Jack Merrill.

      Driving past the sign welcoming him to Churchtown he turned down the car stereo and calmly drove into the village. Parking his car opposite the Boss Murphy pub, the place he met the third, he collected himself before climbing out. Opening the boot, he grabbed his rucksack which housed the tools needed for the job. The bag was lighter than with the first two. He had fine-tuned exactly what was needed for his kill. Slowly, he made his way past the pub in which he met Jack and up the hill towards his house. His hands tingled with the knowledge of how tonight would be different – an evolution, God moving though him to ensure his message would be heard as it should be. Tonight, he would do something new. Something he only recently considered. Tonight, he would punish not just the husband; tonight, he would punish the wife as well.

      When the thought first came into his head, he dismissed it. But, in the aftermath of the second and the country making the connection between the crimes, which led the media to suggest he may well be the first serial killer in the Republic of Ireland since the 1900s, he watched the victims’ families and friends say what saints they were. He listened as they called him a monster, while the dead were, by contrast, funny, kind, caring men. Men who didn’t deserve to die. Men who were now watching down from heaven above. And none spoke louder and with more conviction than the wives, the women who knew as much as he did that they deserved to die. He watched as they lied time after time to the cameras, crocodile tears falling. He watched them both declare they would love their husbands until the day they joined them in heaven. At first, he was stunned – he expected them to be happy that they were at last free, but he realised something. The men were on his list for two reasons. One: they had chosen to inflict hurt and suffering, they chose to be like his father. The second reason surprised him. The wives hadn’t left them, because they were weak. If he wanted change, men like his father and women like his mother needed to understand they had to look at themselves, alter their choices, evolve. If they didn’t, he would come for them.

      Life was about making choices, and these women, just like his own poor mother, were fated to die unhappy.

      The sub-generator was located at the end of the row of houses where the third and his wife lived. As before, killing the power was an easy task. This generator ran most of the village and from his elevated position he watched the houses below descend into darkness. Then, within minutes, the torches and candles shone, the dim light bleeding through the curtains. Although he couldn’t see anyone, he could almost taste their trepidation, their fear that quietly bubbled. Most would no doubt dismiss it out of hand, rationalising that it was just a power cut, nothing more. Because bad things didn’t happen