Closer Than You Think. Darren O’Sullivan
Heading into the back corner, the smell of fresh bread comforting me, I wrestled my headphones out of my bag. I put them in and pressed play, and as the sound of my music drowned out my own anxious thoughts, I moved on, grabbing the essentials, before heading towards the wine section to get a bottle of red, although I wasn’t sure if Paul drank wine. He wasn’t a drinker, that much I knew.
But as I turned towards the shelves of alcohol, my thoughts of enjoying an intimate glass of wine with Paul (both warming and nerve-wracking) were hijacked by thoughts of Owen, bringing me to a halt. A memory flashed of our honeymoon in a caravan near Tralee on the west coast of Ireland. It was all we could afford being so young and poor, but it was a magical five days. The wind kept us awake most of the night, the cold creeping in through the vents, and we drank wine, lots of it, to keep ourselves warm. But we wouldn’t have had it any other way. We would have lazy mornings in bed and then walk along the coastline, our hands interlinked.
Then my memories took me somewhere else, somewhere darker, and the warm feeling left as quickly as it came. The icy hand was back on my diaphragm, playing its tune. The same one it always played until I forced myself to move again. As I looked for a bottle of red wine I could afford, I felt I was being watched, but this time it felt different. This wasn’t me being controlled by my own fear. This was real. The air hung thickly around me, and my body reacted to it before I could think.
Looking to my right I locked eyes with a woman who was staring at me: short dark hair, pale skin. Maybe in her mid-twenties. Her expression was one I had seen countless times before, although not recently. I grabbed the nearest bottle and walked away. Just before turning the corner I looked back, and she was moving towards me, talking with a man who had joined her. He was confident and intimidating, and I felt a surge of terror, but I quickly quelled it. He was too young to be who my fractured mind told me it was. And I knew it couldn’t be him, because he, Tommy Kay, died in prison four years ago. Still, it didn’t stop me thinking the person following me was involved somehow, despite being told on countless occasions that Tommy Kay, the man who was widely believed to be the Black-Out Killer, was a lone wolf, a solo act. A loner.
I increased my pace, which made the ache in my right foot develop into a sharp pain. I tried to hide my limp. It was hard and painful to do, but I didn’t want anyone to notice. As I got to the till, I breathed a sigh of relief that there wasn’t a queue. I loaded my things onto the checkout belt quickly and looked over my shoulder as the couple attempted to discreetly watched me, pretending they were examining the contents of the tinned soup aisle, not fooling anyone.
‘Thirty-two pounds eighteen, please,’ said the cashier after scanning my items. I looked at her, realising I hadn’t until that moment. She was young, probably seventeen or eighteen with a ring in her nose and filled-in eyebrows. Her body language told me she didn’t want to be there any more than I did. I took out my headphones.
‘Sorry, how much?’
‘Thirty-two pounds eighteen,’ she replied like I was hard of hearing or stupid.
‘Are you sure, that seems like a lot?’
‘That’s what the till says.’
‘I see.’ I looked at the items sat crushed together, in the recess where they slide after being scanned, waiting to be bagged. ‘I’m sorry, can you tell me how much the wine is please?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Sorry, the wine, could you tell me how much it is, please?’
The young girl rolled her eyes and looked at the display. Quickly looking over my shoulder, I noticed the couple were inching closer. I needed to get out. I needed to go home.
‘Twenty-one pounds fifty.’
‘Oh.’
I didn’t have enough to pay for a bottle that much, but looked in my purse anyway, counting my money. Small coins included, I had around seventeen, maybe eighteen pounds at a stretch. I could feel my cheeks warm as panic began to set in. I could feel the young girl watching me, as were three people with baskets now queued behind me. Behind them, I couldn’t see the couple anymore. Perhaps the commotion had startled them away; they couldn’t follow me if I wasn’t moving. I took my bank card from my purse and mumbled an apology, hoping by some miracle it would go through. As expected, it declined.
‘Have you got another card?’ asked the girl, irritated by my delay. Another person had joined the queue. Impatience filled the air. I could almost hear their thoughts. ‘Come on dole dosser, move it along. Unlike you, we have places to go.’
‘Sorry. I’m sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘Let me count my cash.’
I don’t know why I said it; I knew I didn’t have enough. My hands shook, my breathing no longer something that was mine to control. I dropped my purse and coins clattered on the metal surface of the till scanner. A quick glance, another person in the queue. All eyes on me. Pity, annoyance, frustration. I could see it all on their faces. I tried to scramble back my money, counting as I did.
Is that three pounds or four? Concentrate, Claire. Concentrate.
‘I’m so sorry. I… um…’
‘If you haven’t got enough, I can take something off your bill?’
‘No, it’ll be OK,’ I said, again, not knowing why. The easiest thing would be to take the wine off, but my mind was swimming. With all the fallen coins back in my numbing hands I counted pointlessly, knowing I was well short. I couldn’t think. I wanted to leave. I wanted to abandon the shopping and get out of there as quickly as I could. My body moved, about to bolt for the door, and as I looked up the eyes of the pale woman and confident man were before me. Blocking my path.
The woman bagged my things, a small smile on her face. The man stepped past me to speak with the cashier, placing me between them both. Trapped.
6th May 2018
St Ives, Cambridgeshire
‘How much does she owe?’
‘Thirty-two pounds eighteen.’
‘Here you are.’
‘Are you serious?’ asked the checkout girl incredulously.
‘Yes.’ The man pushed his card into the card reader and I heard four quick beeps as he entered his pin. Then the fifth, confirming the payment. The woman backed away, giving me space to run if I needed to, my shopping in her bag. She held out her hand, her eyes firmly on mine, and for reasons that baffled me I took it. She guided me from the tight space between cashiers to the entrance and outside. We stopped at a bench that sat next to a Postman Pat ride for children, the red paint cracked and faded.
The sun that had warmed my skin this morning was gone, dark clouds hiding it. Rain fell like a drifting mist, but that wouldn’t be for long. Somewhere in the distance the rumble of thunder sounded. An angry god. The smell of the cold rain water hitting the hot tarmac reminded me of being a little girl again, playing happily on the street outside my house.
I sat on the bench, the pale woman standing close.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked. I didn’t respond. I didn’t want them to pay for my shopping, I didn’t want a bottle of wine that cost twenty-one pounds fifty. I didn’t want charity. I didn’t want to be out. I wanted to go back to the morning when the sun kissed my collarbones and the feeling that the day might be mine.
‘Here,’ the pale lady said, placing the shopping bag at my feet. Her eyes staying fixed on mine as she sat on the other end of the bench.
‘Yes, sorry. I’m fine. You shouldn’t have paid for my shopping.’
‘We wanted to. Can we take you anywhere?’ said the man, his voice deep and calming.
‘No,