Page 6 of Close to You
Ben looks to me and his eyes are like buttons: big and round and blue. It feels as if I’m frozen. He’s always been able to do this to me, but it’s not the kind of thing I could ever say out loud. I don’t even think it’s a physical thing; it’s more the way he is. There’s something effortless about him. As if life itself comes so naturally that he doesn’t need to try.
‘How’s it going, Morgs?’
‘It’s been worse.’
‘It was about time you got rid of that Gary.’
‘It wasn’t quite like that, but yes…’
‘Keep your chin up,’ he says. ‘Everything will come together.’
If anyone else had said it, the words might have sounded cheesy – but there’s something about Ben’s phrasing that means I don’t question it. Perhaps things reallywillcome together.
He grins and possibly winks. It’s hard to know because it’s there and gone. ‘I’ve got to go find the birthday girl,’ he says. ‘We’ll catch up later.’
With that, he disappears up the stairs, leaving me alone in the hall. I watch him go and then move to the bottom step, sitting by myself and taking out my phone to make it seem like I’m doing something other than wallowing.
Minutes pass and then there is a clatter of footsteps and suddenly someone is sitting next to me.
‘Parties not your thing, either?’ the newcomer says.
I turn and it’s an older man I don’t know. I’ve never been great at judging ages but he’s got that silver-fox thing going on, with short, pepper-pot hair. He’s maybe a decade older than me and there’s something about his shrugged indifference that is immediately appealing.
‘Is it anyone’s?’ I reply.
‘In my experience, the moment anyone invites you to a party, you start thinking of ways to possibly get out of it.’
I laugh and shuffle sideways on the step so that I can lean on the wall and get a better look at him.
‘How do you know Jane?’ I ask.
‘I don’t really. I’m an old friend of Ben’s from university. We were in the football team. A few of us came together for a bit of a reunion.’
As if to emphasise the point, he raises his can of Boddington’s to someone who passes us on the way up the stairs.
‘What about you?’ he asks. ‘How do you know Jane?’
‘From school. I think we were six or seven when we first met.’
He pouts a lip and nods. ‘I think you win,’ he says, offering his hand. ‘David,’ he adds.
‘Morgan.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
Three
THE NOW
Here’s the thing with being a killer: for the most part, it doesn’t change a person from appearing ‘normal’. Murderers still have unexpected items in the bagging area and get stuck in traffic jams. We’re still against racism and sexism. We support gay marriage and love Attenborough documentaries. We’re not monsters. We go to work and lose hours looking at videos of dogs on the Internet when we’re supposed to be doing other things. Taking the life of another human doesn’t stop the world from turning. Day becomes night becomes day.
Everyone else has spent two years thinking David disappeared. What I did to him only changed me in the sense that I know murder is something of which I’m capable. Serial killers can be glorified, but I’ve never had the urge to repeat the act. I suspect most people who’ve killed are like me. We live in plain sight. We’re neighbours and friends; colleagues and relatives – it’s just that our secrets run somewhat deeper than most.
My phone buzzes as the photo arrives from Jane. I pinch the screen and zoom to take in the features of my dead husband.
Is it him?
Itlookslike him – but the photo is pixelated on my screen. I pinch in and out but can’t be certain. David didn’t have any distinguishing features like tattoos, deformed ears, or a big nose. The man in the picture has the same greying hair and rigidly straight back as my David.
