Three Steps Behind You

By Amy Bird

Dan and Adam have always been close. In fact, they’ve been closer than Adam could ever guess. And if Dan’s going to get that close again, it will take time. It will take research. It may even take practice. Fortunately, Dan is a very patient person – and Adam trusts him. With his house key. With his secrets. With his wife…

But as Dan gets closer, someone is watching. Someone who will stop at nothing to uncover the truth… and seek revenge.

It’s only a matter of time before danger steps out of the shadows. Dan has his sight fixed on the future; perhaps he should have kept one eye on what lay behind?

This chilling psychological thriller from the author of Yours is Mine explores love, obsession, and betrayal, and asks: can we ever really know another person?

Praise for Amy Bird

'The novel contains many shocks and turns, it's filled with emotion and makes for an addicting and fast read. It's a book that I would loved to have curled up on a beach with and I recommend it to anyone.' - Uncorked Thoughts on Yours is Mine

'As a psychological thriller this works extremely well …it is perfectly paced with some real heartstopping moments and a terrific exciting finale. I enjoyed it very much, it appealed to my darker nature and I will definitely be looking out for more from this author.' - Liz Loves Books

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins UK
• Release date: Mar 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781472054784

Book preview

Prologue

Have you ever been really close to someone? So close not only that the hairs on the back of their neck stand on end, but you can count each raised follicle, and when you blow, you can see the goose bumps appear on the skin. Each little golden hair quavering, erect, as you observe.

Imagine the physical proximity that you would need to control those little hairs, the ease with which you could –with just one move – be touching the back of their neck. With your lips, with your hand, with both hands, encircling if you wish.

Ever been that close?

I have, once. And I will be again. For Luke.

BOOK 1

Chapter 1

Let me tell you a little about my method. If I were a good author, a published author, maybe I would show you. ‘Show, don’t tell’, they lecture you at those creative writing classes, the interminable hours spent taking dictation of how to craft your own unique ideas. But I’m not a good writer, not yet, you see. Nor am I published. That’s what this new method is all about. How I’m going to differentiate my fourth book, get it to the readers who matter. Make it the best.

It first occurred to me when my character, Luke, needed to cook a lobster. I could make Luke visualise the exoskeleton, in its abstract pre-cooked greyness. Then I could write him seeing it pink and lifeless on my kitchen slab. The in-between time, I just couldn’t capture so well. I realised it then: in order for me to write convincingly, I would have to do all the things that my character does.

I remember, once, Nicole reminiscing about being taught method acting in her student drama days, pre-Adam. A director had told her that if she wanted to act eating an apple, she would first have to practise eating one, savour each tooth indentation, each salivation, finishing it to the core. Only then would the audience believe she knew what it was to truly eat an apple. A tempting proposition. And Nicole’s only useful titbit.

So today, I am embarking on a whole new writerly me. The lobster in its box writhes next to me on the bus seat. I think it appreciates its role in this journey. The other passengers on the bus have been less appreciative, but they will see the true value when my name is a foot high on the Tube billboards. They can say: ‘I once sat on a bus along the North Circular with Dan Millard.’ Adam can introduce me to his friends as his mate Dan, the published author. Except by then I might have changed my name to something catchier. Perhaps Jeremy Bond. That worked for me before. And for Adam.

Back at home I put the lobster on the kitchen surface and take a closer look at it. To me, Dan, the prospect of what’s to come is revolting. I Googled it earlier. I know that if I freeze the lobster first, it will be numb, and feel less pain, but then I’d have to take the knife and slice down through the flesh beneath its grey shell, stopping just before its wide grey tail, containing the roe. I don’t think I have the strength for that. Besides, I will be writing this as Luke, who does not have my empathetic nature. Luke will want the lobster to feel pain. Luke will just seize the lobster, its claws still bound, and throw it into the boiling water. When the lobster tries to escape, jumping out of the too-shallow pan, to slither away, Luke will grasp it firmly and throw it back in again. The flames will rise under the pan until the lobster is red hot. Then, taking it out of the pan, he will twist its claws till they crack, rip off the red-pink shell, stare it in the eyes then take a snarling bite of the flesh beneath and—

Something catches in my gullet. I cough, choking. Spluttering out of my Luke reverie, I see right up in front of my face a pink, cooked, lobster, so close that I can distinguish the little hairs on its antennae. On the hob is a still-simmering pan of water. I stare, amazed. I have entered into the character of Luke so much that I have slaughtered and cooked a lobster all as him.

I smile. All I need to do is write this down. The method is working. The lobster is just the start, of course. But one must begin somewhere.

Chapter 2

Over dinner, I tell Adam about the lobster. Nicole listens too, or at least pretends to, nuzzling Adam’s ear while I’m talking. But I’m not addressing her.

‘It was amazing!’ I say. ‘I’d killed it even before I’d thought about it. This is a real breakthrough. Look, read the piece I wrote on the bus on the way over!’

‘You still don’t drive, then, Dan?’ asks Nicole, as I hand Adam the manuscript.

I shake my head. Now is not the time for Nicole’s irrelevant questions. It is the time to impress Adam with my work.

‘You always said I was the best at writing, Adam. And now I really will be, with the method!’

‘Well, if I said that, I must have meant it, hey?’ he asks, winking at me.

I nod but he doesn’t look at me. It’s okay if he doesn’t remember. I’ll prove myself again, now, get his adulation afresh, when this new work is published. I watch him while he reads. He has a bit of stubble today, blond hairs not quite breaking through, dots instead lining those sharp cheekbones.

‘Haven’t thought of learning?’ Nicole probes. ‘With all those cars at the garage?’

‘I can’t afford to. Besides, it’s so dangerous,’ I reply.

Adam flinches and I notice his eyes move across to the dresser. I see Nicole notice too and her lips tighten. She must hate that photo of Helen, the constant reminder that she is number two. All over the house, there are stills of Nicole from RADA, playing Desdemona, St Joan, Ophelia, all those other classic roles. None after college. I suppose they make her feel young. Or else she really thinks she still looks like that. On the mantelpiece though, it is just Helen. I see it whenever I come round for dinner.

Nicole sees me looking at the photo of Helen.

‘They’ll catch the driver one day,’ she says, kissing the top of Adam’s head. ‘Give you closure.’ She drapes a protective arm around Adam, forming a barrier between him and me.

‘They’ve tried, they failed,’ he says. He kisses her arm but his tone is clipped.

‘I’ve chosen the third-person voice for Luke,’ I say, helping Adam by changing the subject. ‘That way I have more control over him.’ Adam nods, as if he understands.

‘Which novel is this now? Fourth?’ he asks me.

‘Third,’ I lie. There is no need to bother him with the real book three. He is a banker, so his grasp of more, let’s say, boundary breaking art is poor. There are more drinks than books lining the walls of his West Hampstead home, even though he must have emptied most of the whisky in the week after The Accident, before Nicole came along.

Still, even with his banker’s brain, Adam can’t help but notice the dazzle of the lobster paragraph in what he thinks is book three. I’m so pleased with it, I can remember it word for word.

Luke ran his fingers along the hairs on the antennae of the lobster, which blushed as though it had just been caught getting out of a hot bath. Luke examined the little hairs on the antennae. If only he could get that close to a woman, he thought. Then he tore into its flesh.

The bit following on from that passage will be difficult, of course – Luke getting close, to a woman. I’ve never been big on that. Still, I’ll need to man up, apply the method. That’s what he’s cooking the lobster for, you see. To woo her. When she comes to his house.

Nicole is drumming her fingers against the dining-room table. That must be terribly distracting for Adam, when he’s reading my work.

Adam looks up. Good, I think. He will tell her off. Instead, he puts his hand over hers, encircling it, like the twine round the lobster’s pincers earlier. She stops drumming.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘But I put a lot of effort into the risotto. And then Dan turns up already having eaten a lobster, and now you’re too busy reading to eat.’

I catch Adam’s eyes and roll my own, creating a joke out of Nicole’s nagging. Helen used to nag, too. Adam looks away, though, obviously too embarrassed by his second wife to see the humour. Nicole catches the look, glares at Adam, and starts shoving forkfuls of risotto into her mouth. She is looking plump. That explains it.

‘So, what do you make of it, Adam?’ I ask.

I wait for his praise.

‘Same old handwriting from school, isn’t it? Can just about decipher it!’ says Adam, putting the notebook to one side. ‘Still, better than mine!’

Typical of Adam to make these little jokes – it’s part of his charm. He must know how to decipher my handwriting by now, after book two. I know he’s read it, even if he never talks about it. I smile, and move my chair slightly closer to his, so I can point out particular bits in the notebook. I will trace his fingers going over the handwriting, explain to him what it all means.

‘Idiot!’ shouts Nicole, as my movement upsets my plate and the wine next to it, causing them both to splash a red arc over the cream carpet.

I get down on my hands and knees to try to help, at the same time as Nicole descends to the floor. Our heads are almost touching. If I move forward an inch, I could butt her head with my own, see if I meet scalp in that excessive pile of mousy hair.

She looks up at me. I hold her gaze. She looks away quickly, turning her attention to pouring salt on the wine.

I look at her still and under the force of my gaze she looks up again.

‘Sorry, Nicole,’ I say, making my voice as manly as I imagine Luke’s to be. I gently touch her hand and it freezes. Good, she must be electrified by my touch. Here, then, is the woman for me to get close to. For Luke.

Chapter 3

As I ride the bus home, I wish I’d been able to tell Adam about book three. I may read it again later, for my own enjoyment, but I don’t intend to share it with anyone. It’s not that I question its brilliance, rather that they wouldn’t understand – wouldn’t understand how necessary the character progression was. Some of it, they would even call brutal. Perhaps parts of it were a little forced. And some of it, they would call sheer coincidence, or a windfall. But in the moment, the characters had to seize their opportunity and could not have acted differently. That’s the real test.

I get off the bus one stop early and run home. That’s the sort of thing Luke might do. He’s quite fit, you see, and I’m not – yet. I want him to start running in the novel, when he gets agitated about what he’s doing.

Luke went for another of his runs, past her house, hoping she would be in, that he could make an excuse and ring the doorbell. He ran holding a bouquet of roses, the thorns digging into his hands, but he did not feel the pain; it was nothing to his love for her.

I map out the paragraph in my head. Too bad there are no roses round here. The pollution from the road has killed off every flower, turned every house grey. Somehow it even seems to have turned the curtains inside the houses grey. As I jog along, I see only houses that either are boarded up or should be. And then I’m back at my own half-house, an ‘a’ to someone else’s ‘b’. ‘A’ is for Adam, though, so I struck lucky there. There are some drawing pins at home, I’m pretty sure. They will do for a start.

In my bedroom I take one of the pins out of the noticeboard. It’s holding up a school picture, one I particularly like: there’s me in my little shorts, standing next to Adam. We were inseparable at school. I was always there, by his side. He used to joke about that, when we were older. ‘Oh, it’s my shadow, Desperate Dan,’ he’d say, and everyone would laugh. He’d cuff me round the head affectionately to show it was a joke, and everyone would laugh some more. Popular, Adam was, and it was good of him to allow me to share in his charismatic glory. One time, I’d popped round to his house just as he was heading out – the rest of the gang were already there. He looked surprised to see me, but his mum insisted that I go out with them too, and so he invited me along. Sure, we both would rather have been alone together, but what can you do? People will always interfere, if you let them. Like Helen, when she came along.

The pin is rather sharper than I’d imagined it to be. And it looks a little rusty. I click the gas ignition on the hob and hold the pin over the flames, watching how they engulf it. The orange is so rich yet so translucent. I can’t believe it would hurt me if I just – ah!

I dart my fingers away, almost losing grip of the pin. But I hold it firm. I have to feel Luke’s pain; I have to know how to block it out, like he does, with the rose-thorn.

Turning off the hob, I retire to the sofa. I take the pin between finger and thumb, and press it into my skin. I don’t go very deep the first time, just leaving an indentation. Blood, there needs to be blood – otherwise how can I know what it feels like, the blood dripping round the thorn? I press a little deeper. Ow! That hurts. And only a miserable little pin-prick. I need to distract myself somehow, while I do it.

I pick up the phone and dial.

She answers.

‘Hello? Who is this?’

‘Hi, Nickie’ – that’s what Luke would do, shorten his beloved’s name – ‘it’s Dan.’

I dig the pin into my leg. Blood starts to appear under the surface.

There is a sigh from Nicole.

‘Hi, Dan; I’ll get Adam.’

‘Actually, Nickie, it’s you I want to speak to.’ I dig the pin deeper. Blood breaks the skin.

‘Oh!’ says Nicole.

Silence, as I continue to remove the pin, then drive it in again. I can imagine her there, in the bedroom, darkness, semi-dressed, wondering when this will end.

‘What do you want?’ asks Nicole, her voice tight.

‘Just to thank you, for this evening.’ Pin in, pin out, more blood. Mustn’t cry out. ‘And to say I’m really sorry about the wine.’

Nicole seems to relax a bit, getting used to me. Like Helen did, before the end.

‘Oh, that’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.’

‘Well, I hope you can clean up the blood.’ Shit. ‘I mean, the wine, the risotto, I hope you can clean it up.’

There is silence on the other end of the line.

Then, ‘Dan, if you’ve something to say, just say it.’

I stay silent. Make her wait.

‘Nickie?’

‘Yes?’

‘See you soon.’

She hangs up before I do, leaving me to examine the pinboard of my leg. I’ve done quite well, considering. And it doesn’t feel so bad. Only like some little ants, making pin-prick bites at your flesh. Attracted to blood, ants are. So I’ve heard. Unfortunately the sofa has suffered for my art, covered in tiny flowering buds of red. I’ll need to wash it. I pull the once-cream throw off the sofa, and drag it to the shower with me.

There’s a scene in the book when Luke is in real need of a shower. He’s been attending to his dinner date. I haven’t quite worked out the climax of the novel yet, but I think the scene is around that point. Luke likes his showers hot, to scrub everything away. Too bad the water in my shower is like ice. I’ll have to do that research elsewhere.

I come out of the shower shrunken and cold. That’s what a numb lobster would feel like, I guess. Their legs still move a little after you make the first incision, even when you take them out of the freezer. Slowly, pedalling through the air. The lady on Google says they feel no pain then, though, that this is perfectly normal. People believe what helps them, I guess.

Still shivering, I dry myself quickly and climb into bed. I will treat myself, I decide. Leaning over the bed, I pull out my secret stash. Some people would keep porn under their bed, I suppose. Lots of women with unattractively large bosoms, like Helen had – maybe that’s what she used to force Adam away from me. I bet Nicole keeps old theatre programmes under her bed (their bed) to remind her of when she was adored. Instead, I unlock the real book three from its chest. Yes, this is perfect bedtime reading. I smooth my hands over the handwritten pages, remembering, the excitement I felt when I wrote it, of that earlier closeness. And how happy I was for Helen to have the star turn, in the end.

Chapter 4

I always sleep with the door open, just because I can. Once you’ve slept with it closed, locked, against your own volition, I think you always will. I bet Adam does, too. Although I can imagine Nicole wanting to seal them in, into that prison of a bedroom, with her.

He always used to sleep with the door closed, before, when we were kids, when I was staying. He liked the dark, unlike some boys. His own space, cut off from other people. Adam must have been thrilled when he got the house in West Hampstead. Or rather, thrilled that he had found a wife who owned such a house. Comforted that he could still live there after her death.

My bedroom ceiling here has stars on it. Stars and little aeroplanes and space ships. Only partly because of the time when I couldn’t see them. Mostly because Adam had them, in his room. When Adam was pretending to sleep so that I wouldn’t exhaust myself from talking to him, his face turned to the wall in the bed on the opposite side of the room, I used to stare at those stars. Sometimes I’d wish on them. The main wish: that Adam and I would be together for always.

I don’t need to wish that now, though, here, tonight. You see, I know now that Adam and I will always be together. Sure, we sleep in separate beds, miles apart – 3.2 miles, to be precise. But even though I am tucked up here and he is there, doing unthinkable things with Nicole, we are together really. It was like that before, when we had separate rooms. I knew he was with me really.

Most people are not lucky enough to have a twenty-nine-year friendship like ours. I think I always knew it would be special, from the moment we started playing together, when we were eight. We had all the same interests. He joined chess club, I joined chess club. He went to the library, I went to the library. He played football, I played football. Like every good shadow, I was always there. We shared everything, then.

So I suppose I should be content. I suppose I should be happy, lying here, with my hands under my covers, preparing all of myself for sleep. But we’ve been so close, in the past. Even closer than now. True, he invites me round for dinner all the time. When Helen was there, I just had to take me chances, pop in when I could. Since she died, he’s more open to me being there. But I want to be closer. Again.

Oh! But of course! The method will give me that closeness! I sit up in the dark. Nicole is perfect for book four. I should have realised that is why I was led to her, as my woman to get close to, for Luke. It’s almost as pure and perfect as the epiphany that prompted book three. Her flesh will bring Adam and I as close as we were in that book, it will give me the closeness I’ve craved ever since.

For this is it: Adam has been there. In Nicole. If I, as Luke, have the most intimate closeness to, in, Nicole, I will be where Adam has been. And it will be like I am touching him. Our ultimate manhood brought together in Nicole.

Luke, then, will do it for me. Luke – my character, my invention – holds the key to unlocking those remaining layers that separate us. Yes, all the other goals remain the same. Through Nicole, through being with her, to understand what it is to be with a woman, I can method write that as well as the other parts of the book, and so I will get published. I’ll be able to afford a place on his street. I’ll get close to my main reader again, the one for whom I write all my work and live all my life: Adam. And when he sees the next book, and the fame that it brings me, he’ll appreciate my work. On page, and off. Yes, all that.

But now, I see, much more than this, I will achieve my prime goal: I will be as close to Adam again as I was in book three.

Chapter 5

Ignorant of my epiphany in last night’s darkness, the guys at the car rental are on true back-slapping form. Not my back – that never gets slapped. You’d think after ten years here I might be allowed into their fraternity. But then, they have not been here the full ten years. Just me. I wonder what they put in handover notes to their successors? Abuse Dan, he’s a weirdo. Mock Dan, it’ll kill some time. But don’t get changed in front of him.

This morning, it starts with my suit. That’s not my fault: Luke wears a suit to work in book four, so I need to see what that’s like, how restrictive it is, whether the tie stops me breathing. Luke’s suit would of course be grey silk, perfectly cut, like the suit Adam wore on his [first] wedding day. Unfortunately, my only suit – my funeral suit – is black and too small. Plus running in it probably hasn’t helped. It sticks to me in odd places.

Steve wolf-whistles when I walk into the reception area. He puts his head into the back room.

‘Guys,’ he shouts, ‘you gotta see this. Danny boy’s all dressed up!’

I ignore them and check the time. Good – 8.45. Another fifteen minutes until we open. I take my notebook and red pen from my rucksack. I sit on the high-stool beneath the counter, then stand up, wincing. My legs are covered in little scabs and bruises where the pin penetrated: a small round of blood encircled in a wider sphere of grey. Sitting down is to be avoided.

I start writing Luke’s working day in the City and then become conscious that I am being observed. I try to ignore the feeling but it is too intense, so I turn.

Steve, Chris and Prakesh are standing looking at me, grinning.

‘Oh, he’s writing in his diary now!’ says Chris.

‘It’s not a diary, it’s a novel,’ I say. They should know by now. I tell them often enough.

‘Are you writing down who you fancy, Danny boy?’ asks Steve. ‘In your diary?’

There’s enough of that in books two and three, I feel like telling them. But that would only lead to more questions.

‘Ooh, let it be me, let it be me,’ cries Prakesh, his hands clasped beneath his beard.

I continue writing.

Luke surveyed the other men on the trading floor, their sweaty ape-like faces. Their time had come – the trading bell tolled for all men. He rolled up the sleeves of his Thomas Pink shirt, cufflinks popping. Without warning, his fist connects with one of their jaws. The crack sounds like …

What does a crack sound like? I must find out. I take off my jacket and drape it over the counter.

‘Oh, a strip show! Excellent!’ says Steve.

I roll up the sleeves of my shirt, buttons popping.

‘Da, da, da-da-da,’ sings Steve. ‘You’ll have to be quick, mate, we open in five.’

I take one of my arms right back until my fist is level with my shoulder. I propel my fist forward and hit – nothing.

‘What, you practising your front crawl, mate? Need some armbands,’ laughs Steve, amused by his