Chapter 1 #2
I shift uneasily in the stool I’m sitting on. We’re at Brendan’s kitchen island, which is positioned gracefully between his kitchen and living room area. The long slab of black marble is cold against my elbows, so the warmth provided by the tea is welcomed by my palms.
Sipping from the cup, I whisper, “Thanks. Me too.”
“Are you alright?” he asks. I can feel his heavy eyes on me.
I don’t look Brendan in the eye when I reply, “I don’t know.” Rather, I keep my focus on a decorative white crack in the marble countertop.
Brendan reaches across the island, carefully placing his hand on my forearm. It’s warm, familiar, and for a brief moment, I don’t feel so empty.
“It’ll be okay,” Brendan tells me. “Everything will be okay. As Mam always says, ‘This too shall pass’.”
I try not to roll my eyes. The only way this feeling will pass is if Tom tells me he still loves me.
I place my palm over Brendan’s and squeeze. I find comfort in examining our shared features: the forest-green eyes that Mam gave to us, the slight bump on the bridge of our noses that also came from Mam, and the wavy curls in our hair that Dad provided.
“You can stay here for as long as you need,” Brendan assures me. “You can stay here forever if you want.”
I thank him by giving his hand another gentle squeeze. Then I think about Tom, and I feel a weight press against my chest.
Sensing my torment, Brendan says, “Would you like to talk about something else, Nicky?”
I nod quickly. If I try to speak more about Tom, I’m afraid I’ll cry.
“How’s work?” I blurt out. I gulp my tea in the hope that its warmth will quell the pain in my chest.
Brendan sits back, exhaling loudly. “It’s the usual. Sure, you know yourself – there are still too many people and not enough houses for them.”
Brendan works in the homeless unit in the Department of Housing.
I’m always amazed by his work ethic. No matter how bad the news gets or how vicious the critiques of the Department become, Brendan always turns up for work ready to do whatever is required of him.
Truthfully, I commend his entire team for this.
If I was in their position, having negative appraisals thrown at me from all sides, I wouldn’t survive for very long.
I loosen the top button of my shirt and spread out the collar. It’s hot in Brendan’s home. “Same old, same old, then.”
“Pretty much,” Brendan says. He downs what’s left in his cup. “What about you? How’s work? You’re the solicitor in the Murray case, right?”
I inhale, shoulders rising. “I am.”
“I heard about it on the news. It’s just awful.”
Brendan’s right. It is awful. Bethany Murray is accused of murdering her husband, Joe.
Indeed, the evidence against her is stronger than any case I’ve managed before: fingerprints on the murder weapon, no alibi, defensive wounds on the victim that correlate with the wounds evident on Bethany’s body, and a clear, uncoerced confession to the crime.
The media has painted Bethany as a malicious, horrible killer, and the public seem to believe this.
But that couldn’t be further from the truth.
In my many dealings with Bethany, she has been kind, gentle and remorseful.
Though she admitted to murdering her husband when questioned by the Gardaí and did not take any steps to retract such an admission, she refused to plead guilty.
Hence, the trial that captivated the country ensued.
These events, coupled with Bethany’s peculiar actions from time to time, arouse suspicion within me.
In my untrained opinion, I believe Bethany’s mind may be unwell.
I don’t dispute the fact that she murdered her husband.
That’s clear from the evidence. However, I’m more concerned for Bethany’s right to a fair trial.
I don’t think Bethany was in her right mind when she committed this crime; I think she may have been insane.
And I don’t think she’s been in her right mind for the entirety of the trial.
Unfortunately, the barrister I’ve been working with, Mr Fergal Thistlethorn, didn’t think an insanity defence or raising the issue of her fitness to be tried would be of benefit to Bethany.
“The likelihood of being successful with an insanity defence is very slim,” he told me when I brought it up. “It’s not a good idea. And raising her fitness to be tried isn’t going to change the fact that she admitted to murdering her husband.”
“But—”
“No buts, Mr Carthy. I’m the barrister, and I’ve decided to defend this case in a different way. I will not hear talk of” – he made air quotes with his arthritis-bent fingers – “‘insanity’ again. Have I made myself clear?”
Defeated, I acquiesced. He’s the barrister after all; he knows what’s right, I rationalised at the time.
The Central Criminal Court heard the case for two weeks.
The case came to a close with Mr Thistlethorn providing a pitiful defence for Bethany, one that was far too complicated for the jury to follow.
Because of this and his rudeness when ordering me not to mention ‘insanity’ as a defence, Melissa and I have been calling him Mr Thistle-twat.
I’m careful about what information I relay to Brendan about the case; I don’t want to lose my job for breaching legal privilege. I outline the basics and finish with, “So we’re just waiting on a verdict at the moment.”
“Sounds like it’s a slam dunk for the DPP in my opinion,” Brendan says. Like me, he also holds a degree in law. We attended the same college thanks to scholarships. So his observations are welcome.
I exhale for a long moment. “I guess we’ll see.”
Thoughts of Bethany in prison instead of the hospital, where she belongs, bring me just as much hurt as thoughts of Tom.
Brendan takes our empty cups to the sink; I make my way to his spare bedroom.
It’s getting late – long tendrils of night are creeping into the sky – and I’m exhausted from the drive.
I climb into bed, laptop in hand. The bed is soft like a marshmallow; I sink into it.
In contrast, my laptop is heavy and cold.
The keys are stiff, so I must press them firmly.
There are many unopened emails in my inbox.
That’s the nature of this job at times. Some weeks, I have sufficient time to read and reply to all correspondence.
Other weeks, I’m too swamped to even look at my inbox.
This week is a busy week. I scroll up and down my inbox.
I only manage to read the subject line of a few emails before I’m forced to quit.
My brain can’t focus. Right now, I don’t care about Mrs Redmond’s contract law issue or Mr Foley’s quarrel with his neighbour.
I definitely don’t care about the flashing reminder of Ben Kehoe’s victory.
What’s the point in all of it? I only care about one thing.
I only care about Tom. And what’s the point in doing all of this if I don’t have Tom?
I slam the laptop shut and fire it towards the end of the bed. Still dressed in the white shirt I drove down in, I shimmy beneath the duvet, roll over onto my side and shut my eyes.
That night, I dream of Tom and the life I no longer have.