Chapter 7
Why do I detest Ben Kehoe? Good question.
Ben Kehoe and I attended the same college for our undergraduate degrees.
Dublin University. Basically, this meant that we saw each other for six to eight hours a day, five days a week for three consecutive years, save for the Christmas and summer holidays, bank holidays and the odd sick day here and there.
The worst thing about being rivals with Ben Kehoe at that time was the fact that he probably never thought of us as such.
Ben was smart, smarter than most people on our law course.
Or, as Ben likely saw it: smarter than everyone on the course.
He ticked all the boxes. Intelligent. Charismatic.
Punctual. Sporty. Apparently, he came from a good family too.
Something interesting that I overheard about Ben was that his grandfather was the seventh son of a seventh son.
I’d heard my nanny talk about this aspect of Irish folklore before she passed.
This meant that Ben’s grandfather should have had special powers granted to him by God.
I don’t know if this is true. Obviously, I never met his grandfather.
I suppose it could be plausible. My nanny also told me that seventh sons of seventh sons can be quite arrogant.
This was more believable. I’m unsure about his grandfather, but I can certainly confirm that, during our three undergraduate years at least, Ben Kehoe was an arrogant bastard.
Nowhere was Ben’s arrogance more prominent than in our criminal law tutorials.
Only five people were in the tutorial class: three boys and two girls.
Ben knew everything about everything, or at least he thought he did.
While the rest of us sat there watching as Dr Jennifer Brennan, our tutor, filled the whiteboard with incomprehensible scribbles about the law and how to answer specific legal questions, Ben would hum to himself.
When Dr Brennan inevitably asked if we understood the steps that she’d taken to get to her answer, Ben would shout ‘Of course, it’s so simple!
’ That would be that. Ben would get a gleaming nod of approval from Dr Brennan and the rest of us would turn to each other with scared, dumbfounded expressions filling our faces.
At the end of our second year, an annual competition was held.
Whoever penned the most impressive essay on a specific topic would be given increased financial assistance from the university for their final year.
That year’s topic was insanity in Irish law, which includes the insanity defence, fitness to be tried, and diminished responsibility.
Brendan and I entered the competition as a team.
Lots of students on the course entered as a team.
Ben, however, was a lone wolf. Brendan and I spent weeks working on the essay.
We stayed up until the early hours of the morning, typing up as much information as our tired brains would allow.
When the time came to submit our final essay, we were sure that we’d win.
But when the day came to announce the winner, our names weren’t called.
The name ‘Ben Kehoe’ rang through the awards hall instead.
With anger churning in my gut, I realised that his victory meant only one thing: his essay was better than mine.
To make things worse, Ben was unapologetically beautiful.
Many of the girls, and some of the boys, on our course wanted a piece of him, and not just for his intelligence.
He was broad-shouldered, naturally handsome, and had captivating eyes.
He played many varsity sports: badminton, hurling, Gaelic football, soccer.
Thanks to this athleticism, every muscle was toned and defined.
He was someone that took care of his body, someone that felt comfortable in his own skin, and he emitted that confidence wherever he went. This infuriated me.
One time, on a night out, I saw a girl practically swoon when Ben passed by her.
“Oh my God, did you see that?” she giddily whispered to her friends. “Ben Kehoe winked at me. He winked at me!”
To add to this, Ben had a deep voice that sent shivers through me.
One day, during a tort law class, Dr Bowman, our lecturer, came up with the solid idea to allow the person who sat beside you to correct your in-class assessment. Needless to say, on that fateful day, the person beside me was Ben.
As soon as I handed my assessment over to him, he took a look at my sheet, threw up his nose in disgust and said, ‘Suppose you’re hoping for attempt marks to pass, are you?
’ What made this whole saga worse was the fact that I was praying for attempt marks.
A few weeks later, our constitutional law lecturer had the same idea for correcting our essays on Article 15.
2.1. Tragically, again, Ben was seated beside me.
He took my essay and said, ‘I bet you made a very detailed little plan for this. Pity the plan won’t get you any marks’.
Just like I planned my life, I meticulously planned my essays.
So much so that when it came time to write the actual essay, ninety percent of the work had already been done. Clearly, Ben didn’t approve of this.
Ever since, particularly when I’m crafting a plan in my mind, I hear those nasty words in my ear. Worse, the words are spoken in his voice. ‘Pity the plan won’t get you any marks’.
Ben and I continued to battle for the highest grade in our classes; who beat who alternating by one or two percent each week. That whole time, we only really talked to each other when we had a critique to offer.
‘You advised the client incorrectly in the tort law problem question’, he would spit at me.
‘Well, your essay on the right to freedom of speech sounded like a junior infant wrote it’, I would spit back.
One week after our final exams, at a party thrown by Brendan and me, Ben and I said our goodbyes. We were destined to never see each other ever again. Or so I thought.
‘I wish you the best in King’s Inns’, I lied as we stood outside the apartment, darkness consuming the sky. Ben was headed to King’s Inns to pursue the degree of Barrister-at-Law.
‘Same to you. Behave yourself in Blackhall’, he lied back.
I, on the other hand, planned to take the FE1 exams – solicitor exams – and commence the Professional Practice Course at Blackhall Place with the Law Society.
Something else happened that night to solidify our mutual desire to never meet again. I cringe whenever I think about it. That party was five years ago. It was the last time we ever spoke to or saw each other.
Until now. When my life is erupting into flames. When I’ve just lost Tom and one of the most captivating cases of the decade, and Ben’s recently been triumphant in the Court of Appeal. Of course this is when I’m forced to see him. When I’m at my lowest and he couldn’t be any higher.
Still cemented to my spot between Ben and Mr O’Leary, like a tree rooted in the ground, my mind races.
Time seems to expand and contract. I don’t know what to do, where to go.
I cannot flee because I’m out in the open.
Even if I did, there’s nowhere to hide. I plan my escape.
I duck to my left, towards the group of paralegals, and pretend to study the chalk board with all of Trisha’s prices on it.
Seconds later, I crane my neck to steal a glance over my shoulder. Ben is inches away. Thankfully, he’s too consumed with greeting Mr O’Leary to notice me.
I really wish I were anywhere else.
“Nick,” Mr O’Leary says, returning his attention to me. “Nick Carthy. Come over here to me.”
With Mr O’Leary calling my name, I abandon my plan to make a run for it.
“Nick. I can see you there. Come here to us.” His use of ‘us’ rips the strength away from my knees, forcing them to wobble. ‘Us’. Mr O’Leary and Ben Kehoe.
I bite the inside of my cheek, draw in a deep breath, reluctantly plaster a smile onto my face, and move away from the chalkboard. My hot chocolate is secured tightly in my hand. There are only a few mouthfuls left.
“Sorry,” I say, pretending to be dazed. I keep my eyes solely on Mr O’Leary. “I was just considering whether to get something sweet.”
“As if the hot chocolate isn’t enough already,” Ben jokes.
He doesn’t aim the observation at me; rather, he says it to Mr O’Leary.
Mr O’Leary sniggers. Ben quickly joins in. He stumbles backwards and laughs the same laugh I spent three long years listening to. Defeated and embarrassed, I mimic the laughter.
Mr O’Leary is the first to cease laughing. “Ben,” he begins. He moves to the side to reveal me. “You know Nick Carthy, right? You surely recognise him. I believe you two attended Dublin University together.”
Ben examines me from head to toe. His examination feels slightly unusual, like he’s looking at something in particular.
A flaw, perhaps. As his eyes meet mine, I can tell he recognises me.
Still, there’s a furrow in his brow that remains in place.
It’s like he’s uncertain. Maybe he recognises the face and remembers the name but cannot place the two together.
Five years is a long time. Perhaps I’ve changed.
I feel completely naked under his scrutiny.
Ben nods. “You do look familiar… Dublin University. Nick Carthy.” He exhales while scratching his chin. Then, all of a sudden, his eyes enlarge as he makes the connection. “You’re one of the Carthy twins, aren’t you?”
I feel myself redden. “I am.”
“Nick Carthy. Of course. Good thing your brother isn’t here. I don’t think I’d be able to tell the two of you apart if he was.”