Chapter 8
“Hello, Nick Carthy speaking.”
No response.
“Hello? Bethany is that you?”
I hear a sniffle.
“Nick?”
I stop walking, having tucked myself down an alleyway. Hidden from any possible eavesdroppers, I say, “Yes, Bethany. It’s Nick. Are you alright?”
She speaks each sentence in between heaves and sobs. “Nick, why am I back in here? I thought I could go home. Mr Thistlethorn said he would do everything possible to get me home.”
Bethany is correct. Mr Thistlethorn did say that. But in Mr Thistlethorn’s defence, like any good barrister, he never guaranteed that Bethany would return home.
Bethany is still sobbing when she says, “I just want to go home.”
I try to be as soothing and empathetic as I can. Delicately, I whisper, “I know, Bethany. I know.”
A few seconds of quiet follows. During that time, I remember my duties as Bethany’s solicitor.
“Bethany,” I begin. “Do you understand what happened today?”
“What happened today?”
“Yes. In court. Do you remember being in court?”
“Yes.”
“And do you remember what the man from the jury said when asked for a verdict?”
“He said ‘Guilty’.”
“Yes, and do you know what that means? What it means to be found guilty?”
Again a silence spreads between us.
“Bethany?”
Silence.
“Bethany, are you still there?”
In the background, I hear a man, likely the prison officer, shouting. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but his voice echoes.
“Are you alright, Bethany?” I ask.
“Just tell them that I’m allowed to go home now, Nick. Just tell them that Mr Thistlethorn said I could go home,” Bethany pleads.
Before I can formulate the words to explain her circumstances to her, Bethany hangs up. Whether the call was ended by Bethany or the prison officer with the echoing voice, I do not know.
With the sun beating down on me as I loiter in the cobblestoned alleyway, I loosen my tie and expel a long stream of air from my lungs. I lean against an adjoining building’s wall and throw my head back. What’s my plan going to be? How do I fix this?
I already know the answer. I’ve already accepted what I have to do.
The conviction needs to be appealed. And an experienced barrister is needed.
Working with Ben Kehoe certainly wasn’t a feature of my original plan, but it sure is part of the plan now.
Maybe Ben is Bethany’s only hope. And if it’ll benefit Bethany, I’ll work alongside him.
In the afternoon, the office is stuffy; the warm air is trapped around us by the thickness of the windows.
The air conditioning has been broken for almost a month, and because the O’Leary and Adams office is located on the eighth floor of this massive building, windows cannot be opened; it’s a health and safety hazard, apparently.
On the plus side, the office provides a wonderful view of the River Liffey.
Whenever I start to feel stressed, I like to stare at the waves.
That’s exactly what I’m doing when Melissa bulls into the office.
Melissa is always carrying numerous bags. Today she has a large backpack on her back and two stuffed tote bags over each shoulder. I wonder how she has the strength to manage such a heavy load when she herself is so tiny.
“Nick,” Melissa greets me breathlessly. She dumps her bags onto her desk, lets out a deep breath, and arches backwards to crack her spine. Once her spine has clicked, she fixes her grey skirt and scratches at her black tights.
Conveniently, Melissa’s desk is located right beside mine. I’m so grateful for this.
“Got anything good in those bags?” I ask, reaching towards the tote she typically uses to house chocolate.
“See for yourself.” She opens the bag that I’m reaching for and takes a seat.
While Melissa is combing her beautiful honey-blonde hair with her fingers, I dig for gold. Sure enough, Melissa’s bounty does not disappoint.
Pulling out a giant Dairy Milk? I gently ask, “Can I have it?” I eye the chocolate like a child eyes the toy they yearn for.
Melissa lets out a tiny laugh. “Yes, Nick. I got it for you.”
I’m in awe of her. “You’re too good to me, Melissa.”
“Just being a good friend.” She’s fiddling with the chain around her neck, running the polished silver against her lips.
It isn’t difficult to tell that Melissa wants to ask me something, especially because I sense her eyes are still directed at me, while mine have returned to the river outside the window.
Eventually, she says softly, “Nick?”
I turn back to her, a tightness in my gut. I already know what she’s going to ask me.
“How are you doing, sweetheart? What happened with Tom if you don’t mind my asking?” Her voice is kind, almost motherly.
I draw in a long breath and keep my eyes shut for a moment, holding back the tears. When I’m ready, I tell Melissa everything.
“Jesus,” Melissa breathes when I finish. She scoots her swivel chair over to me and places her warm hand on my shaking thigh. “I’m so sorry, Nick. You really didn’t deserve that. I thought better of Tom. He is such a—”
I interrupt Melissa before she can call Tom an asshole. Yes, he did a shitty thing. Yes, he broke my heart. But Tom isn’t an asshole. Not in my eyes. I still feel an obligation to defend him.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
Melissa moves her head closer to mine. “Nick, I just think—”
Rudely, I interrupt Melissa yet again. This time, however, it isn’t out of an obligation to Tom.
No. Mrs Ursula Adams is marching through the open office.
The sound of her high-heeled footsteps is not absorbed by the carpet.
I sneak a glance at her. Her skinny frame is hugged by a bright orange dress, and her brown, asymmetric bob of hair has recently been highlighted.
The various pieces of gold jewellery decorating her person likely cost more money than Brendan’s bungalow in Gorey.
Mrs Adams is a powerful woman. I’m afraid of her.
“She’s coming,” I whisper to Melissa. “Make it look like we’re working.”
Panicked, Melissa pulls her chair closer to my desk. As Mrs Adams strides by us, we’re both peering into my laptop screen, pretending to read an employment law case about the difference between an employee and an independent contractor.
“That was a close one,” Melissa breathes when Mrs Adams disappears. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“My pleasure. We don’t want to be put on a Performance Improvement Plan like Darragh over there.
” I point in the direction of Darragh’s cluttered desk.
About six months ago, Mrs Adams walked past his desk in search of a paralegal.
Unfortunately for Darragh, he was sending a non-work-related text at the time: a personal message to his wife, asking if their newborn’s cough had got any worse.
Mrs Adams didn’t care for this excuse; she promptly reprimanded Darragh and then put him on a Performance Improvement Plan.
If Darragh sets one foot astray, I’m sure Mrs Adams won’t hesitate to sack him.
“Exactly.” Melissa returns to her desk. She opens her laptop and logs in. “I should actually get some work done before court tomorrow.”
With that, Melissa and I turn away from each other. She makes a start on the brief for the Cosgrove case, and I stare out at the Liffey, thinking of Tom.
Hours later, with the sun starting to fall and the clock’s hour hand ticking closer to five, I pick up my phone and do something I shouldn’t: I type a text to Tom.
Hey Tom. It’s Nick. I just want everything to go back to the way it was. Can we do that? Please. I promise we’ll be happy again. Like we were before. Please Tom.
My thumb floats dangerously close to the green arrow that would send the message.
I read and re-read the message many times.
Mercifully, the rational part of my brain kicks in before I can send it.
Tom made it very clear that he wasn’t happy with you, it tells me.
If he wanted to talk, he’d text you. Don’t be weak.
Tom doesn’t want you. For good measure, it goes on to add, And you weren’t always happy to be with Tom either.
Our relationship wasn’t perfect. I had to make some sacrifices, big sacrifices.
Because Tom’s parents didn’t approve of their son being gay, we were forced to hide our relationship from them.
The first time I met Tom’s mother, Tom and I had been dating for over two years.
We met her at a café in a posh part of Dublin that I still incorrectly pronounce – Killiney.
Tom introduced me as his ‘friend’, but I think his mother suspected we were something more.
Even if she did, she didn’t say anything about it.
She wasn’t nice to me either. She refused to ask me any questions, never looked me in the eye and rolled her eyes whenever I spoke.
From then on, his mother did everything in her power to exclude me from Tom’s life.
I never met Tom’s father. He never even knew I existed.
If Tom’s father happened to arrive at the house while I was there, Tom had given clear instructions that I was to be his ‘tenant’, a recently qualified solicitor who was just renting the spare room at a decent price.
To make the lie more believable, Tom and I set up the spare bedroom in such a way as to make it look like someone slept there.
Tom bought a bed, desk, and sheets from IKEA, and bought a collection of worn, tattered legal textbooks from a second-hand bookshop.
After we set up the room, Tom was elated.
I, on the other hand, cried beneath the streams of lukewarm water provided by the shower.
In the end, all that hard work was for nothing.
Tom’s father never visited when I was there.
Tom only invited him over when he knew I’d be at work or out meeting Brendan.
And that was that. Years of having my existence hidden and erased because of my gender. Hidden to protect the feelings of a person that never knew I existed and the person that actively tried to pretend I didn’t.