Chapter 11
In retaliation for what Mrs Adams’s son said to me, I work from home on Wednesday and Thursday.
Sitting at Brendan’s kitchen table, in the freedom of baggy sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that once belonged to Tom, I treat Wednesday as an admin day.
I respond to emails, make some overdue phone calls, and finally file the submissions for Mr Foley’s case.
A few months ago, Mr Foley’s neighbour rear-ended his vehicle as they were both driving down their estate’s shared laneway.
The neighbour’s insurance paid for Mr Foley’s car to be fixed, but now, Mr Foley is seeking damages for personal injuries, namely whiplash.
When Mr Foley came to our offices, I advised him that his case wasn’t very strong, citing the fact that he’s recently been seen competing in tug-of-war competitions across the country.
Regardless, against my legal advice, Mr Foley wishes to proceed with the claim.
Presently, there isn’t any work to be done for Bethany’s appeal.
Once we receive her signature and file the Notice of Appeal Form, that’s when the real work will start.
On Thursday morning, an email arrives in my inbox.
It’s from the Focus Facility. They state that my request to meet with Bethany has been accepted.
Attached to the email is the protocol for attending the prison.
I don’t read through it; I already know what to expect.
I give Melissa a call that evening. She gives out about Judge Kearney, criticising his propensity for attention to detail.
I tell her about James Adams and his despicable comments.
At hearing this, Melissa is enraged. She wants me to report the situation to HR, but I think that would do more harm than good.
It would likely lead to an investigation, one where I’d end up being questioned by Mrs Adams herself.
Assessing my current workload, I quickly conclude that I could do without the added pressure of a HR investigation.
And my work life will be much easier if I stay on Mrs Adams’s good side.
I have to wake up early on Friday morning; another long commute awaits me: two hours on the train from Gorey to Connolly, a ten-minute walk to a specific bus stop, and then a thirty-five-minute bus journey to the Focus Facility.
As I sneak out of the spare bedroom, I aim to be as quiet as possible.
Brendan is still asleep because he works from home on Fridays.
Tiptoeing down his hallway while carrying my heavy-soled shoes, my tummy starts to grumble.
I forgot to have dinner last night because I was too busy taking Bailey for an evening walk.
Attempting to appease my groaning stomach with a carefully placed hand, I enter Brendan’s kitchen, desperate for sustenance.
As I wait for the bread to toast, I nose around Brendan’s kitchen presses.
Above me, where Brendan once housed rice, pasta and sugar, is a large, expensive-looking coffee machine.
I’m not a coffee person and neither is Brendan, so I’m confused as to why this is in his house.
That’s when I remember the only coffee drinker in the family: Tom.
Because I wasn’t welcome in any of his family members’ homes, Brendan made an extra effort to ensure Tom felt welcome in his.
Buying this coffee machine must’ve been his way of achieving this.
The toast pops up. It gives me the fright of my life like it always does, making my heart skip a beat.
I spread a mixture of melted butter and strawberry jam over my breakfast and stare out Brendan’s kitchen window.
I only see my reflection in the morning darkness.
My suit is as silver as the stainless steel of the coffee machine Brendan bought for Tom.
I look tired. My eyes are fighting just to stay open, my skin is puffy, and my head looks heavy on my skinny neck, as if I’m drunk with tiredness.
Staring at my fatigued face, I wonder if this is what the rest of my life will look like: occupying my twin brother’s spare bedroom, waking in the wee hours of the morning just to arrive in Dublin before 9:00, missing Tom’s touch so much that I feel like a hole is being burned into my heart every night as I lie awake.
Pathetically, I don’t have a plan to get myself out of this rut. I don’t even know where to start.
Wolfing down the remainder of my breakfast, I fix my tie, grab my bag, and make my way to the train station. It’ll certainly be another long day in Dublin.
It isn’t a sunny morning in Dublin. Gloomy clouds fill the sky, but the temperature remains unseasonably warm.
It’s a windless day. I’m waiting at the bus stop.
According to the printed timetable, the bus should have been here five minutes ago.
Conversely, according to the departures and arrivals board, the bus should be here in seven minutes.
I text with Melissa while I wait. Inevitably, our conversation turns to dating.
I think it might be good for you. It’d be a great way to get over Tom.
I don’t think I’m ready for all that.
Nonsense, Nick. You’re in the prime of your life. Don’t waste these precious years pining over Tom.
When I don’t reply to her last message, Melissa texts:
I think you should give Conor from IT a chance at least. It’s not like you have to marry him. Just have some fun – you deserve it.
I don’t respond to this text either.
Eight minutes later, I board the bus. It’s a double decker, so I climb the stairs to find a seat.
The top level is almost empty; I guess people are coming into Dublin City at this time rather than going out.
The only other person upstairs is an Asian woman with a fluffy brown cat.
The cat is on a leash, but he’s still hopping around from seat to seat.
When I crouch down to rub him, he purrs loudly.
I make small talk with his owner as I scratch his chin.
As the bus travels further and further away from Dublin City and closer and closer to the Focus Facility, the sky grows darker, angrier. It looks like there’s a storm resting above the clouds, and we’re driving right into them. At this sight, my stomach spasms, fizzing and gurgling with worry.
My phone buzzes. The feeling in my stomach only gets worse at this. Thankfully, the text has come from Melissa.
Just have a think about it. Please.
To get her off my case, I thumb back a reply straightaway.
I will. I promise.
As I hit send, the bus rolls into the bus stop outside the Focus Facility.
My insides tighten as I thank the driver and depart.
I look right at the Facility. Usually, it isn’t a daunting place to view, but in this light, with darkness looming in the clouds above, an uncontrollable shiver snakes down my spine.
It’s a large building with three stories and a basement level.
It comprises various rectangular buildings, like shoeboxes stacked on top of, and beside one another.
The exterior is painted white, but under these clouds, that colour appears closer to grey.
Because the Facility is on the outskirts of Dublin, the surrounding area is greener than that of the city.
Large trees and small patches of grass are dotted around its grounds.
Pretty flowerbeds decorate the entrance.
The Facility has a maximum capacity of a hundred and eighty-two prisoners, but current estimates have that number at closer to two hundred and fifty, meaning that some single rooms are now being used as doubles.
I check my watch. It’s 9:40. Ben and I had planned to meet at 9:45. That means he has five minutes to get here. I assume he’s driving, so I walk from the bus stop to the Facility’s carpark.
I applaud Ben’s bravery to drive in Dublin City.
It is something I cannot bring myself to do.
There are too many lanes, too many one-way systems that aren’t clearly marked as such, and too many mean drivers for my liking.
Even when I lived in Donnybrook, I only drove if I was travelling in the opposite direction, far away from Dublin City.
I commend Ben for this ability. It’s just another thing he’s better at doing.
As I idle in the carpark, I cast my gaze downwards to my shoe. I notice a spot of muck above my big toe. Woefully, a miserable memory flashes before me, like the scab over a healing wound has been picked off.
Tom hated the muck. Just before Halloween, I arranged a date where we could pick pumpkins.
I thought it was an excellent idea, and Tom seemed to think so too, at least until we arrived at the pumpkin patch.
Before we even got there, we’d run into an issue.
Tom didn’t own a pair of wellington boots.
To combat this, Tom wanted to wear a pair of five-hundred-euro yachting boots to a sloppy field in the middle of Wexford. I said no, and a little scrap ensued.
‘They’ll be alright’, Tom said. ‘I can just buy a new pair if I need to.’
‘Tom, they’re five-hundred-euro’, I preached. ‘I can’t let you do that. They’re way too expensive.’
‘God, Nick. Stop controlling every little thing’, Tom blurted out. It was like he’d been holding on to this for ages, and now was the time for the eruption. ‘Just let loose for once in your Goddamn life. Not everything needs to be controlled by you.’
The scrap didn’t really matter anyway. Both of us ended up wearing old runners.
Tom complained about the muck for the entire date, and I pretended to listen to him.
We drove back to Brendan’s house in silence, carved our pumpkins in silence, and drove back to Dublin the next day in silence. When we got home, I tried to fix it.
‘Talk to me, Tom’, I pleaded.
‘I don’t want to talk’, Tom said. ‘I just want some space. Is that too much to ask, Nick?’
‘Tom, please’, I begged. ‘Don’t shut me out. Just talk to me.’