Chapter 11 #2
He put his head down, walked right past me, and didn’t come out of his office until later that night.
I tried to make a plan to fix things after that.
Making a plan was my safety net. It made me stronger.
If I stuck to my plan, everything would be okay.
The plan to save my relationship with Tom was unsuccessful, though.
Almost a year later, Tom told me he wasn’t happy and that he wanted me to leave.
The sound of a roaring engine obstructs my recollection of Tom, the pumpkin patch, and what came after.
I peer into the distance, squinting my eyes.
As the sound of the growling engine grows louder, I spot Ben’s enormous pickup.
It almost flies over the hill, he’s driving so fast. He speeds towards the Facility’s carpark and barely slows down to take the turn.
Watching him drive so carelessly sends a ripple of nausea through my already anxious being.
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to vomit. It’s exactly 9:45.
“How are you this morning, Nick?” Ben asks as he steps out of his pickup.
Once again, the enormity of the vehicle is highlighted by the fact that it occupies two car parking spaces.
Ben isn’t wearing a tie, and the top button of his shirt is open.
From the gap at his neck, tiny specks of chest hair emerge.
They’re dark, curly, just like the hairs I spied on his abdomen days ago.
To distract myself from imagining what rests beneath his shirt, I stare at the muck on my shoe.
“Great,” I finally answer. “And you?”
“Ah sure, not too bad.” He opens the rear driver’s side door, pulls out a tie, and swiftly ties it around his neck with practiced efficiency.
“Is this your first time at the Focus Facility?” I enquire.
“Yes, but it isn’t my first time at a prison. I know what to expect.”
“What’s the plan then?”
“What did I tell you about plans, Nick?”
Feeling slightly attacked by the hue of malice in his tone, I remind him of our pact. “I thought we agreed to be nice to each other? Leave the past in the past?”
Ben looks as if he is about to challenge me, but then, likely thinking better of it, surrenders. He sighs. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
I’m victorious. “Apology accepted. Now, let’s get to work.”
With that, we walk to the Facility’s wide entrance; all the while, our shoes clack against the tarmac, the sound echoing through the eerily quiet grounds.
As we walk through the entrance’s automatic doors, I take one last look at the sky.
The clouds appear just as wrathful as they did before, and there’s no sign of the sun.
Ben and I make our way through the Facility. We sign all relevant forms, remove our belts and watches to pass through a metal detector, and allow an excited canine to sniff our bodies and our briefcases. We’re then brought into a meeting room where Bethany is already waiting for us.
She jumps up when she sees me. “Nick! You’re here!” She rushes to embrace me but is quickly placed back into her chair by the attending prison officer.
“Behave yourself, Mrs Murray. How many times do we have to tell you?” the prison officer grumbles.
Like a student that’s just been chastised by their teacher, Bethany scrunches her face and then looks down at the floor.
I take a seat beside her and compassionately place my hand on her back. “It’s okay, Bethany.”
While rubbing her back, I turn to the prison officer and request that she leave the room. ‘Legal privilege and all that’ I use as my excuse. Grudgingly, the prison officer peels herself from the back wall and trudges out the door. I shout a ‘Thank you’ when I know she’s out of earshot.
Ben sits down opposite Bethany, placing one hand in the other on the table in front of us. Bethany is still staring at the ground.
“Bethany?” I say as softly as my voice will allow. “I need you to look up from the ground, please, sweetheart. I have someone that I’d like you to meet.”
Bethany whispers something to herself. I don’t quite catch what she says. Judging from Ben’s puzzled expression, neither does he.
I try again. “Bethany, can you look up please?”
Slowly, Bethany pulls her attention away from the floor.
She looks directly at me. Somehow, she looks even worse than she did at the start of the week, when the guilty verdict was given.
Her face is thinner, almost gaunt, and her eyes have sunk into her skull.
It looks like she hasn’t had a wink of sleep in days.
I do my best to hide the surprise in my expression: I release the tension in my brow and keep my mouth closed.
“Bethany?” I point at Ben, inviting her to appraise him. “This is Ben. He’ll be your barrister for your appeal case.”
Ben smiles warmly at her, but Bethany just looks straight ahead.
“Do you know what that means, Bethany? Do you know what an appeal is?” I ask her.
An extended silence rests between Bethany, Ben and me.
“Do you know what appealing a conviction means?” Ben tries.
Unable to look either of us in the eye, Bethany shakes her head while staring at the table. My heart breaks when I glance at her. She looks as if she is about to cry: her lip is trembling, and her breaths are unsteady.
Tenderly, I place my hand on her back. She does not wince. I whisper, “That’s okay, Bethany. That’s what we’re here to explain to you. Would you like us to explain it to you?”
Bethany nods slowly, still too ashamed to look up from the table.
Then Ben details the criminal appeals process to her in a clear, accessible way.
When he’s finished, Bethany confirms that she understands the processes that Ben has just described.
She signs the Notice of Appeal Form with a shaky hand, and Ben and I provide our signatures also.
Just as we’re about to leave, disaster strikes.
All of a sudden, Bethany starts to shriek, “He’s back! He’s back! There he is!” She’s cowering beneath the table, pointing at a blank space on the wall. “He’s there!” She’s screaming. “Somebody help me!”
Within seconds, two hefty prison officers bull through the door. “What is it this time, Bethany?” one of them barks. “You seen that monster again, I suppose.”
“He’s right there!” Bethany yells, still pointing at the wall. Her eyes are burning with terror, pupils resembling endless black holes. I’ve never seen anybody so scared in my life. “Help me!” Bethany screams.
The male prison officer rolls his eyes. “Not this shit again.” He steps over to Bethany, the female officer trailing him. “C’mon, Bethany. He isn’t real. Stop your screaming now.”
“We’re going to have to ask you two to leave,” the female officer says to us.
Ben and I look at each other. Before Ben can say anything, I quickly ask the officer, “How often does this happen?”
The officer closes her eyes, squeezes her forehead with her index finger and thumb, and groans loudly. “It’s happened nearly every day since she arrived here.”
“So, since the day she was arrested?”
The officer hisses, “Yes, that’s what I said. Now, please leave.”
Ben and I follow her orders. We don’t speak until we’re outside Ben’s pickup.
“Think we’ve got good grounds for an appeal now?” I ask him.
Slightly breathless, Ben answers, “You bet I do. And if she’s been seeing this ‘man’ since she was first remanded into custody, it’s likely that she’s been seeing him for quite some time.”
“Maybe even before Joe was murdered.”
“Or when Joe was murdered. Maybe this ‘man’ compelled her to do it.”
Ben had said it. If we could prove that Bethany was suffering from a mental disorder at the time of the crime’s commission, our appeal grounded in insanity should be considered.
At best, it should be successful. There are other factors to do with insanity and fitness to be tried that will need to be proven before the court, but that can be dealt with at a later date.
“I think we might win this thing,” Ben says. His grin is wide, so wide that I could count all of his perfect teeth.
“Me too.”
Ben insists on driving me back to O’Leary and Adams’s office after we meet with Bethany.
The weather has improved: the indignant clouds have pulled apart from each other, exposing patches of blue sky and yellow sunshine here and there.
Light drips through these patches, illuminating selected areas of the day.
Just like Tuesday afternoon, Ben refuses to take no for an answer.
To save myself some time, I accept Ben’s proposal for a lift.
As we edge closer to Dublin City, he asks me more questions about why I’m staying with Brendan.
“I just think there’s more to the story that you aren’t telling me.” He wags his long finger. “Why are you staying with Brendan? And why are you painting his house when the summer is over?”
To be honest, I’m sick of all these questions.
And I’m sick of having to remember the lies about painting Brendan’s house.
Ben knows something is up. Why else would he be asking questions about what type of exterior paint we’re using and whether rollers or paintbrushes are superior if he wasn’t trying to catch me in a lie?
Moreover, what am I lying for? If Tom never takes me back, all this secrecy will be for nothing.
Considering Tom hasn’t called or texted since I left, the likelihood of our reunification seems to deplete with every passing hour.
“Fine. I’ll answer your question if you answer mine afterwards.”
Smacking the steering wheel with triumph, Ben sings, “Deal!”
“I’m staying with Brendan because of some boyfriend trouble. That’s all I’m going to say. Now it’s your turn.”
Ben whispers, “I’m sorry to hear that, Nick.”
“It’s fine,” I say, a tad too quickly.
The vehicle goes quiet. Ben continues to fly through amber traffic lights while I absently gaze out the window, my mind absorbed by thoughts of Tom.
We don’t talk again until we’re back at the office. As we’re exiting the pickup, Ben’s voice slices through the quiet. “You haven’t asked me a question yet. What would you like to know?”
Slamming the passenger door shut, I centre my attention on Ben. “How about you tell me something about you that no one else knows.”
Ben comes around to join me at the passenger side of his vehicle. I’m pressed against the pickup, and he’s positioned right in front of me. He lifts an eyebrow. For a moment, we have a stare-down. His dazzling eyes glisten under the sun’s rays.
Out of nowhere, Ben leans into me, as if what he is about to tell me is so confidential not even the birds flying above us should hear it.
His breath is warm and moist against my neck.
When he leans over too much and starts to fall, he steadies himself by delicately putting his hand at my hip.
The warmth in his touch penetrates my trousers to kiss my skin.
Suddenly I feel very hot, and my breath spools out of my chest.
Flashes of that night blaze before me. Everything is the same: the way he touches me gently; the way his aftershave tickles my nose; the way he cranes his neck; and my heart tripping in anticipation.
He whispers into my ear, “I came back for you after that party.”