Chapter 13
It’s a wet, grey morning in Dublin. Drops of rain trickle down the tall windows. Inside, the office is brightened by overhead fluorescent lights. The light above my desk buzzes and twitches every so often. It’s annoying, distracting, but it infuriates Melissa a lot more than me.
“For fuck’s sake!” She lets out a groan of infuriation and pulls out one of her AirPods. Her beautiful hair is tied up in a ponytail with a pink ribbon, accentuating her lovely heart-shaped face. “That light has been broken for weeks. God forbid they’d fix it.”
I kick back in my chair, rolling closer to her. “I guess we’re not a priority at the moment.”
“I’m sure if Mrs Adams’s light even so much as dimmed, it’d be fixed within the hour.”
“You can say that again.”
Melissa turns back to me, careful not to catch the wheel of her chair in the straps of her many bags. Her lips are pressed tightly together. Sensitively, she declares, “I’m sorry about the weekend, Nick. I just thought you deserved to find out from a friend rather than…”
Rather than social media. I muster a fake, neutral expression while squeezing my hands together. “Yes. Thanks, Melissa. You’re a good friend.”
Melissa reaches out, squeezing my knee. “I’m always here for you, Nick. I hope you know that.”
I place my hand over hers. With my eyes closed, I murmur, “I do. Thank you.”
Melissa mentions my date with Conor, but I don’t want to discuss it.
Even though Tom is happy enough to see other people, I don’t feel that way.
By going on this date, I feel like I’m betraying him, like I’m giving up all hope that he’ll take me back.
I regret my impulsive decision to agree to meet with Conor, but I’m in too deep now.
And I don’t want to upset Conor by pulling out at the last minute.
Darragh, the employee that was placed on the Performance Improvement Plan, huffs loudly at his laptop.
He leans back in his chair and rubs his hands down his face.
The sight of him reminds Melissa and me of the consequences of Mrs Adams’s wrath.
We promptly get back to work. I roll back to my desk and Melissa places the AirPod back in her ear.
I begin drafting documents for Bethany’s appeal.
I know Ben wouldn’t like to hear it, but I have a plan.
In line with the Criminal Law (Insanity) Act 2006, to be successful with an insanity defence, we need to show the court that at the time the crime was committed, Bethany was suffering from a mental disorder.
We also need to demonstrate that this mental affliction stripped her of the ability to know the ramifications of her actions, to know that her actions were wrong, or that she was unable to refrain from committing such actions.
Furthermore, as we plan to introduce evidence that Bethany may not have been fit to be tried in the first place, we will need to establish that during court proceedings, Bethany was unable to understand evidence, understand the nature of the court proceedings, or plead to a charge.
Therefore, medical evidence will be needed.
I plan to liaise with psychiatrists to have Bethany assessed for any mental illnesses.
I also plan to consult with any psychiatrists, therapists, doctors, or nurses that Bethany may have been in contact with prior to her husband’s murder.
Evidence from prison officers, especially the two that were present for Bethany’s episode on Friday morning, will go a long way in helping our argument too.
Hopefully, all these people will be open to providing evidence to the Court of Appeal.
Indeed, it will be difficult to prove Bethany’s insanity and unfitness for trial. Nonetheless, Ben and I are determined to do so. Using my plan, I think this should be achievable.
Once I have an outline for the appeal prepared, I email it directly to Ben. It’s now 4:30. For me, it’s been a busy but productive day.
As I’m preparing to log off for the day, Mr O’Leary comes to my desk.
As usual, he’s dressed impeccably. Suddenly, I’m concerned about how my own suit looks on me.
Are the sand-beige trousers too boring? Is the white shirt too wrinkled?
He asks for an update on the Murray appeal, which I eagerly provide, and then compliments all the work that’s been done so far.
He makes sure to add, ‘I told you Ben Kehoe would be the perfect barrister for the case’, before he leaves.
Another compliment for Ben. No individual compliment for me. Just like college. But I cannot hold on to this grudge. I recall my deal with Ben; I agreed to a clean slate. So this interaction with Mr O’Leary must be one that I vow to forget.
It’s still raining at the end of the workday. For now, the rain is falling at a steady speed, spilling into the puddles left by the day’s showers. Unfortunately, the rain is coming down at an angle; the drops smack into my face.
Melissa told Conor to meet me outside the office, so that’s where I am. My shoulders are hunched, and my head is pointed downwards in an attempt to shield my face from the rain. The sun is nowhere to be seen – it’s been like that for most of the day.
“Nick,” Conor calls as he exits the building.
I turn around to observe him. Conor looks exactly as I remember: a jittery buzz in his body, spikey, almost hedgehog-like hair, and pale blue eyes.
In fairness though, his smart-casual ensemble of grey chinos, a stripey shirt and red pullover is nice to see, even if it does remind me of how Tom dressed.
“Conor.”
He moves closer to me and opens his arms. Awkwardly, we hug one another.
The hug is difficult to perform because I have my satchel across my body, and Conor has a bag on his back.
Conor holds me a little too tightly, so I pat his backpack to signal the end of our embrace.
Drawing away from each other, I sniff the air.
Conor has recently applied aftershave, and it smells amazing.
“You smell good.”
He blushes. “Really? You think so?”
I lean over and sniff him again. I can tell that he’s nervous. His leg is shaking, his shoulders are almost tied together, and his voice quivers when he speaks. I lean in to sniff him. “Yes. You smell great, Conor.”
The tension falls from Conor’s shoulders, and his mouth curves into a relieved smile. “Thank you, Nick.” He flicks his head and drops of rain shoot from his hair.
“Do you want to get out of here?” I ask him. “Maybe we could go to O’Brien’s? It’s not too far from here.”
O’Brien’s is the pub closest to the office. It’s often frequented by employees of O’Leary and Adams. Though it can be quite busy no matter what day it is, at least it will get us out of the rain. Maybe there’ll be some familiar faces there too.
“Yeah. Sounds great.”
Conor and I make our way to O’Brien’s, being careful not slip on the cobblestoned streets.
We’re not holding hands or doing anything outright ‘couply’.
Still, it’s clear that we’re on a date. I’m grinning at everything he says, and he refuses to take his eyes off me.
The way Conor looks at me – hungry eyes, a smile on his face that looks like it can never be taken away – it’s apparent that he sees us as more than friends.
I know this because I looked at Tom this way, and, at least until a few weeks ago, Tom looked at me this way too.
As expected, this behaviour garners a lot of stares.
Two boys together, after all. The glares mostly come from older people, those who grew up while homosexuality was still a crime in Ireland.
I’m sure if you asked some of them, they’d likely wish it remained that way.
Their accusatory eyes feel like blades stabbing into me.
I’m not sure how Conor feels about this, but I’m uneasy.
It was like this with Tom too. The constant staring.
Eyes would scan our faces first, then they would fall to our joined hands, then, as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing, they would rescan our faces, just to confirm that it really was two boys holding hands.
The disgusted, disapproving look would ensue: squinted eyes, a shaking of the head, wrinkled noses, pulled down eyebrows, an upturned upper lip.
One time, a woman blessed herself after passing by us.
But with Tom, I felt safe. He would squeeze my hand and whisper ‘Don’t mind them.
You’re okay. We’re okay’. Yet, when it came to his parents, Tom was happy to pretend that he was just as disapproving of homosexuality as the people that stared daggers at us.
When we arrive at O’Brien’s, the place isn’t too busy. It’s starting to get dark outside. The interior of the pub is illumined by candlelight and dimmed bulbs. The vibe is comforting, inviting. Conor leads me to the bar, and we take a seat on the high stools.
We make small talk as we sip our drinks.
Conor takes mouthfuls of a foamy pint of lager while I sip Coke through a straw.
I tell Conor about growing up as a twin, and he details his life growing up on a dairy farm in County Meath.
It’s nice to chat with Conor. For a while, I forget all about Tom.
Yes, Conor is attractive and very kind, but I don’t feel a spark between us.
When Conor starts to order a third drink, I try to inform him of this.
“Conor, I—”
Before I can say it, Conor beats me to it. “I think we should stay friends. I know how to read a room.”
I force a smile, guilt swallowing me.
“And you can never have too many friends,” Conor adds.
“You’re not wrong there.”
Conor downs what’s left of his pint and abandons his plans to order another. “Do you want to head off? You mentioned earlier that you’ll have to catch a train?”