Chapter 16
Frankly, it’s been a tough few weeks. Work has been otherworldly busy, especially with Bethany’s appeal and Mr Foley phoning every day for an update on his case.
The commute from Gorey to Dublin and then Dublin back to Gorey is burdensome.
Some weeks, I’m doing this commute three days or more. I’m totally drained.
It doesn’t help that Tom still hasn’t reached out. Worse, I haven’t heard from Ben either. I’m not sure how I achieved it, but I’ve managed to lose two men within weeks of each other.
Yellow beams of sunshine streak through the thin curtains in the spare bedroom, brightening my surroundings. Mindlessly, I stare at the bedside table and my phone atop it. No incoming texts and no incoming calls. Just a dead, black screen. Nothing.
I eventually convince myself to get up; the possibility of losing my job and, with it, my steady source of income is a great motivator.
I throw on a pair of comfortable, baggy sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a hoodie.
I trudge down the hallway towards Brendan’s kitchen table, hauling my laptop, laptop charger, and notebook with me.
My hood is pulled up, my eyes are slowly starting to open, and my pace is slow, like that of a zombie.
I have an email from an unfamiliar address resting in my inbox.
It takes a few minutes for me to figure out who Conor Sheridan is.
When my tired brain connects the dots, I could almost smack myself in the face I feel so stupid.
It’s Conor from IT. The Conor I went on a brief date with.
The Conor that experienced James Adams’s homophobia first hand.
Hey, Nick.
Sorry I’ve been MIA for the past while. I got a little scared after everything that happened. I think we’d both be better off if we took some time away from each other. Just thinking about our safety is all, don’t want either of us getting hurt or ending up on the Six One on RTé.
I wish you all the best.
I don’t email him back. Reliving the experience, I start to feel numb. If I tell Conor how scared I really was at that time, James Adams will win. I don’t want to give him that power; he doesn’t deserve it.
Brendan strolls into the kitchen at 11:00 for his tea break.
At first, I don’t notice him. I’m too engrossed in an email I received from Dr Christina Kenny.
She’s confirming that she will be performing an evaluation on Bethany tomorrow at noon and will email the results directly to Ben and me once they are complete.
“I said, ‘Hi, Nick’,” Brendan shouts. I’m uncertain as to how long he’s been calling my name. Judging by his tone, I imagine he’s been shouting for some time.
“Oh, sorry. Hi, Brendan,” I reply quickly.
Laughing away the brief quarrel, Brendan asks, “Tea?”
“Please.”
We take our tea break together. Bailey eagerly joins us.
“Tell me what’s happening in the housing world today?” I say.
“For once, I actually have some good news.”
I’m so surprised by Brendan’s reply, I almost spit out my tea. My shock is warranted, especially considering the constant, never-ending negative news on the housing crisis.
“I know. I’m as shocked as you.” Positivity glows in his open eyes. “We’re looking into new strategies and measures, so hopefully less people will have to present to homeless services in the future.”
“Wow, Brendan. That’s great news.”
“Thanks, Nicky. How about you? Do you have any good news for me?”
I fall mute. I don’t want to ruin the mood. Brendan is so hopeful. I, however, with the current goings-on in my personal life, am not. I’m sure the silence says more than my words ever could.
“No news at all from me.” I pretend to check the time on my phone. “I should get back to work,” I lie.
Brendan rubs Bailey’s belly. “Talk to you later, Nicky.”
I bring my work materials back into Brendan’s spare bedroom.
I try to get some work done, but I’m having difficulty.
It feels like my mind is too full, too cluttered.
I need to fix this, so I attempt to achieve this the only way I know how: organise my area.
If your surroundings are organised, then so, too, are you.
I come to a sudden realisation as I start to fold my discarded clothes.
For the past few weeks, I’ve been living out of a suitcase I brought in my little red car.
Because of this, I’ve been alternating between the same few outfits for weeks; considering Mrs Adams’s desire for professionalism, this is something that needs to be addressed forthwith.
I wish I could find a place of my own to rent.
Alas, even with my generous salary, finding affordable accommodation in this country will be difficult, if not impossible.
Brendan said I could rent his spare bedroom if it made me feel better, so that’s what I plan to do.
Therefore, as I’ll likely be living in Gorey for the foreseeable future, I’ll need to make this bedroom my home.
I think about where all my belongings are located. Grimly, there’s one giant problem with where they are: they’re still in Dublin, with Tom, in Tom’s house. My stomach cramps at this thought.
I need to act like an adult. Tom and I are two civil, adult men who used to share a bed until one of those men decided that both were too unhappy to sustain the relationship.
I chastise myself. Be civil, Nick. I take out my phone and draft a message to Tom.
I cannot help but look at the final message I’d sent him without knowing that was what it was:
Lunch is ready.
I type:
Hi Tom. Hope you’re well. I was wondering when would be a good time for me to come up and collect some of my things? Thanks.
The text sounds more like an informal work email, but if that’s how we keep things civil, so be it.
I still have his nickname set to ‘The Big Spoon’, so I make sure to change that back to just ‘Tom’.
Before I inevitably start to re-read through the final days of our relationship, I lock my phone and return to folding clothes.
Thursday night, I lie awake for hours. My vision is consumed by darkness. I’m hopeful that the phone beside me will light up, send a flood of insomnia-inducing blue light all around me. Regrettably, it does not. Neither Tom nor Ben have replied to any of my messages.
Bethany’s assessment takes place on Friday.
It’s scheduled to take place at noon. For the entire morning, I cannot sit still.
Once 12:00 p.m. hits, I cannot stop anxiously refreshing my inbox, even though I know these assessments can take hours.
My leg is bouncing underneath Brendan’s kitchen table, sending thunderous vibrations throughout the room.
It’s starting to annoy Bailey. When I start to pace back and forth around the room instead, Bailey stands up and leaves.
She gives me a dirty, evil look as she departs.
Dr Christina Kenny emails at 4:55. When my laptop pings with the notification, I instantly drop what I’m doing – legal research for a burglary issue – and open the message.
Hi Nick and Ben,
I have completed my assessments of Mrs Bethany Murray. Please note that the information and opinions I am about to provide are based on my initial findings only. A more thorough note and analysis will be provided to you in the coming days.
My initial opinion is that Mrs Murray is suffering from a mental disorder, specifically schizophrenia.
She appears to have experienced hallucinations and confused thoughts among other symptoms. It’s also apparent that she has been suffering from these symptoms for a number of years.
As a result, it is highly likely that Mrs Murray was suffering from a mental disorder at the time of her husband’s murder.
She did not wish to talk much about the day of the crime; the only information she provided involved seeing ‘the man’, which preceded the perpetration of the crime.
Based on this, in my expert opinion, Mrs Bethany Murray was insane at the time she murdered her husband.
However, this conclusion is conditional upon the completion of my analysis.
With regard to fitness to be tried, it is my initial opinion that, in her current state, Mrs Murray is unfit to be tried.
She does not appear to understand court proceedings, the meaning of the verdict against her, the duties of her counsel, or the evidence presented against her.
Still, it must be appreciated that fitness to be tried must be assessed at the time of the trial’s occurrence.
As such, this conclusion cannot attest to Mrs Murray’s fitness to be tried at the time of her trial.
Nonetheless, it may be informative for the court when forming their decision.
I would like to reiterate that these opinions are conditional on the completion of my analysis.
I shall be in contact next week with my full and final conclusions.
Thanks,
Dr Christina Kenny, PhD, MD.
Consultant Forensic Psychiatrist
The Central Mental Hospital, National
Forensic Mental Health Service (NFMHS) Portrane, Dublin.
P.S. I would like to add that I spoke with prison officers who supervise Bethany. They stated that they are willing to provide evidence to the court in support of her appeal.
I read the email three times. It’s great news. I feel my mouth grow wide with joy; my smile stretches from ear to ear. It almost hurts, it’s so large. I jump up from my chair, raising my fist into the air with triumph. “Yes!”
This is exactly what we needed to hear from Dr Kenny.
All the evidence we have received, coupled with judicial precedent in this area, will be extremely persuasive to the judges in the Court of Appeal.
Our evidence strongly suggests that Bethany was suffering from a mental illness at the time she murdered her husband.
This is precisely what we require to demonstrate that Bethany was legally insane. This is perfect.
I’m still dancing with delight when I text Ben.
Give me a ring when you get the chance. I really need to speak with you as soon as possible.
Peculiarly, unlike my earlier, unanswered messages, this text does not deliver to Ben’s phone.
When I try to call him, the line just rings out.
And when I email him, I get an automatic response to say he’s out of the office.
He’s completely disappeared. Has he disappeared because of what happened between us?
Did things get too hot too quickly, just like I’d anticipated?
Like I decided days ago, I’m too busy to waste my time stressing over Ben Kehoe.
We’re better off as colleagues. Blurring the line between our professional and personal lives was a mistake.
Ben clearly thinks this, and so do I. I have to think of Bethany and my other clients.
Ben must do the same. We had our fun. Now it has to end.
At least from my side, the slate between us has been wiped clean once again, just like it was after we kissed.
Fortunately, I have something to take my mind off my current predicament, i.e., the radio silence from Ben and Tom. Melissa’s twenty-ninth birthday party is tomorrow night.