Chapter 17
I have a hotel room booked for the night. It’s only a twelve-minute walk away from where Melissa’s party is being held. It has an average of three point five stars, a swimming pool that I refuse to pay extra for, and an underground carpark that I also decline to utilise.
Brendan drives me to Dublin on Saturday. It’s a clear day, with scattered showers here and there.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright getting around by yourself?” he asks me.
I chuckle. “Did you seriously just ask me that?” I take Brendan’s silence as my cue to answer his previous question. “Of course I’ll be fine. It wasn’t that long ago that I used to live in Dublin, Brendan.”
He removes his hand from the gearstick to raise it in surrender. “Can’t I be worried about my brother?”
“Hey! I’m the oldest twin. It’s my job to be worried about you, not vice versa.”
Brendan and I playfully bicker for another few kilometres. When we pull off the motorway to get petrol, our spirited faux quarrel comes to an end. The extortionate price of fuel silences us.
“It’s getting harder and harder to live in this country.” Brendan sighs. “It’s so expensive to be alive in Ireland.”
“No wonder everyone our age is off in Australia or Dubai.”
Back on the road, Brendan asks me something I don’t expect. “How are things with Ben Kehoe? Is he still a prick?”
In short, I don’t know how to answer his question.
I don’t know how things are between Ben and me.
He still hasn’t answered any of my messages.
So, I guess, if you’re standing on the outside looking in, you could say he is still a prick; at the moment, his rudeness warrants such a title.
Nevertheless, whenever I think of him, longing tumbles down my body.
Even though I pledged to remain his friend and nothing more than that, I feel like there is unfinished business between us.
I squint my eyes at the mountains in the distance. “Things are fine. We’re working away on Bethany’s appeal. I can’t say much more than that.”
Brendan pretends to lock his mouth and throw away the key. “Noted,” he mumbles.
We drive for another fifty minutes. Brendan weaves in and out of lanes while I clutch at my seatbelt for protection.
Brendan isn’t as safe as me when he drives; he gets that from our dad.
As we edge closer to our destination, we come to a stop at a set of traffic lights.
There’s a road sign to my left. I glance out the passenger side window to read it. ‘Donnybrook’.
If Brendan was to turn the car left and travel down the road for thirty seconds, we’d pass right by Tom’s house. Pass right by the setting of my old, perfect life.
Likely realising who I’m thinking about, Brendan gently rubs my shoulder. “It’s okay, Nicky. It’s Tom’s loss.”
An emptiness expands through my chest. It’s like I’ve been sucked of oxygen, sucked of life.
Hoarsely, I choke out, “Thanks, Brendan.”
When the light turns green, Brendan floors it. He takes us far away from Tom, far away from my old life. It isn’t until we’re stopped at the next set of traffic lights that my chest starts to feel full again.
I leave it until 7:00 to get ready for the party.
The party doesn’t start until 8:00, and considering I’m only a brief walk away from the venue, I’ll have plenty of time to make myself beautiful.
I shave, shower, plaster myself in deodorant and aftershave, write Melissa’s birthday card, and then throw on my outfit: a pair of blue skinny jeans, a tight-fitting white T-shirt, and a red bomber jacket.
I give myself a once-over in the mirror before leaving.
“Have fun tonight,” I tell my reflection. “Be yourself. You deserve it.”
Before I vacate the room, I can’t stop myself from taking one final glance at my phone screen. There’s nothing on it. No messages. No calls. No notifications whatsoever. You said you’d stay his colleague and friend, Nick, I remind myself. And Tom will come around eventually. He always does.
Melissa’s party is taking place in the back room of The Recline Bar, a room that is generally reserved for events like weddings and anniversaries.
It’s in a classy part of Dublin, and it isn’t too far away from O’Leary and Adams’s office.
To get to the back room, though, I must navigate my way through the front bar’s packed interior.
It proves to be rather difficult because no one will pause their conversation to briefly step to the side to let me through.
Because of this, I have to plough my way through droves of people.
Just like O’Brien’s – the pub where I had my date with Conor from IT – The Recline Bar is frequented by legal personnel.
I recognise some of the faces from court; others, I’ve never seen before.
Though their faces are unfamiliar to me, based on the ways they are dressed, their professions are easy to determine: expensive, brand-name zip-neck fleeces, gilets and tan chinos; these people must come from the finance sector.
Everyone here looks like they are well-off, and I can almost smell the scent of wealth as I pass by each one of them.
“Aw, Nick,” Melissa squeals as I step into her party. She drops the numbered balloons she is holding to rush over to me. Embracing me, she says, “It’s so great of you to come.” She hugs me tight, and I do the same to her.
We release each other, and I wish her a happy birthday. “Only one more year until your thirties.”
Melissa’s beaming smile bends into an exaggerated frown. “Don’t remind me.”
I study her. She looks amazing. Curls of wonderfully bright hair frame her face; her make-up, as always, has been skilfully applied; and her green dress does wonders in highlighting her shape.
“You look beautiful.” A tear almost forms at my eye, as if I were her parent.
Melissa waves away my compliment while almost choking on her laughter. “You’re too kind. The dress was on sale, and I barely got any sleep.”
“Would you like a birthday drink?”
Melissa beams. “I’d love one.”
Unfortunately, the bar in the back room has yet to open.
This means I’ll have to go back into the overloaded front bar.
Melissa plans to come with me. However, as we’re about to depart, the DJ strolls in.
He’s carrying a set of large speakers, one in each hand.
Naturally, Melissa has to deal with him, so she abandons me.
“Sorry,” she says as she shimmies away from me.
“Don’t worry about it.” Half of my body is already out the door.
Before she can say anything else, I’m back in the teeming front bar.
I keep my head down as I shove my way through the crowds of people.
If I can avoid having to make small talk with someone I know well enough to say ‘hello’ to but not well enough to go any further than that, I will.
I have to slither through gaps between the groups of people and elbow my way through some of the finance men.
Somehow, I make my way to the bar unscathed.
It’s another ten or so minutes before the young bartender gets to me. Because the men at the bar are much louder and more entitled than me, their orders are taken and prepared first.
“Are you alright there?” the petite bartender asks me. She’s younger than me, has a soft voice, and probably gets hassled a lot at this job, especially by the men I’m surrounded by.
I give her my order, and she gets started on it.
“Nick Carthy?” I recognise the voice. It comes from the man beside me. Using my peripheral vision, I can see that he’s staring.
I turn to him. “Yes?” As soon as my eyes connect with his, the blood freezes in my veins. “Mr Thistlethorn?” With no idea as to what to discuss, I ask, “How are you?”
Mr Thistlethorn places his palm against the bar, steadying himself. He lets out a long exhale. “I’m not here to make small talk.”
The last time I saw Mr Thistlethorn, I couldn’t look him in the eye. Anger consumed me. I was so mad, so infuriated with him. Remembering that day, that feeling, and with the word ‘Guilty’ ringing in my ears, I have to fight hard to supress an outburst. I grind my teeth and slowly count my breaths.
Meeting my eye, he continues. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. I should have listened to you in the Murray case. We should have gone with an insanity defence. I just… I… I suppose I wasn’t the best advocate for her.” He hangs his head.
At seeing his repentance, my anger turns to sympathy. I unclench my teeth and softly say, “Thank you for the apology.”
“Is there anything I can do to help with the appeal?”
I think for a moment. Since Ben has failed to respond to my queries or provide observations on the evidence we intend to submit, I deduce that it would be beneficial to hear the opinions of another barrister on the matter.
Alas, to go behind Ben’s back like this, to ask for a different barrister’s opinion on a legal matter, feels like betrayal.
Satisfyingly licking my teeth, I assure him, “Thanks. But I’ve got this covered.”
Mr Thistlethorn dips his head. “Very well, Mr Carthy.” He extends his hand; I accept his handshake. “Please do let me know if you need any help with it in the future.”
“I will,” I lie.
After providing a tight smile, Mr Thistlethorn leaves.
The bartender comes with my drinks. She tells me the price, and I dig into my pockets for my wallet.
I pay, grab the two drinks – Melissa’s is alcoholic, mine is a Coke – and turn to head to the back room.
Disastrously, as I turn, I bump against the person that’s standing behind me.
“Fuck.” A blend of sticky Coke and strong alcohol spills down my jeans. “Shit!”
A resonant voice says, “Sorry.”
I already know who it is before I look up.
Broad shoulders, a perfect jawline, a curly mop of hair atop his head.
Ben Kehoe. Ben is dressed in a pair of black jeans and a rumpled blue T-shirt.
Strands of curly hair are sticking out from the neck of his shirt, and I do everything I can to look away from them.