Chapter 22
In the middle of the night, I awake to a pounding pain in my head.
My left temple – the one that was slammed into the wall – is throbbing.
I gently touch it with my fingers; it feels like someone is drilling into me.
My stomach is just as bad. There are three purple dots above my belly button, each one from a bone in James’s knuckle.
They sting to touch. If I breath in or out too hard, they ache.
I try to roll over and fall back to sleep.
Alas, the pain is too much. The full realisation of what James did to me is weighing down upon me.
Later, I struggle out of bed. Getting to my feet, I feel like screaming; the pain is so bad.
I settle for letting out a groan and grimacing, which enrages the pain in my head further.
Dressing myself is worse. Every time I bend or look down, it feels like all the blood rushes to the front of my head, making me so heavy that I’m mere seconds from total collapse.
When I tense my torso to try to stay upright, the three bruises grow angrier.
As I exit the bedroom, I inadvertently catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror.
I look like death. My skin is the palest it’s ever been; my eyes are puffy and bloodshot, with black bags beneath them; and I’m hunched over to supress the pain in my stomach.
At my temple, there is an angry, arch-shaped bruise.
It’s a scarily dark purple, like the entrance to a biblical storm.
The lines of yellow that run down both sides of the bruise are sickening to witness. I look like I’ve been through the wars.
I slowly make my way down the hall. I hobble into the kitchen, desperate for painkillers. Luckily, Brendan is sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in hand. He takes one look at me, gasps, and then jumps up from his seat.
“Oh, Jesus, Nicky!” he shrieks. “What happened?”
I shrug. This causes more hurt. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
Brendan moves closer to me. He examines the bruise without touching it.
“That’s not fine. Did someone do this to you?”
I stay quiet. The sound of his quick, loud voice, his investigative gaze. It’s too much. It’s sensory overload. I fear my head is about to explode.
“Nicky, this is assault. You need to report this to the Gardaí.”
I explode. “No!” I instantly regret shouting. The pain in my head intensifies. In a quieter voice, I say, “No Gardaí.”
“Nicky, this is a crime,” Brendan blurts back, shocked by my statement.
I have my reasons for not wanting to get Gardaí involved.
I’d report the incident and be forced to relive it in front of at least three Gardaí, then maybe another three.
After that, I’d have to relive it for a solicitor.
It’d become a big thing. I’d probably lose my job – Mrs Adams wouldn’t be too happy to have her son’s accuser working in her firm, that’s for sure.
Then we’d go to trial. I’d relive the situation for a judge and jury.
The media will likely get hold of the story from there, and people will start to take sides.
Undoubtedly, a minor mistake or indiscretion from my past will be unearthed, and this will be used against me.
If I somehow manage to win the original case, it’ll surely go to appeal, and I’ll have to relive everything all over again for the appellate court.
It’s likely that they’ll find one mediocre mistake, thanks to my barrister, and a new trial will be ordered.
Then I’ll be back to square one, facing all of this all over again.
“Look. I appreciate your concern, but this is my decision. I don’t want to get the Gardaí involved. Please just trust me when I say I have my reasons.”
“Nick—”
“No, Brendan. No Gardaí and no vigilantism either. It’s been sorted. I don’t think the person that did this will be coming near me again any time soon.”
As we often do when working remotely, Brendan and I have our morning tea break together.
We’re sitting on the sofa, drinking tea, eating biscuits, rubbing Bailey, and complaining about current affairs.
The pain in my head has lessened, thanks to the painkillers.
Just as Brendan readies himself to give out about another nationwide crisis, my laptop pings.
Usually, I’d wait until our tea break was over to check it; but ever since we filed Bethany’s appeal, I cannot stop myself from leaping whenever an email arrives in my inbox. Today, I’m glad I do so.
The email is from the clerk at the Court of Appeal.
The subject line reads ‘In the matter of Director of Public Prosecutions versus Murray’.
This is the email I’ve been waiting for.
It’s like the outside sunshine has flooded over my soul.
Tom must’ve succeeded. “Thank you, Tom,” I whisper.
With wide, curious eyes, I read the email:
Dear Mr Carthy,
We confirm receipt of your appellate documents.
A hearing has been scheduled for this Friday at 11:00 a.m. at the Court of Appeal in the Criminal Courts of Justice in this matter.
Should you require any further information, please do not hesitate to contact me.
Kind regards,
Caroline Conway
Clerk to Judge John Kennedy at the
Court of Appeal
I read the email again. And again. And again.
My body goes numb for an instant. Friday is only two days away.
That doesn’t give us much time to prepare for the hearing.
Anxiously, I scratch at my scalp. There’s so much that has to be done beforehand.
Instead of allowing myself to feel overwhelmed, I get to work straight away.
Firstly, I forward the email to Ben, adding the instruction to ‘Give me a call when you’re free’.
Secondly, I email all our expert witnesses: Suzanne Walsh, Bethany’s online therapist; Dr Christina Kenny, forensic psychiatrist; Dr Michael Stafford, Bethany’s general practitioner; Dr Pauline Healy, HSE psychiatrist; and relevant prison officers from the Focus Facility.
I notify them of the date of the upcoming hearing.
However, it is very unlikely that the judges will request oral testimony from these witnesses.
Their written submissions and correspondence should suffice.
Throughout the day, I hear back from these witnesses.
All of them are willing to attend court if requested to do so, save for Dr Pauline Healy – she’s on leave that day.
Lastly, I call Bethany.
“Hello?” she says shyly.
I speak clearly. “Hi, Bethany. It’s Nick Carthy. I have some news for you.”
“Okay.”
“Your appeal hearing is scheduled for this Friday at 11:00. Do you think you’ll be well enough to be present at court?” I hold my breath as I await her reply.
Bethany’s voice is as clear and emotionless as I’ve ever heard. “I’ll be there, Nick. I’ll see you then.” Bethany hangs up the phone.
Within seconds, my phone starts ringing again. Ben is calling. I answer as quickly as I can.
“Friday?” Ben says. “That gives us tit-all time to prepare for an oral argument.” I imagine he’s pinching the bridge of his nose with frustration.
“Ben,” I breathe, trying to calm him. “We only have two days. We don’t have enough time to give out.”
Thankfully, Ben agrees with me. “Right. We’ll have to start preparing right away. Where are you now?”
I peer around Brendan’s kitchen. Then, my gaze pans to the loose-fitting sweatpants covering my legs. “I’m in Gorey.”
“Alright. Well.” Ben pauses. I can hear booming, speedy footsteps. Wherever he’s headed, he’s in a rush. “Can you come up here when you’re finished work? To me, I mean. You can stay the next two nights so we can prepare the case together.”
Involuntarily, my lips twist into a smile. “I’ll see you soon, Ben.”
It’s 6:00 p.m. when I knock on Ben’s front door. In the tree outside his house, there’s a bird tweeting. It’s music to my ears. Painkillers continue to numb the pain at my temple and abdomen. I have an overnight bag, my satchel, and two fresh suits with me.
“Oh, Jesus,” Ben gasps as he opens the door. “What happened to your face?” He seizes my head with his hands, tilting it to the side so he can get a better look at my bruise beneath the light.
I wince. “Don’t worry about it.”
Ben lets go. I step into his home.
“Tell me what happened,” he orders, arms folded.
I gesture to my satchel; it’s stuffed with documents for the appeal. “I don’t think—”
“Don’t worry about the appeal for now. Tell me what happened.”
I sigh. “James Adams happened.”
Ben’s blood boils. His entire face turns red, his nostrils flare, and his eyes narrow. “What?” Ben asks through bared teeth.
I look away to stifle tears. Reliving what happened isn’t easy.
“Yes,” I say, my voice slightly breaking.
“He waited for me at the office and wrote ‘faggot’ all over my desk, and then he slammed my head into the wall. I thought he was going to kill me.” I speak quickly and breathlessly, like the quicker I can get the words out of my mouth, the quicker I can start to forget them.
Ben clenches his fists so tightly the veins appear in his forearms. “I’ll kill him.”
“No,” I say. “No.” I put my hand up, hoping to calm Ben down.
He steps back, breathes and unclenches his fists.
“I handled it. He won’t be giving me any more grief. You don’t have to worry.” After a quiet minute, I say, “Can we not talk anymore about it please? We have work to do.”
Ben opens his mouth but then closes it. Then it falls open again. He runs his hand through his curls. “Okay.”