‘Well, you don’t need to be a genius to know that it, whatever this is, is something to do with the pilot.’ If she had been standing in front of him she would have seen his face scrunch up like it always did when he referred to Liam. He hadn’t ever liked him and even though he hadn’t actually articulated it clearly, Alex could tell.
‘Liam.’ Alex said. ‘Liam is his name, as you well know,’ she chastised.
‘So, it is because of him then?’ he asked a touch of victory in his voice.
‘If you’re asking if I have plans with my partner, then the answer is yes.’ She hated the term partner but she hated the term boyfriend even more, she wished she could think of a better way to describe the man that she had shared the past two years of her life with. ‘What those plans are, are none of your bloody business so will you just go and do the bloody gig.’
‘Yes your highness, anything you say your highness, but if…’
‘But if nothing, Dec, I’m fine okay?’ her voice lowered as the building doors opened behind her again and an elderly couple from the apartment next door to theirs came in. There were only two penthouse apartments in the building, one was Liam’s and the couple that had just walked in owned the other. ‘Listen I’m going to have to go.’ She said. The breeze that slipped in behind them strengthened into a powerful vortex when the door remained open, fanning open the lifestyle magazines that had been strategically placed on the occasional tables and scattering the loose papers from the concierge’s desk across the polished concrete floor. It would have been odd if she hadn’t helped gather them up. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow to see how it went for you.’ She said her goodbyes and hung up the phone. She lowered her guitar case onto a chair and hefted the rest of her bags into a pile beside it on the floor, then she raced around gathering up everything that had been blown down. It wasn’t long before everything had been put back in its place and she and her neighbours were standing together making small talk about the bank holiday weekend in the lift on their way to the penthouse floor. Normally the prospect of a sunny bank holiday weekend in Dublin meant a stroll across the River Liffey, lunch at a farmers’ market and afternoon drinks in a beer garden listening to a man with a guitar. This weekend would be entirely different, not that she told her neighbours that.
Moments later, Alex painted a smile across her face as she stepped out onto their floor, wishing her neighbours a lovely weekend. It was only when they had opened their front door and stepped inside their apartment that she allowed her face to relax. The anxiety that she was feeling bubbled uncontrollably inside her and rooted her motionless to the spot outside her front door. She turned the key in the lock and the solid oak door of the penthouse apartment creaked open. ‘Liam, you home? She pushed the door open with her foot and stood on the threshold listening for a response, painfully aware that this was the last night that she knew with any certainty that he would be home waiting for her.
Noise from the TV filtered out of the lounge, intensifying in the silence that had filled the penthouse hall. She only realised how tightly she had been wound when the sudden loud ringtone of Liam’s phone catapulted through her veins making her levitate from the threshold. The violent jerk to her body caused her bag to slide from her shoulder and land on her hand, chopping the heads from three of the roses, scattering yellow petals all over the hardwood floor. She gasped as she watched the petals float lifelessly to the ground.
‘Abbie love,’ Liam’s deep voice wafted out from the kitchen. When she heard it she skirted around the door, easing the door lock back into place with her bum and landed her bags on the floor at her feet. She heaved an enormous sigh and dissembled the grimace from her face before she picked up the flowers and made her way inside the kitchen. Liam was pacing and speaking on his mobile when she walked in.
‘No, no, she’s just walked in.’ He spoke into the phone, leaned towards Alex to kiss her and continued with his call.
‘Abbie?’ Alex mouthed, the normality of their life piercing the bubble of anxiety that she had created in her mind, the air hissing out quietly, unnoticeably, she hoped. This was what it was about, a child who needed her dad, could it be as simple as that? She opened the cupboard under the sink, pulled out a vase for the flowers, slid the stems of the remaining roses inside and filled it with water before she placed it on the countertop.
‘Well do you want me to come over and get you then and we can go out and look for him?’ Liam said into the phone looking at Alex for approval but she had already turned away, the subtext laden with Daddy guilt. His family were his priority, there was nothing that would change that and even though that’s the way it should have been, she couldn’t help but be hurt. Hurriedly she moved towards the patio doors, turned the key and stepped out onto the small space. A gulp of fresh air was her only defence against the tears that were welling at the back of her eyes. Liam was moving back in with his family and there was nothing she could do about it. The night that she had been dreading had arrived.
‘Alex?’ Liam called her from the kitchen, it was the third time he called her name since he had hung up Abbie’s call. ‘Earth to Alex,’ he added, his hands cupped around his mouth for dramatic affect.
‘What? Yes, sorry, I was miles away,’ she stepped in from the balcony, but left the doors open. The breeze was refreshing on the back of her neck. ‘Is Abbie okay?’
‘Yes, she’s fine. Well, she’s a little upset, to be honest.’
‘Are you going over to her?’ She expected that he would. He always did when Abbie called.
‘No, no, I told her I’ll be there in the morning’ his voice trailed off a little.
‘Look if she’s upset why don’t you just go over?’ her tone was measured to hide the hurt she was feeling and she appreciated his half-hearted attempt at making out that he wasn’t going to go. She might not have wanted him to be moving back in with his wife and children, but she was damned if she was going to act like a spoiled brat about it.
‘Are you sure? I won’t be long, it’s just that she’s upset, Josh has stormed out and he says if I move in in the morning, he’s moving out. He won’t answer the phone to Abbie and now she’s worried and she doesn’t want to upset her mum by telling her.’
‘Just go, we can talk when you get back.’ She turned her head to hide the glistening that was forming over her eyes. The hairs on the back of her neck bristled and her stomach flipped with anxiety. Was it okay to feel a little left out? To feel jealous that she would always be second or even third on his list? ‘If Abbie needs you, you have to go.’ Her heart sank and she tried her best to smile but, despite her best efforts to hide how she was feeling, a stream of tears escaped down her face. Was it really all that selfish of her to feel hurt?
‘Jesus, Alex, what’s wrong love?’ his forehead creased and he brushed a strand of hair that had escaped from her ponytail back behind her ear.
‘Oh, don’t mind me, I’m grand.’ She forced a smile and covered her hand with her sleeve to dab her face dry. ‘Just a long day. I’m tired, emotional. I’ll be grand.’
‘You’re anything but grand.’ He answered and with his eyes, followed her hand as she reached for her necklace. It was something she always did when she was upset.
‘Not tears of joy then?’ he watched her fingers as they played with the iridescent pearl pendant that dangled on its chain.
‘No,’ she swallowed. ‘Not tears of joy today,’ she smiled sadly at the Aphrodite reference he had just made. ‘But, I’m grand, honestly. Go on over to Abbie, Liam, we’ll talk when you get back.’
‘I’m sure Abbie’s just, you know, dramatising everything.’ He pulled her into his chest and wrapped his arms around her tightly. ‘And Josh is worn out telling me that he’s practically a man now and doesn’t need anyone babysitting him, especially not me, so I can stay. We can talk this out. I don’t want you to be upset.’
‘No, it’s better that you go,’ her mind slipped momentarily backwards. If she could turn back time, what would
she do with it?
‘Look, I know that me moving back over to Oakley Drive is not ideal, but it is only temporary,’ he said. ‘You do know that don’t you?’ he paused for a moment. ‘This is what this is about, isn’t it?’
‘Look, its fine, I get it,’ she tried as best as she could to detach herself from the burning urge to cry but failed miserably as tears fell down her face. She was insecure about the fact that he was moving out to move back into his family home and she felt as though they were drifting apart.
‘Please don’t, Alex, don’t cry…’
‘I’m just tired, exhausted, don’t mind me,’ Alex closed her eyes trying to stem the tears that were flowing out of them and clenched her teeth closed, afraid of what she might say if she allowed herself to speak.
‘There’s more to it than that, tell me what’s going on?’
‘I’m just…’ Alex felt hollow inside. ‘It doesn’t matter, the kids need you,’ she repeated back to him.
‘It does matter, Alex, it matters that you are here in our home, crying your eyes out and won’t talk to me.’
‘That’s just it, isn’t it?’
‘What’s it, what do you mean?’
‘I mean, this is our home and you’re leaving it to be in your other home, the home you shared with your family, your wife, for Christ’s sake.’ Liam drooped his head in front of him as she spoke, unable to look at the tears that dripped down her face and curved around her chin. He pulled the cuff of his shirt over his hand and dried her face. ‘I don’t know what to think anymore,’ she said.
‘Me going to stay in Oakley Drive, is not me leaving, Alex, it’s me going back to help out with the kids, you know that. I’ve always felt terrible for leaving them to deal with Jenny’s illness on their own and I want them, I need them to know that I am still their dad and that they don’t have to do it by themselves.’ He looked at Alex’s swollen eyes and blotchy complexion.
‘I get that, I really do, but I can’t help thinking that it’s you leaving,’ she drew breath carefully considering what she was going to say next, her sister’s words of warning ringing loudly in her ears. ‘You’ll be back in Oakley Drive as though you never left and I’ll be here on my own,’ she gestured around the kitchen. ‘I should never have…’ the seed of anxiety that her sister’s words had planted inside her head had begun to sprout.
‘You should never have what? ‘Liam asked.
‘I should never have fallen for a married man.’
6.
Trial Day 2
Liam Buckley
‘Pre-meditated malice,’ I repeat under my breath. ‘Jesus Christ.’ It sounds so evil. I exhale loudly and William turns to look at me. ‘Sorry,’ I mouth swallowing the lump of objections unsaid that have propagated at the back of my throat. They threaten to cut off my air supply like some horrendous allergic reaction. You never realise how much you want to speak until you’re in a situation where you can’t, and it looks like this non-speaking situation is going to become more regular. It’s a gagging order of sorts, the type that implies that anything I say or even anything I don’t say will be used against me by the prosecutor or, if the press have their way, by the public. As far as the national sentiment goes, I’m guilty. I killed Jenny. It doesn’t matter that they haven’t proven anything yet, nor does it matter that I’ve been suspended from the job I love or that my children have to deal with the story of their mum’s death being dragged every day through the media. It doesn’t even matter that I’ve had to surrender my passport to the Gardaí. This is a process over which I have no control. I don’t have the right to act, speak or think as I want. I’ve to sit down and shut up and take what’s thrown my way. Innocent until proven guilty, my arse.
‘Picture, if you will,’ Lucinda Cassidy continues confidently as though she’s just taken centre stage at the Abbey Theatre and William throws me another cautious glance. In fairness, his description of her was spot on. There’s an air of confidence about her that wafts like an expensive perfume up the nostrils of the jury, captivating their attention and making them trust every syllable she utters. I inhale my frustration and swallow the ball of nerves that have travelled from my stomach to the back of my throat, throw one last glance to the public benches where Abbie and Josh sit and brace myself for what’s about to come. All the while, reminding myself of William’s very specific instructions in my head: sit quietly but confidently – easier said than done considering there’s a tidal wave of adrenaline washing viciously through my veins; have a remorseful but not guilty expression on your face – normally I’d get a kick out of contradictions like this and would have cracked some joke or other about how contrary his instructions were but not this time – it didn’t seem right; avoid eye contact with the jury for fear that they might think you’re over confident – I can assure you, confidence is the last thing you feel when twelve strangers are sitting staring at you, monitoring your every move and charged with the responsibility of deciding whether or not you are guilty of murdering your wife. And then, as though the list of what not to do isn’t long enough, the very last thing my barrister whispered as we took our seats and my eyes searched the gallery for Abbie and Josh was to avoid making eye contact with your children but if you must, whatever you do, don’t smile in case it’s misconstrued. Misconstrued? As what, I don’t really know. What does it mean when a dad smiles at his kids, does it mean that he killed their mother? Does it mean that if he did, that he enjoyed it… the act of seeing his wife, the mother of his children and, let’s face it, the one-time love of his life, draw her last breath? Do they really think that I’m the Estranged Husband Murderer that the headlines would have them believe?
The team have prepared me for this, outlined everything that I am to expect and they’ve put me through mock interviews trying to de-sensitise me to words and accusations that he expects Lucinda Cassidy to use. William says that this, the opening statement, is probably the most important part of the trial. Each side, starting with the prosecution, gets to pitch its version of events to the jury, unchallenged by the other side. It’s when they explain what it is they intend to prove during the course of the proceedings and, even though everybody knows that the judge will instruct the jury to ignore unsubstantiated claims, it’s a chance for the opposition to do some damage with their blinkered opinions.
It’s a farce really, a game of which barrister is more clever at nuance and suggestion than the other. They grab the chance to tell the story, my story, Jenny’s story, my family’s story, how they want it to be heard, however convoluted and far-fetched their version might be and, as far as I can make out, they – the prosecution – can say what they like.
The thing is, nobody can prove with any certainty what happened that night, not the judge with his matted wig and John Lennon glasses, not Lucinda Cassidy with her patrician pronunciation, and not the ordinary people of the jury, no matter what they’ve heard on television or radio before today.
‘Ms Jennifer Buckley or to those who loved her… Jenny,’ Lucinda glances briefly at the gallery where Abbie and Josh sit, ‘was a young, accomplished woman in the prime of her life.’ Her tone is strong, firm, the jury her captive audience and even though William had said that the first thing she would do would be to personalise Jenny, the familiarity with which Lucinda says Jenny’s name makes me want to vomit. She doesn’t know my wife, had never even met her and it’s sickening to hear her talk as though she did, as though she knew her better than I did, better than any of us. William glances at me then as though he’s read my mind, as though he expects me to stand up and shout my objections like an actor would in some American courtroom drama. I look back at him, blinking away the urge and hold my breath in an attempt to reassure him that I won’t react, that I’ll stick to the warnings he gave. I won’t, William, my eyes plead with his, I won’t, no matter what is said, how it’s said or who it’s said about, react negatively.
‘She was forty-five years old… was still married,’ she continues, i
nflecting the end of the word as though a question mark belongs there, pausing for effect. ‘A dedicated wife to the defendant since they married in 1996, right up until two years ago when she was diagnosed with motor neurone disease…’ She leaves a gap deliberately, letting the inference that I left Jenny because she was terminally ill burrow its way into the jury’s list of facts unchallenged like a fact-eating larvae infesting the truth and crumbling it from the inside. What type of a guy would leave their wife of twenty years because she had a terminal illness? Am I really that guy?
‘That was, until…’ Lucinda pauses, ‘he left her for another woman.’ I fight the urge to turn and look at Alex to give her the reassurance that I know she deserves. Alex Kennedy is so much more than just one affair. I want to look at her to reassure her that these are not my thoughts, not my words, but I don’t. I tried to speak to her after I was charged and released on bail but it was awful, the way she looked at me trying to figure out if the charge was true. As if she didn’t know me at all. As if she thought that I would have been capable of doing the things they said I did. She’s remained neutral ever since, texting Abbie regularly to see how she is and sending on her regards for both Josh and myself through her. I don’t turn and look at her, I remain sitting forward, my eyes fixed on the wooden panelled wall in front of me, just like William had warned me to.
‘Jennifer Buckley was a strong, determined woman… unshakeable even when faced with all these adversities, she was never one to give in, never one to give up… she was a fighter.’ Her words, delivered nearly as well as Gary Oldman’s Oscar-winning Churchill speech, make me look like the most selfish bastard alive, but that’s not the case, not in reality. There’ll be no fighting on the beaches, nor landing grounds, that’s not what this should be about. Jenny hadn’t told me that she was sick, in fact in those days, Jenny wasn’t telling me very much at all. If she had told me before I left, maybe things would be different. Maybe she wouldn’t be dead and maybe Abbie would still have her mum for whatever limited time she would have had left and Josh, well maybe one day Josh could forgive me for what’s happened.
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