She Said, Three Said

by David B Lyons

  I check my phone again and let out a sigh. Still no text. I probably should have waited outside, until the message came through. It’s not a great idea for me to be in here before him. Especially in a packed bar. I’m courting way too much attention. I polish off my glass of wine, plonk it on a shelf next to the toilet and make my way through the swinging door; not because I need to use the loo, but because I’m getting a little too self-conscious standing out there on my own. I’ll hide out in here for a while, until my phone buzzes.

  ‘Nice jumpsuit,’ a young girl says staring at me through the reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Oh thank you.’

  ‘Yeah, ye look deadly. Jaysus, I wish I looked as good as you do when I’m … eh… sorry, what are ye twenty-nine, thirty?’

  I look into the mirror, just to see if her estimation is justified. She overshot my age by five years. Bitch. That stung. Maybe she meant it as a put down. I’m used to girls being jealous of me; but to portray jealousy within five of seconds of seeing me is probably a new record.

  ‘Just gone twenty-five,’ I say. She holds a hand up to her mouth in apology.

  ‘Well… if I look as good as you in seven years I’ll be over the moon,’ she says, twisting the nub of her lipstick back down. She wings the door open, leaves me in peace — just me and my reflection. Maybe I do look older than I am. My depression has added those years, I’m sure.

  The lack of sleep when you suffer with bouts can be torturous. But I still look good. I know I do. I just don’t feel good. And I’d take feeling good over looking good any day of the week. Looks are overrated. I know that for a fact. I’m living proof of it.

  I touch up the winged tip at the sides of my eyes and purse my lips at my reflection. Eyeliner is the only make-up I ever wear. I’m lucky; I don’t have any blemishes on my face to hide. In fact, I don’t have any blemishes on my body at all. I’m not quite sure where myself and my sister got our sallow skin from — neither of our parents have it. I guess we just won some sort of gene lottery. We got looky, but not lucky.

  I hover inside the middle cubicle, trying to kill time. But time doesn’t want to be killed — certainly not quickly enough. I check my phone: 7:16. Lorna said I should receive the text anytime between seven and seven-thirty. Another sigh. I can’t stay locked up in this little cubicle for much longer. I’ll just head back outside, try to blend in. I sigh as I push through the swinging door, my eyes focusing on a group huddled into the far corner of the pub. None of them were there before I went to the toilet. I place my phone back into my purse and pace over to see what the fuss is all about. A group of lads seem to be lining up to take photos of a tall red-haired guy. I feel a wave of excitement wash through me. I bet he’s famous. I squint to focus on his face, but can’t place him. I always wanted to be famous… in fact I always felt destined I would be. But it never happened. Not yet anyway. Though sometimes I wonder why I hold on to that dream; parts of the celebrity lifestyle must be horrendous. I can’t imagine I’d have the patience to pose for a hundred photos and sign a hundred pieces of paper every time I walked into a pub. Though this fella seems to be enjoying it. Either that or he has mastered the art of maintaining a fake smile. He’s been handed two pints of beer in the one minute I’ve been standing here. That’s kinda ironic. If this guy is super famous then surely he has money. Why do the people feel the need to help fund his night out?

  ‘Sorry love, who is that guy?’ a girl asks over my shoulder, her eyes squinting as much as mine.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘He’s cute.’

  I take in his face again. Yeah… he is kinda cute. I mean… I don’t think I’ve ever fancied a red-head before, but he wears it well; the beard offsets the ginger somewhat — it actually suits him.

  ‘Yeah he is kinda good looking… kinda has a—’ I stop, realising I’m talking to myself. The girl who approached me has gone. I take a step forward and focus on his face again. How do I not know who he is? I stay on top of celebrity news. I could even name all of the past contestants on Big Brother if they were lined up in front of me.

  ‘I’ll get you a selfie,’ a guy says startling me, his Dublin accent not fitting his Asian appearance.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘C’mon… I’ll introduce you to Jason,’ he says.

  19:05

  Li

  We laugh out loud walking up South William Street. It’s been so long since the three of us have been out together and it always paints a grin on my face when I realise just how seamlessly we fall back into the old routine of slagging each other’s mothers.

  We’ve been stinging each other with ‘yer ma’ jokes since we were fourteen. After I just said I never get sick of the Hairy Lemon, Zach replied ‘yer ma never gets sick of my Hairy Lemon’ and the three of us literally burst out laughing; the laughter rasping from our mouths like fart sounds.

  We know that line isn’t funny to anybody else in the world but it happened to be the humour our friendship evolved on. I couldn’t care less if anyone labelled us immature. That kind of humour isn’t immature to me. It’s golden. It’s rare. Not every group of best friends from primary school are still best friends thirty years on. I’m proud of our banter. I actually find it quite magical that when the three of us are together we can turn easily back into those innocent little kids we were when we first met.

  For some reason the three of us decided to be mates on our first day at Mourne Road primary school. There must have been about three hundred kids in the school at the time, but on day one the three of us somehow happened to cower into the same corner of the large playground. I often think we found solace in each other because we were the three strangest looking kids in the playground that day. Jason’s hair was orange. Not ginger. Orange. Bright orange. I don’t know why Mrs Kenny didn’t have it cut short. She just let him walk around with a giant orange bush on the top of his head. He kept it that way until he was fourteen.

  Zach looked like a midget. Still kinda does. He’s small, though he always seemed to be the one who got the girls. Before Jason became famous, that is.

  There was no doubt I was different. ‘Chink’ they called me all the way through primary school. ‘Chink’, I’d later find out, derived from the word ‘Chinese’. I don’t think the lads understood there was a difference between Korea and China. I’m just certain anyone with Asian eyes in Dublin those days was called ‘Chink’. It used to bother me, but all in all I think I survived being of a different race pretty well. I wasn’t really bullied at school… just made fun of. Things could have been a lot worse.

  ‘Ah, Jason Kenny,’ the bouncer calls out, throwing his hand out for a shake. Zach and I get offered a grabbed handshake too. That’s not one of the perks of having a famous friend. I’m a bit of a germaphobe. I wipe my hand against the inside of my blazer as we step inside. It’s busier in here than I thought it’d be.

  ‘Whatcha want?’ Zach shouts over the chatter, muscling his way towards the bar.

  ‘Here, I’ll buy,’ Jason pipes up.

  ‘T’fuck you will, big shot.’

  ‘Go on then, get us a pint of Heineken.’

  ‘Same,’ I say, even though I hate beer. I only drink it because I feel that’s what I’m supposed to drink. I’d love a cocktail. Some bright-red, iced concoction that tastes like a Slush Puppie. I could drink that kinda stuff all night. But there’s no way I’d order one. I’d look like a right mug.

  I sip on the beer Zach hands back to me wondering how the hell my gut is going to feel in the morning after I’ve poured about seven pints of this piss into it.

  ‘Will we go upstairs?’ Jason asks, pinching his shoulders in so he doesn’t bump into anyone.

  ‘C’mon,’ Zach says, leading the way.

  Heads cock as Jason walks through the crowd. He’s often said his height helped make him a success, but that it’s a bastard to be tall and famous. He gets noticed everywhere he goes.

  A bout of ‘Boom, boom, boom, lemme hear ya say Jayo’
sounds out. This is nothing new. The Irish fans started chanting that when Jason was in his prime, about eight years ago. It follows him everywhere he goes. Only me and Zach know that Jason genuinely hates that chant. It makes him cringe. He hates being called ‘Jay’ or ‘Jayo’. He only answers to Jason.

  We shuffle up the stairs without anyone asking him for an autograph or a selfie and manage to squeeze ourselves into a corner of the pub opposite the toilets. The chatter’s not so loud up here. Gives us the chance to do what we came out to do: catch up. Jason hasn’t been home in almost a year.

  ‘How’s Jinny?’ he asks me.

  ‘Great. Doing her Leaving next year, can ye believe that?’

  ‘You’re fuckin’ joking me!’ he says, holding his fist to his face in surprise.

  ‘Yeah… she’s seventeen in a couple of months.’

  ‘Jaysus Christ. I still imagine her being four.’

  Jason’s always had a soft spot for my little sister. Well, he kinda has a soft spot for my whole family. We’re an odd little bunch, us Xiangs. My mam and dad met pretty much the night I was conceived. They’re still together… sort of. He mainly lives in Korea, and has still barely bothered to ever learn how to speak English. I’ve tried to learn Korean; can just about get by to share a polite chat with him whenever he decides to come to Dublin. But I’m not great at it. It’s a tough language to nail. Jinny hasn’t bothered. She doesn’t seem as interested as I am to get to know Dad better. She just can’t forgive him for being away from us for most of the year. Mam gets by. She’s used to it. Everybody loves my mam. She’s just one of those loveable oul’ dears. The type that would do anything for anybody. She runs the community centre on Mourne Road; helps out at the charity shop on Galtymore. All for nothing. Just for the reward of being part of a community.

  ‘And your ma?’ Jason asks.

  ‘Still the same. Hasn’t changed.’

  ‘Good to hear it. Tell them I was asking for them.’

  ‘Sure, pop in to them before you go back.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll—’ he stops, distracted by somebody holding a pint of Heineken in front of his face.

  ‘Here ya go Jason. For that goal against Holland, ye legend ye!’

  ‘Thank you, mate,’ Jason says smiling back at the stranger.

  ‘I knew as soon as you shaped up to hit that that the ball was gonna fly—’

  ‘Sorry, my friend,’ Zach interrupts. ‘It’s just Jason here is trying to have a quiet night out with his buddies. We haven’t seen him in ages and—’

  ‘Course, sure thing, sure thing,’ the fella says, reaching out for Jason to shake his hand. ‘I’ll leave ye to it, Jason. Have a good night, me oul’ mucker. Ye fuckin’ legend ye!’

  We’re used to it. But the unfortunate thing about the first person approaching Jason when we’re out is that it opens the floodgates for everybody else. I’m pretty sure that within the next five minutes, Jason will have at least three more pints of Heineken handed to him and will have signed a dozen autographs and appeared in a dozen selfies. He handles himself so well. I know he hates all this shit, but it’s par for the course.

  I raise my eyebrows at Zach as a crowd begins to form around us.

  ‘We’ll just have the one here,’ I whisper into his ear as Jason does his thing. ‘I didn’t think this place would be so busy this early. Forgot about all the work crowd on a Friday evening.’

  ‘No problem,’ he replies. ‘We’ll just play it by ear.’

  ‘Here mate, will ye take a pic of me with Jason Kenny?’ a young fella who must be just about bordering on the legal age limit to drink asks Zach.

  Zach doesn’t hide his impatience with these fans. He sighs while taking the phone off the young fella. I take in the crowd gathering. It’s small – only about eight or nine people. It’ll all be over in five minutes. Then we can get back to catching up.

  I sip on my pint as I’m forced out of the pack. This always happens. Me just standing aside.

  I turn around, take in the artwork on the walls. It’s not much to look at, just framed posters of old movies. Most of them are of John Wayne. I’m not quite sure why the pub’s decorated this way. I don’t see the connection.

  I squint, then blink at the reflection in one of the glass frames, barely believing what I can see.

  Now that is a work of art.

  I spin to look at her. She’s gorgeous. The white suit she’s wearing is really hot. Cut all the way down to her bellybutton. She has a sheen right down her cleavage. It’s like she’s bloody photoshopped. But that’s not what’s most attractive about her. It’s those big brown eyes. I’m not one for approaching girls, have never had the courage, but I find myself walking towards her and I can’t stop.

  ‘I’ll get you a selfie,’ I say to her.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘C’mon… I’ll introduce you to Jason.’

  ‘Who… who is he?’ she asks me.

  A lot of girls do this. Play dumb; pretend they don’t know who he is — thinking that’s how he would like it to be. It’s all very transparent, though. I don’t expect everyone to know who Jason is, but if you’ve been queuing up looking for an autograph or a selfie, then it’s not particularly logical to play the I-don’t-know-who-you-are card. But she’s super cute. So she can kinda get away with it.

  ‘Hey Jason, this is… this is…?’ I ask turning to her.

  ‘Sabrina,’ she says, smiling. ‘Sabrina Doyle.’

  2

  ‘Listen,’ Number Twelve says. ‘We won’t know for certain, but if you sorta boil it down to logic, it’s more logical that she approached them. People were approaching Jason. We know that. There’s evidence to support that.’

  ‘They cudda approached her,’ Number Five says rather dismissively, turning to look Number Twelve square in the eyes.

  ‘Yeah but…’ Number Twelve pauses. ‘Where’s your logic?’

  ‘Where’s your logic,’ Number Five snaps back.

  ‘But that’s what I said… I said it’s more logical that she approached Jason because Jason is famous — people must approach him all the time.’

  ‘Well you need to look up what logic stands for in the dictionary,’ Number Five says.

  It’s rather ironic she said that. She may have said it as a reflex of what she was thinking, because she isn’t entirely sure what the word logic means herself. She always thought she did, but Number Twelve’s use of it just now kinda threw her. Number Five isn’t normally this stupid but she’s been overwhelmed by jury duty. Her anxiety has played up over the course of this trial. She’s not entirely sure what her role is supposed to be. She feels a bit out of her depth amongst the eleven others serving alongside her. Feels she has to compensate for her lowly-paid shopping centre shelf-stacking job by ensuring she has one of the loudest voices in the room.

  Number Seven speaks up, more so to ease Number Five’s discomfort than anything, though she did have a valid point to make.

  ‘I don’t want this to sound wrong, sexist… I suppose,’ she says. ‘I guess it’s best I say this rather than a man. But… I kinda think there could be some logic in the boys approaching her. I mean… we’ve seen photos of the night in question right; how stunning was Sabrina? She doesn’t look that striking in the courtroom — still a lovely looking young woman… but on the night—’

  ‘What the hell has this got to do with how hot the girl is?’ Number Five snaps back, her voice all high-pitched. She hadn’t realised Number Seven was actually supporting the point she was initially trying to make. Number Seven sucks air in through her teeth; an attempt to stop her blood from beginning to boil.

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ she says as calmly as she can, a polite smile on her face.

  ‘It’s exactly what you just said. You were comparing how hot she was on the night to how she dressed in court. We’re not here to judge that kind—’

  ‘Number Five, please!’ Number Seven finally snaps, placing both of her palms face down on the table,
almost standing up. ‘It does have a lot to do with what she looked like on the night, okay? It does.’

  All of the jurors except Number Five stare at Number Seven. She hadn’t been exactly shy over the past five weeks, but nobody would have predicted she’d be the first one to lose patience. And the jury are only twenty minutes into their deliberations.

  Number Seven is a secondary school teacher from inner-city Dublin. Her real name is Roisin Gorman; a twenty-two-year-old who shares a small two-bedroom apartment in the centre of town with a work colleague. Number Seven is nearest in age to Number Five in this room; they’re the only two still in their twenties. Their maturity levels are decades apart, though. Number Seven raised her hand as undecided in the initial verdict vote about twenty-minutes ago, but is veering towards the Not Guilty camp; though she loathes the idea of Jason, Zach and Li getting away scot free, if they did in fact rape Sabrina.

  ‘Ish it even conceivable that both parties just happened to bump into each other and therefore nobody necessarily approached anyone first… they jusht struck up conversation in passing?’ Brian asks slowly, trying to cool the temperature of the discussion.

  ‘None of the witnesses allude to this,’ replies Number Twelve.

  That was accurate. Six witnesses from the Hairy Lemon were called to the stand over the course of the trial. The defence found three witnesses who were willing to testify that Sabrina deliberately made a bee-line towards Jason as soon as he arrived at the bar. But the prosecution were also able to call on three witnesses who testified in complete contrast to that. Two of them said Sabrina was led towards Jason by his friend Li. One other said that he was pretty sure Jason signalled to Li that he should bring Sabrina towards him.