‘We’ve gone over this, Lou and yes, I think it is the best thing to do.’ He took up the hair brush from the wooden dresser and slicked his hair back, it was still damp from the shower. ‘They’re content that there is no conflict, in fact I think they think that me being involved, knowing what I know, will be an advantage to them. And I don’t to pass up this contract because they might not ask me again…anyway, we could do with the cash.’ His eyes meandered around the room. The pressure to get their own place had been somewhat released seeing as Louise was now no longer expecting their first child but he still wanted to be able to provide for her and maybe, if the circumstances were right, another baby in the future. ‘I’m not getting any younger and offers will start to dry up if I don’t take work that’s offered.’ He said.
‘I know but, what if he’s guilty and you’re on the wrong side?’ she asked.
‘There are no wrong sides when you’re an investigator…’ he was quick to answer. He had thought about this long and hard. His only job was to unearth facts to prove or disprove a case and his main objective was to find the truth for both the sake of the job but also for Alex’s peace of mind. He was going to build a case, find whatever evidence there was to be found and follow the clues – at that point it would be out of his hands. It was no different than being a detective, only this time he was on his own clock and didn’t have to answer to the likes of Inspector McCarthy. ‘What the defence team do with what I give them is up to them,’ he added. ‘And you heard me yesterday on the Skype call, I think I was very clear about what I would and wouldn’t do.’ They had wanted him to come into the office to discuss whether or not he would take on the case but when Kelly explained about the baby and that he wasn’t available to leave the house, they had settled on doing a video conference call by Skype instead. Louise had been on the sofa, out of shot, listening to the entire meeting.
‘That you were,’ she smiled remembering the conversation. Not in the business of obstructing truth, regardless of the consequences, was one of the things he said. She couldn’t help but admire him.
‘And they’ve completely ruled out any conflict of interest… especially now since you are on sick leave and your boss has removed you from the case. And at least this way, with you out of the picture, we can still keep an eye on what’s going on, for Alex’s sake.’
‘I suppose.’
‘And if Liam is innocent.’ He paused. Despite what they already knew, it was still difficult to call one way or another. Was Liam telling the truth or was it an elaborate double bluff? ‘For his sake too.’
‘True,’ she conceded.
‘Are you sure you’ll be okay when I’m gone?’ He dropped his phone into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, patted his jeans to hear the jangle of his keys and bent over to kiss her on the bed. He was dreading leaving her on her own. The trauma of finding her unconscious kept playing in his mind. He had woken several times in a panic with the distorted image in his head and he dreaded the prospect of ever finding her like that again.
‘I’ll be fine, seriously, I’ll probably have a shower, get dressed and go down to the sofa,’ she suggested, looking to ease his mind. ‘A change of scenery,’ she smiled. The emotions had been raw ever since she had come home and she couldn’t help replaying the moment she had first told him about the pregnancy, over and over again. It was like a bruise that she just couldn’t help but press. A bitter-sweet memory. ‘I might even drink all those fancy coffees… now that I can,’ her voice trailed off, she hadn’t intended for it to sound so glib. ‘Sorry, I just…’ she sighed. The grief, at times, was just too much to bear. Without warning, the sinking feeling would strike reminding her that the baby she and Kelly had fallen in love with didn’t exist anymore. The pain was real, raw and she didn’t know how much more of it she could take. She dabbed the corners of her eyes with the collar of her T-shirt.
‘I know, love.’ He sat beside her silently, both his hands enveloping hers as they each fought the weight of grief that had suddenly descended upon them. ‘It will get better though,’ he offered. He had researched and read the same websites and forums she had, and it had even been cathartic to read some of them together. All the emotions they read about mirrored their own – grief, guilt, devastation, hopelessness – so it seemed that they weren’t on their own. ‘I can still put this meeting off, they said they’d understand?’
‘I just can’t get over the feeling that I could have done something better, different and that the baby would still be here.’ She said.
‘You heard the doctors Lou, it was nothing you did, one in every four pregnancies end in miscarriage, we just didn’t have the odds…this is nobody’s fault,’ his emphasis was in reference to another conversation about guilt that he had had with Alex the night before. ‘Not yours for being stressed, not Alex’s for contributing to your stress, not mine for not helping you with the stress… the pregnancy wasn’t viable, that’s the clinical term and nothing would have changed the outcome.’
‘I know,’ she said composing herself. ‘Anyway,’ she cleared her throat. ‘I think it’s important that you do this today,’ she forced a smile on her face. ‘I promise you, I am just grieving, I know it’s not my fault, or anyone else’s for that matter, I just need time to be sad. And I am glad that you’re doing this, we need to have someone on the inside for Alex’s sake.’
‘Me too,’ Kelly said. ‘And when I come home, we can be sad about the little one together.’ He kissed her on the forehead unable to speak any more as the tears balled up at the back of his throat.
Part Three
1.
Trial Day 1
Abbie Buckley
‘Abbie?’ Josh pinches the fabric of my white coat pulling me back in step with him as we climb the steps to the Central Criminal Court a couple of paces behind Dad. I pause, looking at my feet. Flowers from the blossom trees that line the road below scuttle like little mice across them, ‘you’re too close,’ he whispers under his breath, ‘they’ll know it’s us.’
‘Oh yeah, sorry,’ I mouth, my eyes flittering to the right. The noise of the waiting reporters swells as they come into focus like screeching seagulls scrambling with their beaks open swooping for a catch. ‘I forgot.’ I say my hand covering my lips. We – Dad, Josh and I – all arrived together by taxi, but Dad made the taxi stop at the last corner and told me and Josh to get out and walk from there. It’s taken the same amount of time for us to walk from the corner as it’s taken Dad to get through the crowds. Dad says it’s better that we are not seen with him, not because he has done anything wrong but because it will just be easier for us to move around without being identified publicly as the Buckley children. The longer we get away with it, the better, he says. Josh says if it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t be here at all but I think he wants to be here because part of him wants to know the truth.
When everything happened last June we were plagued by reporters, some of them even pretending to have been friends with Mum. I, in my stupidity, even let one of them into the house but because I was fifteen then and Josh was only seventeen we were still classed as minors and therefore, according to Dad’s legal team – William the barrister, Greg the solicitor and Tony Kelly the investigator – we were unidentifiable by law. It was wrong, what she did, the reporter, but as Dad said, not illegal and reporters have no choice but to act like cretins.
Since then though, I’ve turned sixteen and more importantly, Josh has turned eighteen and is technically an adult, so Dad is worried that to an eager reporter, he’ll be fair game. And even though if they identify Josh, by default they’ll identify me and therefore be in contravention of whatever rule it is Dad’s legal team say they have to abide by, Dad doesn’t want us to take the chance. So, it’s better for us to walk in on our own and not draw any attention to ourselves. He says he’ll wait for us inside.
‘It’s okay.’ Josh tries to smile through the creases of torment that line his face. ‘You doing okay?’ h
e asks.
‘Yep,’ I answer with a sigh. He knows I’m not, in fact he knows that how I actually am is radically opposite to being anywhere near okay because that’s exactly the way he feels too: raw, devastated, confused. Are you okay is just something to say. A rhetorical substitute used between brother and sister when words like I’m with you, I‘ve got your back, I love you are unnecessary and, let’s face it, too cringeworthy to hear. ‘You?’ I ask in return. If Mum were here she’d say when something bad happens, you have three choices: let it define you, let it destroy you or make it count. I chose, for today at least, to make it count, not only for my sake but for everyone else’s.
‘I’m grand, don’t worry about me,’ he says. ‘Look, Abbie,’ he breathes deeply, his voice is soft and he leans his long frame down to me. He whispers over my shoulder while scanning the waiting cameras and reporters for someone who might be interested in what we have to say.
‘It’s okay Josh, really,’ I whisper shaking my head. I know he wants to talk about what happened the night before and I know that he was waiting to get me on my own but I don’t need to hear him apologise for what he said last night. At least not here, not now, not when the whole country is watching through the lens of the TV news camera positioned to the right of the steps.
‘Nothing is your fault, Abbie,’ he says. ‘I don’t really blame you, you do know that?’ There is a sequence that both he and I have become familiar with, I call it the Josh-isn’t-happy-about-anything-since-Dad-moved-back-in sequence. It’s bookended on one side by an exchange of some sort between him and Dad and on the other side by a thump of footsteps on the stairs, a wallop of Josh’s bedroom door and a muffled rhythmical thud of what can only be referred to as shite rap music vibrating through the floorboards, that’s just how it goes. Sometimes I get caught in the crossfire.
‘It’s not okay, I shouldn’t have said what I said and I especially shouldn’t have left you to have to talk to that prick on your own, especially not the night before the trial.’ I shake my head and follow his eyes. They’re watching Dad as he stands just inside the second set of glass doors. Dad’s the prick to which my brother refers. ‘I didn’t mean it, you know that?’ He asks and I nod in response.
‘Although,’ I pause, a slight smile forming on my lips, ‘I really like the new vocab.’
‘What?’ he smiles in return, ‘what do you mean?’
‘What was it you said… Disney-fied?’ I say, my eyebrows raised as his words from last night play on a loop inside my head, the comical description so far removed from how he would normally speak that it makes me smirk.
‘Well, yeah, that’s a bit…’ He shrugs awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.
‘A bit what?’ I tease.
‘Well, a bit stupid, I suppose,’ he says.
‘That’s one word for it.’ I could’ve told him that he was childish for launching his half empty glass of coke at the sink, splattering its sticky contents up the tiles and shattering it into seventy-two different pieces on the draining board, pieces that Dad and I cleared up once he had stomped upstairs. Or I could say that he was selfish for saying that none of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for you, you and your fucking Disney-fied notions of happy-ever-afters but what would be the point? I didn’t cry because he shouted at me, I cried because of everything else, all the horribleness. I know that Josh doesn’t blame me. How could he? It wasn’t me who made Dad have an affair with Alex, it wasn’t me who made him move out of our house to live with her and it surely wasn’t me who made Mum get sick. I didn’t even know what motor neurone disease was until it seeped insidiously by stealth into our lives, choking us with its toxicity as though it were black mould hiding in wait behind the old flowered wallpaper. Life before it was pure, it was everything it was supposed to be, it was real and if we can’t live our real life and do for our loved ones what we would want them to do for us, well, what’s the point? We all make mistakes and if all of us had to do it all again, everything, and I mean everything, would be different.
I’m glad I can still remember Mum’s face, her smile, the way she raised her eyebrows, the way her eyes danced. I’m glad I can remember her before her muscles went rogue and her body was compromised, that’s the way she’d want me to remember her, not the woman who had to sit in the wheelchair or had to be carried upstairs because of what she called the beast. I thought the name was quite apt, a disgusting vicious monster that tied her up in chains and kept her trapped inside his tower. She hated the idea that she might be most remembered for her ongoing battle with it. She was so much more than what that bloody disease did to her and she hated that the first thing people saw when they spoke to her was her aluminium chair with rubber tyres and a leather seat. She’d hate it that the last mention of her name on this earth will be here in the Central Criminal Court. I hate it, I hate that we are here, I hate everything right now but none of this is my fault.
Although, the fact that Dad moved back in with us last June just before Mum died is sort of because of me, which is what Josh was trying to say last night but nothing else is because of me and no matter how many times Josh shouts in rage or how many glasses he lobs at the sink, nothing’s going to change. Mum will still be dead, Josh will still be angry and Dad…well, Dad will still be blamed for her murder.
‘How we doing?’ Dad asks expectantly as we meet him inside the lobby through the second set of glass doors.
‘Grand,’ I answer for both of us, knowing Josh won’t humour him and reply. It’s like his words are rationed when Dad’s around and he’s using them sparingly, the average tally being around eight a day.
‘We’re in court room four,’ Dad says. ‘You guys make your way there and get your seats.’ He points across the stone floor in the direction of the lifts. ‘I’ve to meet William the barrister so I’ll be brought in with him.’ Ever since this whole process began last June with Dad being charged with Mum’s murder, along with a number of other offences like possession of an illegal substance, he’s only ever referred to the people on his legal team by their first name and their function on it. There’s Greg-the-solicitor, Tony-the-investigator and William-the-barrister and every time Dad says William-the-barrister I can’t help but think of William-the-brave, or William of Orange or even, Will-I-Am. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so awful. ‘It’s probably best anyway that you don’t walk in with me.’ He warns. ‘There’ll be press and public allowed in and they’ll piece together the family if they see us all together.’ I sniff, as though they haven’t already.
‘Okay.’ I say holding my despair as much at bay as my wet eyes will allow. How did it come to this? How is it that my mum is dead? How is it that we – Josh, Dad and I – are here in the lobby of the Central Criminal court awaiting Dad’s trial. ‘Dad?’ He probably knows what I’m going to say. He’s told me so many times that I’m so like my mum, he knows me inside out.
‘Yes love,’ he answers with the same stoic smile that he’s always had. The corners of his lips furl ever so slightly and his eyes narrow to hear what I’m about to say just before they glance over my head at the man who’s approaching.
‘Nothing, it’s just…’ It’s hard to put what I want to say into words. I want to be strong. I’m trying my best to hold it together.
‘What is it love?’ He lifts his hand to my chin and traces the outline of my fake smile with his thumb, raising the corner of my lip hoping it will stay there as though my skin is play dough and his imprint will last. ‘You okay?’
‘I just wanted to say,’ I scramble to find words to use. I want to tell him that I’m worried that it won’t go his way and he’ll end up in jail but I don’t, I want to scream at everyone for making it work out like this, I want to hold onto him and have him wrap his arms around me and tell me everything’s going to be okay. ‘Good luck,’ I say instead trying to appear more composed than I feel.
‘Thanks love, everything is going to be okay.’ Dad raises his hand to
my shoulder sensing that I’m about to interrupt him. ‘There is no time for what ifs,’ his statement is a follow on from a conversation we had the night before and every other night before that, for that matter. What if they don’t believe him? What if he goes to prison? What if Josh never forgives him? What if, what if, what if… ‘Abbie love,’ he wraps his arm around my shoulder and the scent of Obsession, the aftershave I bought him for Christmas, drifts up my nose. I hold my breath, holding the scent of him there as though it might be the last. ‘No matter what happens, you will be fine, your brother will be fine,’ he raises his eyebrows reassuringly at Josh. ‘We will all be fine, whatever happens.’ He places his hand on Josh’s shoulder drawing him closer and when Josh doesn’t shrug it away he squeezes his arm, his eyes glazed with tears. ‘We’ll deal with it, okay? All of us together.’
I wish Dad and Josh would just get back to how they used to be. I wish that the only things they argued about were whether or not PSG were mad to pay £168 million for Neymar or whether or not Johnny Sexton’s pace, power and deft footwork make him an even better rugby player than Ronan O’ Gara ever was. Arguing over everything that’s gone wrong is not going to help anyone. What happened can’t be changed. It can’t be undone and it shouldn’t be a reason for them never to talk again.
‘Just like we dealt with it when Mum,’ Dad coughs to disguise the quiver in his voice and blinks discreetly to hide the tears in his eyes. ‘When mum passed away.’ He says.
‘Okay,’ I mutter.
‘Life is like this, love, one minute it’s fantastic, then the next it’s awful and I know we’ve…’ he reaches to push my hair back from my eyes, before he lifts his head to look Josh in the eyes. I can feel Josh stiffen beside me. ‘You’ve both had more than you’re fair share of awful, and I’m really, really sorry for that, I truly am,’ he shifts his weight awkwardly.
When the Time Comes (ARC) Page 12
