When the Time Comes (ARC)

by Adele O'Neill

  ‘I could come over tomorrow, when Liam is gone, and help you lift the knickers from the suitcase into your drawers.’ Alex suggested playfully.

  ‘Maybe, that’d be good. After lunch would be good.’ Louise smiled.

  ‘For what it’s worth, I think its sweet the way Kelly worries about you,’ Alex answered.

  ‘Ah shucks,’ Louise answered sarcastically.

  ‘More like schmucks,’ Alex countered.

  There would have been a time in Alex and Liam’s life that Alex felt totally in control and confident that she, as Liam’s girlfriend, was his number one priority but now she knew that not to be the case. No matter how well-intentioned anyone was there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it. From the next day, she would be living in his apartment by herself waiting for him to fit her in around his family’s schedule and she hated it.

  ‘Ring me, later.’ The sisters paid their bill, gathered up their phones and their keys and hugged outside the café and said their goodbyes.

  4.

  Trial Day 1

  Josh Buckley

  Lucinda Cassidy, the senior counsel for the prosecution, stands from behind the bench to make her opening statement. I had Googled her when I overheard Dad tell Abbie her name but the only photograph I found was her profile pic on the Law Library web site. There were a few articles in Press Reader that mentioned her name but so far, nothing personal, nothing to show me, or anyone else here who she is. I suppose they have to be careful like that, not let anyone know what they like or where they live or if they have kids who do ballet on a Tuesday night in the local community hall in case someone they send to prison or their relatives are looking for revenge. I’m forever telling Abbie to be more private on everything she shares, and I’ve banned her outright from posting pictures of me or Mum or Dad.

  In real life, as opposed to her poised photo, Lucinda Cassidy is slender, pointy and looks as stiff as the starched stiff-winged collar and flaps she’s wearing and you can tell by the cut of her that she’s the type who thrives on showing the world just how capable she can be. I had a teacher like that once, a know-it-all, full-of her-own-importance, business teacher who only had two modes: condescending and full-on-bitch. Believe me, mode one was almost preferable. I think it had something to do with her size, must have felt she had to overcompensate for the fact that all of us in the class, even Pintsize Paul had been towering over her since we were fourteen. Lucinda Cassidy seems as though she can be every bit as condescending and as bitchy as our business teacher and she’s the type of woman that you’d underestimate at your peril. Bold, fierce, confident. Ironically, she’s the type of woman that Mum tried to make Abbie be.

  ‘A Breitheamh, may it please the court,’ she begins in Irish, her words are crisp and succinct then shifts seamlessly into English as she addresses everyone here. Mum was always correcting my speech, not because she wanted me to sound posh or more Dublin 4 than I already was but because in her words, “when you make the effort to speak properly and distinctly, it shows that you take yourself seriously and as a young man, if you don’t take yourself seriously, no one else will.” She always made sure I knew that, which if you think about it, makes sense now, Mum always took me seriously.

  ‘My name is Lucinda Cassidy, counsel for the prosecution,’ the buzz and bustle of the public area fizzles away, no one wanting to be the last to make noise. Her words move in time with the rhythmical thump that’s magically appeared inside my ears and echoes like a song that I’d normally skip on my Spotify… which reminds me.

  ‘Your phone, Abbie.’ I whisper and point to the line of text on the leaflet that we were handed on the way in; only bone fide members of the press and bone fide lawyers with business in the courts are allowed to use electronic communications from within the courtrooms. She follows my finger along the line and we mouth the text together as though we’re five.

  ‘It’s on silent,’ she whispers, ‘is yours?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s off,’ I whisper back. As much as I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be asked to leave either and besides, I want to hear for myself what Dad has to say.

  ‘Good,’ Abbie says. Her whole body is trembling with nerves and I tap the back of my hand on her thigh to reassure her. She gets like this, wound so tight with anxiety that it disables her completely. Her heartbeat races, her muscles tense, her stomach gets queasy and her hands tremble. If Mum were here, she’d tell her to un-complicate her feelings by breaking them down. Simplify them, she’d say, deal with the symptoms, one by one.

  There’s no need for her to be here and to be honest, I don’t know if she’ll be able to cope. There’ll be things said that I won’t even want to hear. I know this because I’ve been in the room when Dad’s solicitor had briefed him on what to expect. It’s amazing how many adults presume you’re not listening when you have earbuds in your ears. The solicitor says that the prosecution is not going to hold back, they’ll launch an attack from the first word that’s said and words like sordid affairs and violent acts of murder are going to be used. If Abbie thought the headlines and news reports were awful, court is going to be a hundred times worse. The solicitor said other things too, like that the burden of proof is on the prosecution to prove that Dad is guilty, not on Dad to prove that he’s innocent and it’s the jury’s job to decide whether or not the prosecution have done enough to make Dad look guilty. All Dad has to do is to answer yes or no and he’s been warned not to elaborate on anything even if it makes him look like he’s being deliberately unhelpful. Also, he’s not to make any smart or clever remarks. I told Abbie that on the way in and we had both sniggered at that one because we both know that sarcastic replies and funny remarks are sort of Dad’s MO.

  ‘You doing okay? I whisper to her. She looks pale when I glance at her, she hasn’t been sleeping well.

  ‘Yeah,’ she answers.

  ‘You know that the prosecution will stop at nothing to make sure Dad looks guilty, that he looks like a good-for-nothing-arsehole that they say he is in the newspapers.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Abbie drops her eyes, jaded by the headlines that flash across her eyes. Ending With (out) Love? had been the worst one according to her.

  ‘But if Dad is arrested, put into jail… if they think he’s guilty…’ her voice trails off, the reality too horrible for her to bear.

  ‘You know there is no point worrying about things you cannot change.’

  ‘I know,’ she whispers back.

  ‘Good,’ I murmur. ‘Deep breaths,’ I remind her and demonstrate by sucking in, holding my breath and exhaling slowly just like mum would have done.

  ‘Look at yer man.’ I nudge her with my elbow – distraction is another tool that Mum used to use. ‘He’d remind you of Severus Snape,’ her eyes follow mine and land on the carbon copy of one of the characters from Harry Potter, the second juror in the back row. ‘He’s delighted with himself, practically applauding himself for his civic duty.’ He’s one of five men dotted among the seven other women and when the judge, Mr Justice O’ Brien peers at them over the rim of his glasses the entire jury jolt upright in their seats. It’s like they feel a surge of unfamiliar importance that bolts like lightning up their spines. We wait for Lucinda to continue.

  ‘Judge, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, opposing counsel, I represent the prosecution in the state versus the defendant,’ she waves her arm at Dad, pausing before she says his full name and I watch Dad’s shoulders rise and fall and his head dip to his chest. Everyone says I look like him and while I don’t exactly agree, I do see what they see. We’re both tall at six foot three, and both have dark brown hair that’s brushed back from our faces and everyone says our blue eyes, cheekbones and chin look like they were chiselled by the same sculptor. He played rugby when he was younger too, so I suppose in the kit, on the pitch, we both look the same.

  ‘Mr Liam Buckley,’ Lucinda continues, waiting until all twenty-four eyes of the jury look at dad and then lo
ok back at her. ‘The estranged husband of the deceased, Mrs Jennifer Buckley.’ I stiffen at the sound of Mum’s name. It’s so unusual to hear her full name said out loud. Mum usually went by Jenny or even Jen. In fact, the only time I can remember anyone using her full name was in the article that she had framed and hung on the landing just outside her bedroom door above the bathroom light. I tried to get her to take it down when dad first left but she didn’t. She said that regardless of what Dad had done, she loved it and that she had a lot to be proud of and it marked a significant point of her career as well as her marriage and while things might be terrible now, they weren’t then and that we have to remember the good stuff, especially when things go bad. I didn’t argue the point with her after that and strangely, now that’s she’s gone, I like looking at it. The photograph that accompanied the piece was a black and white of both her and dad in their pilot’s uniforms. It was the same photo that Abbie shared on Instagram that got over 600 likes, the one I had to get her to take down when Mum died. But it was too late, the Evening Herald had lifted it and used it in their story.

  ‘Captain Jennifer Buckley to give her full title,’ Lucinda continues, ‘was tragically murdered in her own house on June 3rd 2018.’ I grab Abbie’s right hand with my left and close my hand over hers as tightly as I can without breaking it. Her hand is small, cold and her skin so delicate and see-through that you can almost see the veins barely pulsating inside. I shuffle my leg closer to hers to give her something to lean on, to anchor her a bit when I hear her gasp.

  ‘We, the prosecution,’ there’s a man sitting directly opposite Lucinda Cassidy in a dark suit with hair that looks as though he’s just woken up on some dude’s couch after playing Fortnite for three days straight. The briefest of surprised smiles flashes across his face before he reshuffles the piles of paperwork in front of him and raises his eyebrows at the acknowledgement. ‘Will prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant, Liam Buckley,’ she points in Dad’s direction again. I stay silent, the only sound ragged snappy breaths from Abbie beside me, or maybe they’re from me, I’m not entirely sure, ‘killed his estranged wife, Ms. Jennifer Buckley. He did so intentionally, deliberately and with pre-meditated malice.’

  5.

  2 Days Before Jenny Died

  With her guitar case slung across her back, her handbag hanging over her shoulder and plastic bag with yellow roses peeking out over the rim in her hand, Alex dragged herself the last few steps towards her building in Dublin’s Docklands. The flowers were a present from a grateful parent of a music student she had had earlier in the day up at the music academy and even though they had wilted a tad, she had still brought them home. It would have felt ungrateful to leave them behind.

  She keyed in her code and pushed open the heavy glass doors to the lobby of Lancaster House. The three-bedroom apartment, which Liam had bought for a third of its current value, had two designated underground parking spots – not that she could afford a car on her unreliable gigging money – a fully equipped twenty-four-hour gym - not that she was the athletic type and a luxurious lobby that resembled that of a five star hotel. And even though Liam had insisted that the apartment was as much her home as it was his, there was a small part of her that had always felt compromised. She didn’t own it and had never paid any rent, despite a valiant effort to do so in the early days.

  The sound of the city faded into white noise as she stepped into the lobby and the doors idled shut behind her. Her gaze skimmed around the lobby and by the big brass clock at the rear of the empty concierge’s desk it was nearly half past eight. On any other normal Friday night she’d be pulling over a stool from the bar at O’ Donoghues to her usual singing spot, unfolding her guitar stand to hold her guitar in between songs and tucking her guitar case behind the green leather upholstered seats before she sat down at the bar waiting to begin her set. By now, with everything set up, the barman would have given her a pint glass of blackcurrant and ice, knowing that she wouldn’t have her usual cold glass of chardonnay until she was at least halfway through her set, and it’d be around then, providing that he wasn’t scheduled on a flight, that Liam would’ve popped in. She pulled out her phone and dialled her friend Declan, her musician pal that she had asked to cover her. It took him at least six rings to answer.

  ‘Alex,’ he said. She could hear the hustle and bustle of the usual Friday night revelry in the background. ‘Everything alright?’ he asked, his voice slightly louder than normal to compensate for the busy sounds behind him.

  ‘I was going to ask that,’ she answered. ‘I take it you’re already there?

  ‘Well yes, you told me to be here for eight-thirty.’

  ‘Did you find everything okay?’

  ‘Find what? Like the stool I’ve to sit on,’ he sniggered.

  ‘Yes that, but also the sockets, and the connection cable to the sound system, and the spotlight switch?’ she answered a little smartly.

  ‘Of course, don’t worry, I won’t mess it up for you, even if I still think you are absolutely mad?’

  ‘What’s new?’ Alex answered. When she had phoned him yesterday to ask him to cover for her he had said the same thing. It was the June bank holiday weekend and as a gigging musician, it was rare to get a gig in one of the biggest tourist pubs in Dublin that hadn’t already been booked three years in advance. He jumped at the chance when she asked him. She hadn’t answered him when he had asked her why she couldn’t do it, but guy friends were good like that. They never really delved too deeply, and they tended to know, or not care enough, to not ask questions that she didn’t want to answer.

  ‘The yanks will miss you tonight though,’ he sighed dramatically. ‘Especially if there’s some massive music producer on his holidays and he happens to discover me, in fact,’ his voice lowered and Alex pictured him turning dramatically and whispering down the phone flicking his long black hair back from his shoulders. She could sense the sarcastic smile on his face. ‘There’s a big tall guy decked out in a red North Face rain jacket and baseball cap who’s just walked in, he could be one.’ Being discovered by some massive American music mogul had always been both of their dreams.

  ‘Well, if he is, just remember me when you’re in some fancy music studio in L.A. and you need someone to get your coffee.’ Alex sighed, it was easier to play along. Declan’s wit and disinterest in all things trendy or current was what had bonded them together as friends in the first place. They had met on the gigging circuit straight out of college. He, like herself, hadn’t ever followed the crowd.

  ‘I can’t promise anything… but seriously Alex, are you sure you’re okay?’ he cleared his throat. ‘It’s not like you to miss a gig, especially not one on the Friday of the bank holiday weekend.’

  ‘I’m grand Dec and anyway, what’s with the concern?’

  ‘I’m just being nice, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, don’t be, I was literally just thinking that it was a welcome break to not have to explain myself to you and you’ve just gone and ruined it by being, well, interested in me.’

  ‘Oops,’ he answered, ‘sorry for being nice, I think?’

  ‘It’s fine Dec, I’m fine, honestly,’ threads of anxiety multiplied inside her stomach and tied themselves in knots. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow to see how things went.’ She hated having to be so vague but how could she explain to him what was going on? Oh by the way, my boyfriend of two years is moving back in with his wife. Even the most reasonable of people would raise an eyebrow of disbelief. She hated it when people had opinions on her life.

  ‘Don’t be lying,’ he said. She heard the scrape of a stool across the bare wooden floor of the pub and could picture him in the exact position he was sitting in. ‘I think I know you better than that, Alex and something tells me that things are not exactly fine.’

  ‘When are things ever exactly fine?’ she said hoping her attempt at diversion would work, she was exhausted, and she didn’t have the energy to explain.


  ‘Emm,’ he thought for a moment, ‘I suppose, but I reserve the right to say I knew you weren’t fine when you do finally tell me that you aren’t fine, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she giggled. ‘Whatever makes you feel comfortable,’ she added. She knew she was being defensive and that Declan was only being nice but she didn’t know how else to shut him down. He’d have all sorts of questions and exclamation marks for her and she didn’t want him to think that she was such a pushover. Or worse still to think she was pathetic if she tried to justify the fact that her boyfriend of two years was moving back into his ex-wife’s house. She knew he’d eventually find out but tonight she didn’t feel like saying the words out loud. Having Louise and Kelly know was humiliation enough for the time being.

  ‘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 gathered and 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.