‘We’ll get through this. We can take everything Christy taught us and just continue to learn from it through the rest of our time here,’ Linda said.
Joy gulped, then wiped at her nose with her sleeve, causing a streak of snot to stretch across her cheek. She didn’t notice. And Linda felt it best left unsaid, given the sombre circumstances.
‘S’all right for you to say, Linda. You’ve only got a couple of years left. I’m gonna be here the rest of me life. I can’t do it… I can’t do it without Christy. Besides…’
Linda continued to rub along Joy’s short legs.
‘Besides what?’
‘Christy getting out isn’t the only reason I’m in this state.’
‘Huh?’
‘Shay.’
‘Shay… your husband? What about him?’
‘He came to see me yesterday. He’s met someone else – asked her to marry him.’
Linda rubbed even more fervently, while producing a sympathetic purr.
‘I know you’ve loved that man so much, Joy. But aren’t you better off detaching from him once and for all? You talk so much about what he thinks; what he does and doesn’t believe. Maybe, just maybe this could be a fresh start for you.’
Joy sobbed again. Then she sat up in her bed and rested the cheek with the streak of snot stretched across it onto Linda’s shoulder.
‘I wish I could be more positive like you are, Linda Wood. It’s just… uuuuugh… two body blows in the space of one hour yesterday. First, Shay asking me for a divorce. And then I come back to tell Christy and she’s just… she’s gone. Pfftt. Out of my life like that… forever. But ye know what seems to be hurting the most?’
‘What’s that, baby?’ Linda said, now rubbing in circles at the small of Joy’s lower back.
‘I spent the guts of an hour with Shay yesterday. Mother fucker never once mentioned our boys. He never mentioned the case at all. All this time has passed… and all this drama has passed… and ye know what? The most painful and frustrating part for me in all of this is that I’ve simply never, ever, truly known what’s been going on inside my husband’s head.’
Shay Stapleton
Nine autographs I signed between getting out of the car and reaching the front doors of the Criminal Courts. I counted as I was signing. Only because I was miffed. Though I often am when I sign an autograph these days – not quite sure if I’m more famous for being a footballer or for being Joy Stapleton’s husband.
There used to be a time I’d love to be asked for my autograph. In fact, I’d often walk up and down Grafton Street in my spare time just so Dubliners would recognise me and ask me to sign a slip of paper for them while they told me where they were when I side-footed home the winning goal in the 2005 Leinster final. But now I do the total opposite of that. I stay indoors. So that I can stay out of sight of the general public as much as I possibly can.
I’m only out today for her. For Joy. Her torture has been going on way too long. Though so, too, has mine. I guess I’m just hopeful this trial will go some way to diluting my torture. I came here to let the judge know that I feel, after all this time, that Joy is innocent; that she isn’t responsible for the fact that our two boys’ skeletons were found in wasteland up in the Dublin mountains. But the truth is, as it’s always been, I really don’t know what to fucking believe. All I can hope for at this stage is that if Joy is to be set free, then so too might I. I know that’s selfish. But I need it. I need the freedom. I need to be able to breathe fresh air again.
Nobody in this world feels more guilty about Oscar and Reese’s murders than I do. I wasn’t there for them when they needed me most. Guilt riddles me. It eats at me. And it has done ever since I received that phone call from Joy – screaming at me that our boys had been taken.
My best friend Steve pats me on the back as Gerd Bracken calls out my name, and as I stand, my ears are immediately enveloped by humming. I feel a slight sense of dizziness, almost vertigo-like, as if the red carpet wants me to lean towards it. But I make my way up the three steps to the witness box, without falling; avoiding eye contact with Joy as I sidle by. Though as I sit into the leather cushioned witness box, after I’ve been swiftly sworn in, I allow myself a glance at her. So many years have passed since I last saw that face. She looks as if she’s aged. But haven’t we all? Her eyes glance upwards to meet mine, but I immediately blink away. Last time Joy laid her eyes on me, I was, dare I say it, still handsome. Now I just see an old man staring back at me every time I look in a mirror. Like proper old. I’m only thirty-eight, but I see a fifty-eight-year-old in my reflection. I actually remember, distinctly, just waking up one morning and noticing I had two extra chins. As if they just appeared overnight. And the blue in my eyes, which I used to be complimented on constantly, has turned grey… a bit like my hair. A bit like my skin. I’m just grey all over these days. Grey and chubby. A bit like the cloud that constantly floats above me.
‘Mr Stapleton,’ Bracken says, appearing in front of me with his hands clasped against his belly. ‘I and the court sincerely thank you for being here today. Can you start by stating your profession for the court, please?’
‘Eh… well, I work in public relations for Jameson Hotels.’
‘But it’s fair to say the population of this country would know you in another capacity…’
‘Yes, as the man whose two sons were murdered.’ Before Bracken can react, I hold my hands up. ‘Sorry. Yes. Of course. I, ehm… was also a member of the Dublin football squad from 2002 up until… well, 2009. I stopped playing when Oscar and Reese went missing, then came back eighteen months later and played a couple more games, but my heart just wasn’t…’
‘It’s understandable, Mr Stapleton. You were, it is fair to say, a well-known sports star in the mid part of the noughties, correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘You crossed paths with Joy Lansbury as she was then in December of 2002. You guys had Reese just shy of one year later. In May of 2006 you got married. Then in March 2007, Oscar was born. Four Stapletons living in a beautiful four-bedroom semi-detached home in Rathfarnham… correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘How would you describe your family life in those days… the days before your boys were first reported missing back in November of 2008?’
I shift uneasily in the witness box, my fingers drumming on my lap.
‘Well… I would describe it as normal.’
‘Happy?’
‘Objection, Your Honour, Mr Bracken is putting words into the witness’s mouth,’ the lawyer on the other side of the room calls out.
‘He’s only asking a question, Mr Ryan,’ the judge says.
I look at her and then she looks at me. And nods.
‘I would say happy, yes.’ I sniffle up some tears that are threatening to fall. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Though I knew I couldn’t guarantee that promise. I reach inside my suit breast pocket and take out the photograph of Oscar and Reese, just to squeeze it in the hope that it will gift me some strength. I stare at this photograph every day. Truth is, I often spend hours just staring at it. Their two little faces smiling back at me. It’s so odd. It seems it’s all I’ve got left of them. One flash of a camera. A moment in time captured forever; a moment I will never get tired of staring at.
‘Although you were a footballer at the height of the sport – and I’m sure most will know you scored in a Leinster final in 2005 – you still worked for Jameson Hotels, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘GAA stars are, of course, not paid for their efforts. They need full-time work for their livelihoods. And you travelled for work, yes?’
‘Yes. I had to stay in a lot of our sister hotels in different counties regularly… that was part of my job.’
‘Yet despite the amount of travelling you did, you were utterly faithful to your wife and children and couldn’t wait to get home to them each time you travelled, correct?’
I clear my throat, and lean closer to t
he microphone.
‘Mr Bracken, I will say under oath, that I was always faithful to my wife and boys. I never once committed adultery. I always wanted to come home to them. Yes.’
That’s not entirely true. I didn’t always want to come home to them. I have to admit, I liked the solitude working in the hotel industry offered me. That’s why the guilt riddles me. I was in a bloody hotel doing absolutely nothin’, when my boys were taken. I should’ve been home. I should’ve been a better father. A better husband. And I guess that when Joy and I first started dating I was seeing other girls at the same time. It was part and parcel of being a sports star. Girls would offer themselves up to me. But once Joy fell pregnant for the first time, I didn’t dare look at another woman. In fact, I stopped socialising altogether so that the temptation of other women would die. And it did. I never cheated on my family. Other than to pretend to them that I really missed them while I was being pampered in a five-star hotel.
‘And you knew Joy Stapleton better than anyone? You lived with her for five whole years and you shared some amazing memories, correct?’
‘Those five years were the best five years of my life. We had two children. We got married. We honeymooned in South Africa. We travelled to different countries on many different holidays. We were… we were two young people in their early twenties very much in love and very much looking forward.’
A tear threatens to race out of my eye, so I pinch the photo of Reese and Oscar tighter.
‘In 2008, may I ask you, Mr Stapleton, did you notice any change in your wife’s behaviour?’
I shake my head.
‘You must verbally answer the question, Mr Stapleton,’ the judge says, looking down at me. The judge seems firm, but fair. Though I’ve noticed her out of the corner of my eye every now and then get distracted by somebody sitting at the back of the gallery. Her eyes seem to flicker there every now and then.
‘Oh… sorry. I, eh… no! I’ve been asked this question I don’t know how many times over the years. I’ve even asked myself it. Did Joy murder the boys because she was suffering with postnatal depression, or some mental health condition? Truth be known, Joy was the same Joy she had always been to me. I am just here to tell the truth, Mr Bracken… as you well know. I have to say, hand on heart,’ I push the photo of the boys to my chest, ‘I didn’t notice any behavioural differences in Joy before… before…’
A squeaky sob pulses from the back of my throat and forces its way out through my mouth. I sound like a puppy dog who’s just has his tail trod on. And then my dam breaks, and tears begin to race down both of my cheeks.
‘It’s okay, I can give you time to—’
‘No,’ I sob, pressing the ball of my hand into my eyes. ‘Let’s keep going.’
‘Well, eh… what I was going to ask next, Shay, is… because of the fact that you never witnessed any behavioural differences in Joy, you have never been convinced by the verdict of the original trial, have you?’
I sigh out what probably sounds like a laugh, though it’s a laugh hiccoughed through snot and tears. This is one of two big questions Bracken rehearsed with me. I just need to remember what my answer is supposed to be, which is not easy when dozens of people are sat in a gallery gawking at my swollen face.
‘No. The original trial, for me, had too many holes in it. I’ve never been convinced by anything in this case. It’s just been… it’s just been…’
I wipe my entire hand across my face as another sob throws itself up from the back of my throat, then I look back up at Bracken.
‘Take your time, Mr Stapleton,’ he says. He has been so nice to me, has Bracken. But I’m not sure I’ve ever made my mind up about him. He begged me to testify when the retrial was granted; begged me to get on the stand and state for the record – once and for all – that I didn’t believe Joy killed Oscar and Reese. I agreed. Not because I’m certain. But because I just want this whole thing over and done with. It’s consumed my life. It has ruined my life. I can’t move on… I just can’t. I hope Joy being set free will help free me too. I know that is so damn selfish. But I’m half-way through my life right now. I’m going to be dead in about forty years. I just need… I just need… to move on. I need to turn the grey cloud that hovers above my head into a white one. And that can only happen when people finally stop asking me about Joy. If she gets out… maybe, just maybe I can move on. My whole existence has just been so static for over a decade now. So insignificant. And numbing. As if I can’t get my life into another gear. I got engaged once. About four years ago to a beautiful Galway girl called Jennifer. She’s adorable. In every way. We met, fell in love, got engaged and then… and then I left her. Because… because I just couldn’t move on. Some other lucky bastard is engaged to her now.
‘So, let me ask you this more specifically,’ Bracken says. ‘Have you ever been convinced of Joy’s involvement in the murder of your two sons?’
I swipe my sleeve across my face, mopping up the last of the tears, then steady myself by gripping the shelfed edges of the witness box, the photograph now resting on my lap; my boys smiling up at me.
‘Sorry,’ I say, composing myself. ‘No. I’ve never been convinced of Joy’s involvement in Oscar and Reese’s murders.’
There… I finally got out the sentence Bracken and I rehearsed. A sentence that I’m sure will be splashed all over tomorrow’s newspapers. I only said that sentence because it’s true. I am not, nor ever have been, convinced of her guilt. There were times, especially during the first trial, that I was growing in certainty that she did it. Then holes would appear in theories and it just became impossible to have any definitive opinion, let alone proof. I’ve literally never known what to believe since the day my boys went missing. But even if she is guilty; even if she did flip one day and did the unthinkable – under the stress of raising two young boys all on her own while her husband was away being pampered – then I’m as much to blame as she is.
I allow myself another glance at her and, this time, she meets my eye immediately, as if she was waiting to catch my eyes darting towards hers.
‘Mr Stapleton,’ Bracken says, approaching the witness box and forcing me to blink away from Joy. ‘May I say that, under the circumstances, it is very brave of you to not only be here, but to testify under the strains of such unimaginable emotion. I cannot fathom your experiences. It is heroic for you to be here today to tell your truth; for the one person who knew Joy more than anyone else to say under oath that you have never been convinced of her involvement in your sons’ murders. I used to watch you in Croke Park, Sir. Was a big fan. Am a big fan. You were always a hero to so many people. But you have never been so heroic as you have been here today. I thank you. The courts thank you.’
Bracken stretches his hand towards me and I take it and shake it. I’ve never seen that done in a courtroom before. I’m still feeling a little shocked that his questioning has come to a sudden halt, when the lawyer on the opposite side of the room is striding towards me, unbuttoning his blazer.
‘Mr Stapleton,’ he says, ‘you have just testified here that you have never been convinced your wife is guilty of your sons’ murders, yes?’
I cough. Then nod my head.
‘Mr Stapleton, you must verbally answer for the record of the court,’ the judge reminds me.
‘Yes. That is what I have just testified,’ I say, taking the picture of the boys from my lap and pressing it to my chest again.
‘So, let me get this straight. You are a loving husband, who has just lost his two sons. Then their bodies are found two years later, and soon after that your wife is arrested and sent to prison for two life sentences for those murders. Yet you have never been convinced of her guilt?’
I nod my head a little, while whispering, ‘Yes.’
‘That is some tragedy. Not only have you lost your sons. But your wife… As Mr Bracken said, that must be unimaginable. Now, can you tell me, Mr Stapleton – and I would like to state for the record that you very much have
always had my sympathies and my sympathies remain with you as I ask these questions, but – can you tell me why in all of the eight years your wife has spent in Mountjoy Prison, and given that you have never been convinced of her guilt, you have only ever visited her on two occasions?’
I squeeze the photograph as firmly to my heart as I possibly can.
‘Well… in the same way that I’ve never been convinced of Joy’s guilt, I’ve also never been convinced either way. You have to understand… I know as much as anybody knows about this case. And nobody seems to know the truth.’
‘Ah… so, Mr Stapleton,’ the lawyer says as he takes a step closer to me. ‘Not only are you testifying that you aren’t convinced of Joy’s guilt, but you are also not convinced of her claims of innocence, yes?’
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Not before the tears do. I snort and wash my hands over my face again. What a question to be asked. Though it’s not as if I didn’t know it was coming. We knew it would. Bracken had told me I would be asked if I was convinced of Joy’s innocence after testifying to him that I wasn’t convinced of her guilt.
‘I am more convinced of her innocence,’ I say, just as we had rehearsed, ‘because I knew Joy better than anybody. And I am quite certain she is not a killer.’
It stuns the lawyer a little bit. His chin tilts upwards and his eyes squint. He didn’t think I’d answer that so emphatically. But I did. Because it was what Bracken had manufactured. And I was fine with it. Because I just want this nightmare to end.
‘Well,’ the lawyer says, still a little taken aback, ‘you say you knew Joy well enough and of course you wouldn’t have married a woman or started a family with a woman you believed was capable of murder… but given that you were away travelling so much for work, is it possible that you didn’t notice your wife transforming into a killer?’
The Coincidence (The Trial Trilogy) Page 12
