‘Shot, shot, shot,’ Zach yells into my ear. ‘Your round, homeboy.’
I smile at him, walk myself off the dance floor towards the bar. I don’t mind doing shots. They’re certainly a lot easier on the gut than beer. Though I know I’m going to regret the shots in the morning. Especially when I’ve got to get up at eight to trek out to Homebase.
Niamh wants a new dining table for the apartment. I’m not sure how she’s going to reconfigure the whole room to fit a dining table in, but she insists us having breakfast, lunch and dinner in front of the TV isn’t doing her waistline any favours. She’s a heavy girl — there’s no disputing that — but I love her just the way she is. Though if Niamh wants a dining table, a dining table she will get.
‘Baby Guinness,’ I say to the barman, holding three fingers aloft.
Before the shot glasses are put in front of me, the two boys by my side.
‘Shots, shots, shots.’
‘I gave eh… yer ma a shot,’ I say back. It’s met with the usual straight faces; no laughter, dead eyes. I can never quite nail a ‘yer ma’ joke.
21:00
Jason
The three of us bounce up and down on the dance floor, not giving a shit. It looks like we’ve started a tsunami – loads more join us, bopping away to Rihanna’s vocals destroying another great Calvin Harris track.
I only really do this once a year these days. Normally in the first week of June – just after the season has finished and I fly home to Dublin to hang out with these two idiots. I’m chuffed Li decided to share his news with us. It’s totally changed the dynamic of the night. All three of us are buzzing.
I watch Zach whisper into Li’s ear and then Li leaves the dance floor. I didn’t quite hear what he said, but I’m pretty sure he repeated the word ‘shots’ three times over, informing Li it was his round.
He takes his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans as he makes his way to the bar. I wonder how he’s doing financially, especially with a wedding to plan soon. I could help him out, offer to pay for part of the day – but only if he wants me to.
It’s quite odd being flush with cash. You never quite know where to draw the line of generosity. I walked into the Marble Arch – our local boozer in Drimnagh – after I’d signed my first big contract with Everton and offered to buy everyone in the place a round. A few people thanked me, but some barked over to me that I was being a show-off. You can’t win. So I don’t do anything like that anymore.
I’ve helped Li and Zach out a few times, but I don’t really offer money for fear of looking like I’m being condescending. If they want me, if they want money, they know where I am. Not that I’m going to have money for long. The days of earning thousands of pounds a week have come to an end. I’ve a good few quid in the bank, a few property investments dotted around Britain. But there’s no way I’m as rich as most people assume I am. People think all Premier League footballers are on hundreds of thousands a week. That’s bollocks. Only a very small handful earn those amounts – the top guys; three or four players at the biggest clubs.
The biggest contract I ever signed was for twenty-eight grand a week. I was on that for four years at Everton. The tax man ate a lot of it for me, but I still had more money than I could spend. It seems like heaven from the outset, playing football and getting paid for it, but I preferred the days when all I was interested in doing was playing football. Playing for the Bosco, or for Cherry Orchard or even for Everton’s youth teams gave me a lot more satisfaction than playing in the first team.
I leave the two lads at the bar, tell them I’m dying for a piss. I really wish pubs and clubs had VIP loos. The most awkward thing about being a celeb is getting approached while you’re taking a leak. It probably happens nine times out of ten when I’m in public places. I think lads assume the toilet is a sanctuary where we can all be as one. I never can quite wrap my head around it. I’ve had hands held out to me for shaking while I’m holding my dick, have had people take photos of me at the urinal too. One bloke even asked me to sign his own dick once, holding out a marker pen. I told him I could sign ‘Jay’ but that was about all I could fit.
‘Jason Kenny, ye legend ye!’ somebody says, grabbing at my shoulders as I try to ensure my dick is spraying in to the urinal. ‘How are things goin’, mate? Still at Sunderland, yeah?’
I just nod my head. I don’t even look at him. I don’t want to be staring at blokes when I’m holding my dick.
‘They’re gone a bit shit, aren’t they?’
Cheeky fuck!
‘Who do you play for?’ I ask, again without looking up.
‘Me? I just play for me local team – St Eithne’s out in Cabra.’
‘Eithne’s… never heard of them!’ I say zipping up and grinning.
I walk out without washing my hands. Couldn’t be arsed entertaining that ass hole.
And that’s when I see her. On the stairs.
21:05
Sabrina
I spot him leaning against the wall, talking to his mate. So I inch closer to them, but don’t approach. I’ll let him spot me; that’ll look less suspicious.
Lorna’s instructions are still ringing in my ear: ‘get a definite yes or no’. I already know it’s going to be a ‘no’– I’ve had that impression from the off. Yet it’s still not definite, not certain. And I don’t get paid for uncertainty. It needs to be a red light or a green light; amber won’t do.
I hate having to do this in clubs. They’re way too noisy. Especially in here. I don’t know why Coppers is noisier than all other clubs, probably because the ceilings are so low; the whole space seems to be condensed. I circle the ring atop my glass of non-alcoholic red as I wait on Niall to notice the coincidence; that somehow I’ve ended up in the same nightclub as him and his friend Martin.
‘Heya love,’ some spotty fella says to me.
‘I’m waiting on my boyfriend,’ I tell him before he’s even asked me a question. He just walks on by. I wish I could carry the confidence I have when I’m working into the real world. This job is certainly edging me in the right direction though. It’s made me realise I should have more fun; have more courage. I check the time on my phone. 21:06. If he doesn’t notice me soon, the goal of ending up in bed by ten o’clock is going to be impossible. Fuck it. I don’t have the time to wait. Well… that’s not strictly true, I do have the time — I’ve nothing else to do — but I don’t have the patience to wait. I pace towards the two of them.
‘Niall! Martin!’ I say, all high-pitched.
‘Ah, how-a-ya, Claire,’ Niall says, embracing me with a quick hug. I get the same from Martin before a silence settles between the three of us. They both stare at me, awkwardly. They’re not taking this as a coincidence. They know I followed them here.
‘Listen,’ I say sighing and holding my eyes closed. ‘I never do this, so I’m sorry for being so blunt but eh… is there any chance I could eh… is there any chance you and I…’
‘Jee,’ Niall says, getting the message without me actually saying much. ‘I’m flattered. Three years ago, hell yeah. But now?’ he shakes his head. ‘I’m loved up, Claire.’
‘It’s okay, it’s okay. I just thought… ye know… you only have one life — I liked you, thought I’d just go all balls out and ask.’
I laugh awkwardly as Niall drags me in for another quick hug.
‘Your fiancée’s a lucky woman,’ I whisper into his ear, before turning on my heels.
They don’t call me back. Fine by me. My job is done. I have a red light for Lorna. A definite ‘no’. I remove my phone from my bag as I walk up the stairs that lead to the exit and then I pause, just to text Lorna the update. That’s when I hear my name being yelled over the music.
‘Jaysus, what are you doing here?’ I ask after turning around. My heart rate rises, in that excited way it does when the boy you fancied in secondary school decides to talk to you in the corridor.
‘Eh… dancing,’ he says. ‘That’s what you’d normally
come to a club to do. What are you doing here if you’re not dancing?’
‘Ah… I just popped my head in for old time’s sake as I was walking by. I used to come here… for years. I’ve decimated that dance floor plenty of times,’ I say. ‘But I’m on my way home. I fancy an early night.’
‘C’mon,’ he says, holding his hand out for me to take. ‘Come have one with us before you go. We’re celebrating.’
I don’t get an opportunity to ask what they’re celebrating. By the time he has taken me back down the few steps I’d walked up, the music is so dominating that he’d barely be able to hear me anyway. We stroll across the dance floor, my heart thumping. I genuinely haven’t felt this way since I was a kid. I certainly didn’t feel this way when I first met Eddie. In fact, there were no butterflies at all, no excitement. I just decided to go out with him because I thought it’d be convenient.
Eddie’s a friend of my cousin’s. I assumed he was a genuine guy, and at that stage that was all I wanted — somebody I could trust. Somebody I met generically, not some twat who approached me in a club. I didn’t really fancy Eddie, he certainly wasn’t my type, and I still can’t quite work out why we went out with each other for three years. I think I was just getting desperate. I felt embarrassed about being a twenty-one-year-old who had never had a boyfriend. I used to tell people I was single by choice; that I didn’t want to be in a relationship. It was easy for people to buy that line from me. I was good looking and guys approached me all the time. Only I knew I was lying. Only I knew that I actually struggled to find a boyfriend and that I had wanted one for years.
‘HEY!’ the Asian guy shouts in my ear. The other one – the bald one – hugs me; not a half-arsed hug like Niall and Martin offered me, but a proper squeeze. He holds me for probably eight seconds too long. He seems awfully pleased to see me. He mumbles something into my ear. I’m not sure what he’s saying, can’t make it out, so I just nod my head and laugh.
‘SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS!’ Jason chants. The other two join in and suddenly I find myself being pulled to the bar by all three of them. I check my phone for the time again as we wait on the barman. 21:19. I definitely won’t be home before ten now. Fuck it! Might as well have some fun.
What’s the worst that could happen?
6
Number Seven fills her glass with water again. It hasn’t gone unnoticed that she uses the facilities more than anyone else. She’s bored by proceedings, feels that every argument is dragging on for fifteen minutes more than necessary. Too many jurors are too keen to get the last word in. It means points are getting repeated for emphasis. And emphasis only.
To stop her eyes rolling, Number Seven opts to get up off her seat and make her way to the water dispenser. Number Four follows her — he, too, sick of listening to Brian and Number One re-establishing arguments they’ve already raised.
‘Those two’d do yer head in,’ he whispers into Number Seven’s ear.
‘You do my head in,’ she whispers back. He bumps off her, hip-to-hip. Number Six cops it, shakes her head with disdain. She hates these two flirting with each other, yet she can’t keep her eyes off them when they’re together.
‘It’s a bit too weird innit… y’know that she was walking around in circles, then just followed them into Coppers,’ Number Four says to Number Seven as he scuttles in front of her to fill his own glass.
‘Yeah – but it’s just… I can’t get away from the fact that she didn’t see them go into Coppers. And nobody told her that’s where they were going. I really don’t know what to make of this argument. Anyway… the most important thing is what happened in the hotel later. If she was or was not pursuing Jason all night… it still didn’t call for her being raped, right?’
Number Four shrugs his shoulders, then sucks his lips. He’s been baffled by all of the different arguments. His mind seems to be getting swayed depending on who’s talking, yet he still remains genuinely undecided on his overall verdict.
‘You two shouldn’t be talking about the trial away from the conference table,’ Number Eight says, raising his voice as he twists his head to look over his shoulder. The room falls silent.
‘Oh… no, we were just talking about the water,’ Number Four says, holding his glass up to his fellow jurors.
‘That’s a lie. I heard you mentioning the hotel and whether or not she had been raped by the end of the night.’
‘Okay… listen,’ Number Four says, looking agitated as he makes his way back to his chair. ‘I was just asking Number Seven if she would like a fresh cup of tea instead of a glass of water and then we very briefly just said that it will be interesting when we get to the discussions about what happened at midnight in the hotel room. Honestly.’ He holds his hand up in apology, palm out. Number Four is an experienced liar. Is known among his mates as a bit of a bullshitter.
‘We should only discussh the trial at the table, that’s a very strict rule,’ Brian stresses by banging his fist on top of the table.
‘Yeah… okay,’ says Number Seven as she takes her seat. ‘Calm down. We’re sorry. It was a five-second conversation. Nothing else was said. I promise.’
There are strict rules when it comes to serving on a jury. The case you are examining can’t even be discussed with your loved ones once you go back home. It’s a rule that is pretty much broken in almost every circumstance, though. Jurors don’t necessarily go into every detail — they keep names out of it for the most part — but they do discuss the trials with their spouses, siblings, parents and friends. Of course they do.
Under Irish law, a former jury member can go to prison for discussing the trial they examined publicly after the fact. But even though the rule is regularly broken, that specific law has never needed to be enforced. It’s nigh on impossible for even the most honourable person to keep all of the juicy details bottled up inside. It’s tough being a juror overall, more mentally challenging than the majority of people assume it is. Some people detest the thought of being a juror, some revel in it. But nobody can really foretell just what the experience will be like – especially if you are tasked with examining such a high profile case as this one. It’s a lottery – not just the trial you are chosen to examine, but whether or not you’ll ever be called for jury duty in your lifetime.
Every Irish citizen aged eighteen or upwards, whose name appears on the register of electors within Dail Eireann, is eligible for duty. There are categories of people who are ineligible: lawyers, Gardaí, members of the defence forces. Some are excusable, such as priests, medics, students. Those over the age of sixty-five are excusable too, but Number Six waived her right; was keen to get involved. Anybody, of any adult age, any class and with any range of intelligence can decide the fate of the most complex of cases. And therein lies the biggest problem of the judicial system: everyday people just don’t understand law.
Gardaí could spend years piecing together a serious crime, such as murder — for example — only for twelve regular Joes and Josephines to dismiss most of their investigation simply because the nuances of the case went over their heads. The make-up of a jury is a mixed bag — you don’t know what you’re going to get. It was difficult for the lawyers on both sides to find adequate numbers for this trial. Out of the ninety-eight people summoned for jury duty ahead of selection, seventy-nine confessed to knowing who Jason Kenny was. That meant they couldn’t be eligible to serve on this jury. It left both the prosecution and defence lawyers having to narrow to twelve jurors from a tiny pool of nineteen. Still, they ended up with a diverse range of individuals.
The average age of this jury is forty — which happens to be the exact average age of juries in Ireland.
At twenty-two, Number Seven is the youngest juror by some six years over Number Five. Number Six is the oldest at sixty-eight; Number Eight the next eldest — a full decade younger, though he genuinely looks like the oldest in the room. Number Eight’s real name is Gerry Considine. He’ll be fifty-nine next week. He has never really had a career,
just hopped from job-to-job over the course of three decades. At the moment he works as a security guard at Independent House on Talbot Street. He presses a button, lets people in and out of the building. He’s huge. Six foot, four inches tall; weighs nineteen stone. The weight is mostly in his belly. He looks unhealthy, as if a heart attack is just around the corner. But his regular check-ups at his local doctors’ surgery in East Wall — an inner-city suburb of Dublin —confirm all is good on the inside. Gerry’s the other juror – aside from Number Twelve – who lied in order to be selected. He knew who Jason Kenny was prior to being called for jury duty. Is actually quite a big football fan. Number Eight raised his hand as ‘undecided’ earlier, but has had a strong inkling all the way through the trial the three men are not guilty. Although he feels Sabrina is a very eloquent and attractive girl, there was something about her that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The defence’s tactic of painting Sabrina as cunning and untrustworthy had a massive impact on Number Eight. He isn’t the only one swayed by their narrative.
She Said, Three Said Page 10
