Page 28 of The Elements

I’m escorted up a staircase by my barrister, Catherine, who explains how the day will unravel, but I’m so conscious of the contemptuous way people are staring at me that I find it difficult to focus on her words.

There’s the click of an iPhone camera from somewhere behind me, and she spins around, making it clear to whoever took the shot that photography is not permitted within the court building, before taking me by the arm and leading me along the corridor toward a large oak door.

Stepping inside, I’m surprised by the brightness of the room.

Enormous windows flood the space with light while the walls are covered in artworks, all reproductions, of course, but they’re where my eyes go first. Traditional British landscapes.

Portraits of people I don’t recognize. A long table dominates the center, and at one end sits Robbie.

He glances up when I enter, and our eyes meet; there’s a warning in his expression, a successor to his messages from a few hours earlier.

I’m sure he’s checking social media to see whether we’re trending.

In his suit, he looks handsome, and the unexpected longing I’ve felt for him since our first meeting rears up inside me. He’s still one of only two boys I’ve ever truly desired, and he knows this. It’s how he’s kept his hold over me.

Near him, standing by a bookcase, are his parents. His mother looks me up and down with obvious disdain, as if she can’t quite accept that her life, for now, is intertwined with the life of someone like me.

“I’ll leave you here,” says Catherine, looking around and probably as anxious to escape this room as I am. “We’ll be called in about twenty minutes. I’ll come back for you all then.”

She disappears, and now there’s just me, the Wolvertons, and my parents, who followed me upstairs.

We stare at each other awkwardly, four adults, two young men, none of us quite knowing what to say.

Finally, Lady Wolverton strides down the room as if she’s walking a runway, which, of course, she often did in her youth, before extending her hand to Mam.

“Grace Wolverton,” she says. “Robert’s mother.”

“Margaret Keogh,” says Mam, using her full name for once. Everyone on the island knows her as Maggie. “And this is my husband, Charles.”

“Charlie,” says Dad, eyeing Lord Wolverton warily as he approaches.

Robbie’s father is studying my parents in the way that wealthy, privileged English people often do whenever they’re confronted by Irish people with accents as thick as ours.

They assume that we’re barely literate and will be astonished by the fact that the room is illuminated by electric lightbulbs.

He introduces himself to my parents, extending a hand somewhat reluctantly.

“Well, this is a fine state of affairs, isn’t it?” he says, glancing toward his son, who’s leaning back in his chair, watching the drama play out. “Not a situation I ever thought I’d find myself in, I must admit.”

“Us either,” says Mam, then corrects herself. “Us neither, I mean. Is it either or neither?”

I’m embarrassed by her obsequiousness and worry that she might drop a curtsy before them.

The majesty of the building and the aura of affluence that surrounds the Wolvertons are simply too much for her, a woman who’s never known life outside the island since she was brought there as a young bride.

My father visibly wilts inside his cheap suit, the tie loosened at the neck and the top button undone, his chin being too fat to keep it closed.

“It’s such a nonsense,” continues Lord Wolverton.

“The CPS is obviously trying to scapegoat Robert and…” He glances in my direction; apparently, I’m not important enough even to have a name.

“Your son. If they weren’t who they are, I doubt it would have even got this far.

The girl at the center of all this seems a rather cheap person, don’t you agree?

She comes from a broken home, but I assume you know that. ”

“Darling,” says Lady Wolverton, placing a hand on his forearm.

“I’m simply stating the facts,” he says with the tone of someone who is unaccustomed to being interrupted or corrected.

“I know we live in supposedly progressive times”—and here he makes inverted comma symbols with his fingers in the air—“but more often than not, that means we must believe the victim, however absurd the allegation, without any consideration for due process.”

“She’s not a victim,” says Robbie from the other end of the room, and we all turn to look at him. “Don’t use that word.”

“You’re quite right,” replies Lord Wolverton, nodding emphatically. “If anyone is the victim here, it’s you.” He pauses, and we all wait for the obvious addendum. Finally, grudgingly, he deigns to offer it. “And your son, of course.”

“Evan,” says Mam.

More silence. I wonder whether, if I flung myself toward one of the enormous windows, would it break upon impact, letting me plunge to the street below. The staircase outside was highly elevated; we must be at a significant distance from the ground. I’d probably die. That would be nice.

“Are you a football man yourself, Lord Wolverton?” asks Dad, and I make my way around the table, taking a seat opposite Robbie. I glance down toward the carpet. He’s wearing invisible socks, and his trousers, as he sits, rise to expose his ankles.

“I was brought up an Arsenal fan,” he replies, speaking as if he’s addressing an audience at the Guildhall. “Or ‘The Gunners,’ as we call them over here.”

“I know who the Gunners are,” says Dad, who’s willing to be subservient but won’t be patronized when it comes to the subject of football.

“Although I rarely have the time to go to matches,” he continues. “Busy with work and social commitments and what have you.”

“You were a politician, weren’t you?” asks Mam. “That must have been very interesting.”

“I still am, in a sense,” he replies. “But I maintain many diverse business interests.”

“You came to the Birmingham match last year,” I point out, and he turns to look at me now, a nerve in his cheek twitching slightly.

“We go when we can,” says Lady Wolverton. “Quite honestly, it’s not what we ever expected of Robert. I had always hoped he might go into medicine or the law. But from the time he was a child, it was just football, football, football. I don’t know where he got it from.”

Lord Wolverton is still looking at me and, to my frustration, I’m the first to look away.

“I have to admit that I find the atmosphere at football matches very hostile,” continues Robbie’s mother.

“All that shouting and cursing. And the…” She hesitates.

“Well, one doesn’t mind the homophobia so much, I suppose the fans have to let off steam, but the racist chanting every time one of the colored players has the ball—”

“Jesus, Mum,” says Robbie, bursting into laughter. “ Colored players! We don’t use that word anymore.”

“It’s difficult for us too,” says Mam, ignoring this. “Given where we live, I mean. We have to take a ferry across to Galway, and then it’s a flight from either Shannon or Dublin. But we’ve been over a few times. We went to the FA Cup semifinal last year, didn’t we, Charlie?”

“We did,” says Dad. “Nearly eight hundred euros that trip cost me, and I’d have been better off pissing the money up against a wall.”

“We’ve gone to some of the international matches in Dublin too,” she continues. “Actually, Charlie goes to all of them.”

“That was always my dream,” says Dad. “To line up for my country. Did you see the final group match for the Euros a couple of years back, no?”

The Wolvertons stare at him as if he’s speaking a foreign language.

“We were playing Greece,” he says, holding his hands far apart, as if a hologram of the game might appear between them, allowing us to relive the moment.

“And all we needed was a draw to get through. It’s 2–1 to the Greeks in injury time.

And we get a penalty. And who steps up to the spot?

This cunt.” He nods in my direction. I’m that cunt.

“And sends it well over the bar. It’s still up there, somewhere, I’d say, shooting across the Milky Way.

It’ll fall back to earth one of these days soon. ”

Lord Wolverton considers this and has enough self-awareness to recognize that, even though my father has denigrated me, he’s also initiated a competition in which he has no choice but to participate.

“Of course, it’s harder for Robert to make the national team,” he counters. “We have so many extraordinary players here in England. Easier for your son, I imagine. Ireland needs to take players from the Second Division.”

“The Championship,” says Robbie, looking up from his phone, his tone filled with exasperation. “It hasn’t been called the Second Division for decades.”

“In England,” continues his father, ignoring this, “the players would have to be Premier League.”

The room grows quiet again. We’re not here to talk about football, after all. We’re here because Robbie and I are being tried for rape and accessory to rape respectively.

“We’ve never had anything like this in our family before,” says Lady Wolverton eventually, laughing nervously, as if this is a tremendous joke.

“Neither have we,” says Mam.

“I do wonder about the part these football clubs have to play in it all,” she continues.

“From what I hear, the atmosphere there is drenched in the most despicable misogyny. All these young men given fame and fortune, but that just makes them targets for cheap tarts in nightclubs wearing next to nothing. WAGs, that’s what they call them, isn’t it?

” She pauses and shakes her head. “WAGs! Such a term! Always in the papers too, these girls. Mutton dressed as lamb. Remember those two who ended up in court over some ludicrous Twitter argument?”

“Instagram,” says Robbie.

“Two privileged fools wasting millions arguing over something of absolutely no consequence to anyone,” she says, shaking her head. “Utterly ridiculous. When there are people in the world with actual problems.”

I wonder what she knows about people with actual problems. Very little, I imagine.

“And you, young man,” says Lord Wolverton, turning to me. “You’re very quiet. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” I say, resisting the urge to punch the smug bastard in the face.

“Not guilty indeed,” he replies. “You look like butter wouldn’t melt, don’t you?”

“Now hold on,” says Dad, raising himself up to his full height. “Let’s not forget that my son is not the one accused of rape here. That’s your lad. Mine was just in the room.”

“And recording it on his smartphone,” says Lord Wolverton.

“An uncontested fact, I might remind you. What kind of animal does such a thing? My son and that girl engaged in a consensual sexual encounter. But it was your son, Mr. Keogh, your son, who filmed them like some sort of pervert, no doubt getting his jollies from watching it back later on. Isn’t that right?

” he asks, turning back to me. “Evan,” he adds, with emphasis.

I remain silent.

“And as for those WhatsApp messages,” he continues.

“My son didn’t say anything in them,” says Dad, which isn’t true, because I did. I said a lot; none of it good. “Yours, on the other hand—”

“Locker-room talk,” insists Lord Wolverton, waving this away.

“So it’s locker-room talk for your son,” says Mam. “But ours should be shamed for it, is that what you’re saying?”

“I know that our son wasn’t brought up to use the sort of language that yours did.”

“Jesus, Dad,” says Robbie, throwing his phone down on the table. “Leave it, will you? This isn’t helping anyone.”

“I simply think it would be better for all parties involved,” says Lord Wolverton, retaining his composure, “if we acknowledged the truth. We might not need to go through this sham of a trial if your boy simply owned up to what he did. He filmed a sexual encounter between two consenting adults, which is a disgusting thing to do. Grounds for a charge of voyeurism contrary to the Sexual Offences Act, as I understand it. If he accepted that, and took his punishment, then maybe this girl would be happy to let the rest of the matter go. Everyone could claim victory and we could all get on with our lives.”

“You mean our son should take the blame while yours gets off scot-free?” asks Mam, rearing up now. “Let’s not forget that your son is the sicko who forced himself on that poor girl.”

Lady Wolverton laughs and shakes her head. “No offense, Mrs.… Keogh, is it? But look at Robert. Does he look like someone who would need to force himself on any girl? He’s never had any difficulties in that area. Quite the contrary.”

“This is a mess of both their making,” says Dad. “So the pair of them can stand together to face the jury. And if things go badly, well, it won’t be our son who’ll be serving the longer stretch or listed on the sex offenders register for the rest of his life. It’ll be yours.”

Lord Wolverton takes a slow step toward my father now. He’s taller. He’s fitter. He’s stronger. And Dad retreats. I can’t help myself. I smile. Let him feel what it’s like to be frightened for a change.

“I’m just trying to bring this obscenity to an end,” says Lord Wolverton. “I don’t know what kind of upbringing boys have on that little island of yours, but here on the mainland—”

“The mainland ?” roars Mam, because there is no word that is more of a red rag to an Irish person than that. “What mainland is that, would you mind telling me?”

“Here on the mainland,” continues Lord Wolverton, not even deigning to look at her, “we instill certain standards in our children.”

“And we don’t?” she asks, and I think she might be close to physically attacking him. “Do you think we told Evan it was all right to attack any girl he sees on the street?”

“As far as I understand it,” says Lord Wolverton, remaining so calm that it’s chilling to observe, “it’s not girls who are at jeopardy around your son.”

I feel a stab in my stomach and glance toward Robbie, who looks away, unwilling to meet my eye.

“And what in God’s name is that supposed to mean?” begins Dad, but before he can get any further, the door opens, and Catherine returns.

“For pity’s sake, I can hear the lot of you out in the corridor,” she says, glaring at all of us like a furious mother scolding her children. “And so can everyone else. It’s not a good way to begin proceedings when we’re trying to convince a jury that your sons are innocent men.”

The four parents each have the good grace to look a little shamefaced.

Catherine shakes her head in disgust before turning to Robbie and me and saying the words that I’ve dreaded for months.

“It’s time.”