Page 43 of The Elements

The press is out in force this morning. They know, like we do, that the verdict is likely to be delivered today.

Closing arguments have been made, and yesterday, after reminding them of their responsibilities, Judge Kerrey sent the jury out to deliberate.

A tense afternoon followed before we were told to go home, but now it’s Friday, and the assumption is that they will return early, allowing the jurors to enjoy a long weekend.

The reporters scream questions at me as I make my way from the car to the courthouse, but I ignore them.

Dad waves them away furiously, like a flock of pigeons, while Mum keeps her head down and strides forward, her arms wrapped around herself as if she’s back on the island, walking along the beach with the wind from the Atlantic Ocean blowing in her face.

Inside, I see Mr. Armstrong in conversation with a colleague, and I glance in his direction, wondering whether he will acknowledge my presence, but even though he looks over, I could be a complete stranger for all the recognition he shows.

Perhaps he’s already mentally moved on from this case to his next one.

All that’s left for him, after all, is to know whether or not he’s won.

I have no idea whether we will be found guilty or not guilty.

Lauren was compelling in her evidence, but, while the jury was initially sympathetic toward her, our barrister did an excellent job of destroying her character.

Rafe was right in suggesting that Robbie’s arrogance and narcissism on the stand would have counted against us, and I think I came across as cagey, particularly when questions were asked about how I’d spent my time between leaving the island and beginning my career as a professional footballer.

I’ve asked Catherine how long she thinks we’ll get if we’re convicted, and, while she was reluctant to speculate, she finally admitted that Robbie would likely be sent down for eight to ten years while I could expect five to seven.

With good behavior, she added, he could be out in six and I in four.

I try to imagine what it would be like to spend that amount of time in prison.

My experience of jail is limited to what I’ve seen on movies and television shows, and I doubt that’s an accurate representation.

Will I be raped in there? Given how I look, I imagine that’s likely.

Will I be killed? No, that seems a little dramatic.

Or will it just be endlessly boring, one day of tedium following another, as my muscles atrophy and my brain turns to mush?

And what will I do when I get out? My football career will be over.

Perhaps I’ll get a normal job.

Perhaps I’ll move to the other side of the world.

Perhaps I’ll kill myself.

My parents and I return to the room where we gathered on the opening day. Mam sits down with a heavy sigh while Dad paces the floor like an expectant father. When the silence becomes too much, she speaks.

“If the worst happens—” she begins, but Dad cuts her off.

“Don’t start with that, Maggie,” he says.

“If the worst happens,” she repeats, raising her voice now and looking toward me, “how do you think you’ll cope?”

“I won’t,” I tell her, and she nods, because she knows her son.

“You’ll just have to stay strong,” she says.

“Would you shut up, woman?” shouts Dad. “You’re upsetting the lad. Can we not cross that bridge if we get to it?”

“That bridge is just up ahead, Charlie,” she replies, turning on him. “Can you not see it, no? Because I can. I’m looking right at it.”

“That lot out there,” he says, pointing toward the door, and I don’t know if he’s referring to the jury or the press, “know a dirty little slut when they see one. They won’t destroy everything I’ve worked for because some filthy whore can’t keep her knickers on.”

Did I hear that right? Did he say everything that he’d worked for? There’s a part of me that wants to be found guilty now, if only to spite him.

“Jesus Christ,” says Mam, standing up and walking as far away from him as she can. Her arms are wrapped around herself again; this is a new form of self-preservation, I realize. “What kind of man did I marry?”

“One who did all the hard work and left you to bring up the child, and look where that got us.”

“So this is all my fault?” she asks.

“Your problem is you know nothing of the world.”

“My problem is I was never allowed to see any of it,” she roars.

“Sure, haven’t you kept me locked up in that bloody house on that godforsaken island since the day you brought me there?

And all the promises you made when we were courting!

The places we’d go! The things we’d see!

And the only places I ever went were a few threadbare shops in a village out of the Stone Age, and the only thing I ever saw was the inside of a church.

Christ Almighty, the highlight of last year was the night we went to the new pub just because Tim Devlin had repainted the walls of the snug.

The excitement! I could hardly contain myself! ”

“Ah, would you shut up,” says Dad, who can’t bear to hear anyone criticize his beloved island, the center of his tiny universe.

“If you hate it so much there, then you can pack your bags, for all the difference it makes to me. You wouldn’t be missed, I’ll tell you that for nothing.

You think I’d be lonely without a wife? Sure, I’d get another. They’re two-a-penny.”

I bury my face in my hands, wanting to block out the sound of their arguing, the discordant music of my childhood.

I wonder does Mam understand that he’s right, that she can leave any time she wants.

But she won’t, I know that. She’s trapped.

Everything she has is wrapped up with him, and the land is a powerful force, especially in Ireland.

He’d rather cut out his heart than surrender so much as a clod of earth to her.

And how is a woman in her fifties, who has lived most of her life in isolation, supposed to survive in society, where she knows no one?

“Here they come now,” says Dad. He’s standing by the window again, looking down at the activity below.

“Who?” I ask.

“Your pal.”

“Robbie?”

“And those fancy posh parents of his. Do you know, I’m half-minded to have a word with them before we get into the courtroom.”

“Leave it, Charlie,” says Mam, and this is enough to send him toward the door. He won’t be told what to do, least of all by a woman. Maybe she knows this.

“I’ll be back,” he says as he marches out.

As much as I can’t stand to be in his company, the silence he’s left us with is almost impossible to bear.

I haven’t been alone with Mam since all this started.

In fact, I don’t think I’ve been alone with her since she walked me down to the dock on the day I left the island, when she told me to get on the boat and never to look back.

I don’t know what to say to her anymore.

Things have changed between us. I became a different boy than the one I was supposed to be.

I wanted to be a painter. I wanted to be good.

I wanted to love someone, and to be loved in return.

But none of these ambitions came to be. I think, sometimes, there are people who are destined never to have anyone fall in love with them.

It doesn’t matter what they look like, how they behave, how much money they have, how much kindness exists in their heart.

The love of another person is simply never going to be theirs.

There’s some aspect of them, something inherent, something indefinable, that makes people turn away. And I think I’m one of those people.

“Evan,” she says finally, her voice low. I know what she’s going to ask me, and I can’t bear it. I feel the potential for tears—mine, not hers—and fight them back. I don’t want to walk into that courtroom with red eyes. “It’s time to be honest with me.”

This is something she would never have said in front of Dad. He doesn’t want the truth, but she can’t go on without it.

“I don’t mean about what happened with that poor girl, God love her,” she says. “We can discuss that another day, and we will, I promise you that, when this horror show is behind us.”

“Then what?” I ask.

She stares at me for a long time, as if I shouldn’t have to ask.

“Cormac Sweeney,” she says. “I want to know what happened the night that you and he went into the woods together.”

I feel my entire body grow cold. Why this? Why now of all times? It’s either the best moment in our lives to ask me this question, or the worst.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, looking away. “Cormac and I were—”

“Don’t play me for a fool!” she shouts, slamming the palm of her hand down on the table, the sound startling me. My mother has never had a temper, and its sudden eruption startles me. “We might be only five minutes away from a jury sending you to jail for something you say you didn’t do—”

“I didn’t do it,” I insist.

“But whatever verdict comes in, and whatever the truth is about that disgusting night, I want to know what happened between you and Cormac. Remember, I knew that boy since the day he was born. Sure, didn’t he spend half his childhood under my feet, just as you did under Joe and Siobhán’s’?

I need the truth, Evan, or I swear to God, I will walk out of this room right now and march headlong into the traffic below. ”

I’m shocked by this. It’s possible that she’s just being theatrical, but the expression on her face makes me realize that anything is possible.

I crumble inside. She is my mother, the only person on this planet who I am certain would lay down her life for me.

And she is demanding the truth. The problem is, my life, my spirit, my entire personality, has become so soiled that I can scarcely remember what that word even means anymore.

“Please, Evan,” she says, quieter now. “You have to tell me.”