Page 44 of The Elements

“We had a thing,” I say, too ashamed to look at her. “That’s all. Nothing more.”

“A thing? What do you mean, a thing? What kind of a thing?”

“We liked each other.”

“You mean you liked him.”

“Yes, I liked him.”

“But he didn’t like you.”

“I thought he did.”

“But he didn’t.”

“He was my best friend.”

“But he didn’t like you in that way.”

“What does it matter?” I ask, looking up. “It’s ancient history.”

“It matters to me,” she says. “I need to know.”

“But why?”

“Because I have to understand the son that I raised,” she tells me. “And my own part in all of this. Did you do something to him, Evan? To Cormac? Did you hurt him in some way?” She pauses. “Or did he hurt you?”

I look down again and can feel the furrowing of my brow.

“Cormac and I… we were so close,” I say, so quietly that it’s almost a whisper. “We got drunk, that’s all. We got high. And we kissed. It happens.”

“And then what?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“What does it matter?” I shout, throwing my hands up in the air. “Why do you care? It was nearly five years ago.”

“Did you have sex?”

“No.”

“But you wanted to?”

I can’t look at her.

“Yes.”

“Did you try?”

“Yes.”

“Did you force yourself on him?”

“Jesus, no.”

“The truth, Evan!”

“As if I could have! The size of him.”

“He’s no bigger than you.”

“He’s stronger.”

“Well, something more must have happened,” she insists. “Because you were never the same after that night. It wasn’t long before you took your father’s boat out and—”

“He was mean to me,” I say quietly, so quietly I’m not even sure that I said it aloud.

“What?” she asks. “What did you say?”

I sit down and stare at the carpet. “He was mean to me,” I repeat.

“Mean to you? In what way?”

“I thought we were friends.”

“You thought Cormac Sweeney was your friend?” she asks, raising her voice and offering a bitter laugh.

“Sure, that boy never looked out for anyone in his life other than himself. My God, the way he treated you when you were growing up. The times I wanted to slap him for the things he said to you, only I’d have had Siobhán Sweeney down on me like a ton of bricks.

What did he do?” I remain silent. “Evan, for God’s sake,” she says. “Tell me. What did he do?”

I have no choice. I’m exhausted by questions. So I tell her what happened. The truth, just like she asked for. When I finish, she’s looking at me with so much love on her face that I struggle to keep my emotions together.

“Oh, Evan,” she says. “They were just words. From a nasty little prick of a boy who hasn’t an ounce of goodness in him and never did. Why did you let them hurt you so much?”

“It’s always been just words,” I tell her, feeling the tears coming now, despite my earlier determination to keep them at bay. “Everything Dad said to me from as far back as I can remember was just words too. Everything Sir said—”

“Who?”

“But their words were right, weren’t they? Dad. Cormac. All those gallerists who turned down my work. They all told me the same thing. That I’m worthless.”

“You’re not worthless,” she insists. “You’re a kind and loving boy who’s—”

“On trial for accessory to rape.”

This silences her for a minute or two.

“So this girl,” she says eventually. “Lauren Mackintosh. She’s lying, yes?”

“Of course she is.”

“Because I know you’ve been through a lot, Evan, but I can’t believe that I could bring up a son who could stand by and watch while something like that took place. I couldn’t live with myself if I knew that to be the case.”

“I didn’t,” I say, reaching out to her now, and she lets me bury my head on her shoulder.

“I didn’t. I didn’t, Mam, I didn’t. It’s a lie, it’s all a lie.

Whatever happened with Cormac is long ago now, but this, all of this, this is all a lie.

She’s making it all up, I swear she is. We did not do what she says we did.

She wanted to have sex with Robbie, and she never objected to me filming it.

I know that’s not great in itself, and that you must be disgusted with me for even doing that, but I swear that’s what happened.

We are here, Robbie and me, because of a lie.

I swear it to you, Mam. I swear it. I didn’t do it. ”

She pulls herself away so she’s looking directly at me, and I swear I have never had someone stare at me with so much intensity before.

“Just let me just get through today,” I say, sitting back and emitting a sigh that seems to come from the very depths of my broken soul.

“Please, Mam, just let me get through today, that’s all I ask of you.

After that, we can talk. There’s so much more, so much that I’ve done that I want to tell you about. I’m… I’m rubbish.”

“You’re not,” she says, crying now too. “Never say that about yourself, Evan. You’re my son. And I love you. No matter what you’ve done.”

I look up, and I know that she means what she says. No one knows me better than her, but I don’t think anyone knows her better than me either. And I see it there, I see it in her eyes.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” I ask. “About Lauren, I mean. You think I’m lying. You think I did it.”

“I’d forgive you if you did,” she says. “I’d forgive you for anything, because that’s what mothers do for their sons. But you have to admit it. You have to be honest. With me, if not with anyone else.”

I say the next seven words as forcefully as I possibly can.

“I. Didn’t. Do. It. She. Is. Lying.”

She looks away now, her expression one of terrible sadness, and places her hands together, as if in prayer. “Oh, my son,” she says. “I love you, but—”

“But what?”

“I am so ashamed of you.”

When Catherine leads Robbie and me into the courtroom, she seems subdued, and it crosses my mind that perhaps barristers are told the verdict in advance, but it’s more likely that she, like Mr. Armstrong, is already thinking about the case she’ll be arguing tomorrow, when she’s finally rid of us.

As we make our way into the dock, Robbie asks how I’m feeling, but I neither acknowledge his question nor answer it. I have nothing further to say.

Judge Kerrey enters and takes her seat before nodding toward the bailiff and, a moment later, the jury members file into their seats.

I glance toward my father, who is sitting alone now.

Mam is gone. She could be anywhere, I suppose.

Traveling back to the island. Disappearing off into another life. Walking headlong into the traffic.

As it turns out, Juror no. 6, Dr. Freya Petrus, has been elected jury foreperson, and when invited to do so she stands. The bailiff asks her whether they have reached a verdict on which they are all agreed.

“We have,” she says.

The scent of the soil is almost overwhelming now. It’s trapped in my nostrils, making it hard for me to breathe. The stench of the football pitch. The smell of the farm I grew up on. The stink of the forest where Cormac Sweeney humiliated me and broke something inside me.

He asks whether we are guilty or not guilty, and, before she can reply, I turn my eyes to the heart of the courtroom and imagine, for a moment, the life I might have enjoyed had my talents been in my hands rather than my feet.

The art I might have created. The joy I might have given.

The friends I might have made. The lovers I might have taken.

The life I might have built. The happiness I might have felt.

And then the verdict is delivered.