Free The Convictions of John Delahunt by Andrew Hughes

front of the gallery. I could only see the back of his head, and partially the side of his face. But when he turned to whisper something to his neighbour, his yellow cravat peeked out above his collar.
    I looked down at my knees. My presence in the courtroom now seemed perilous, and I berated myself for sitting amidst the loved ones of those I’d condemned. The journalist gave me a dark look as I tried to squeeze by. He moved his satchel from the floor and swung his legs up to make room for me to pass, causing the bench to creak. I pulled at the double doors of the courtroom, first one and then the other, but neither budged. A tipstaff standing nearby said, ‘You have to push it.’ The main hallway was less crowded, but I didn’t stop. I made straight for the exit and stepped out on to the quays. A stiff breeze blew up from the bay, making the surface of the water shiver.
    That evening, rain fell on Fitzwilliam Street in heavy showers. I sat with the parlour shutters drawn, sipping a bottle of wine from Meyler’s, and reading over Hamilton’s Systems of Rays . I thought back over the previous weeks. A few close shaves, but altogether I looked upon the experience with satisfaction. I had known few thrills in my life before then, and the reward money was enough to see me comfortably through the end of term. The most important thing now was to focus on college and attain my degree.
    There was a soft rap on the front door. Miss Joyce had gone to bed. I put aside the volume and went into the hallway, repeating a law from Hamilton’s book, which I can still remember: ‘Rays which diverge from a luminous point compose one optical system, and after they reflect in a mirror, they compose another.’ The last grey light of evening showed through the semi-circular fanlight.
    I opened the front door wide. The man with the yellow cravat stood on my steps. Small beads of water had gathered on his shoulders. Tufts of tawny hair circled his pate, and he had no beard except for a few days’ growth.
    We regarded each other for a moment. I considered bluffing that I had three brothers upstairs, but he had probably observed the darkened house for hours.
    ‘John Delahunt.’ The soft tone of his voice surprised me.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Can I come in?’
    The latch was cold against my fingers. I stepped backwards into the hall with my arm extended towards the parlour door. He walked into the room and shook rainwater from his coat. My book lay open beside a glass of wine, which glowed red in the candlelight. He took up the bottle to read the label, which was in French. ‘Not drinking in Nowlan’s this evening?’
    ‘Clearly not.’ I took the bottle from his hand, and brought it to the dresser. ‘Would you like a glass?’
    His face darkened. ‘Do you think I came here for a drink?’
    ‘No, but there’s plenty of time to discuss what has to be done.’
    I poured some wine and handed it to him, then pointed at the armchair in which I’d been studying, and invited him to sit. I brought my own glass to stand beside the hearth, and propped one elbow against the mantelpiece.
    The man looked up at me from my chair. ‘If you sit down we can discuss your problem.’
    ‘I’d prefer to stand.’
    He shifted to get comfortable. ‘It makes no difference.’ The frayed ends of his trousers hitched up over his shins, revealing worn boots, one with the sole drooping down at the toe. He wasn’t sure what to do with the wine. He placed his elbows on his knees, then changed his mind and sat upright.
    I said, ‘I’m sorry about your friends.’
    ‘I never particularly liked them.’ The scrolled handle of a candlestick teetered over the lip of the table beside him. He pushed it in safely with his thumb, causing the flame to drag sideways. ‘They shouldn’t have lost their heads with that old man.’
    I agreed, and said it was a terrible business.
    He set aside his wine, then withdrew a copy of the proclamation announcing the twenty-pound reward