The phone call started like any other. Nadine’s voice crackled through with that laugh—the one that filled the whole room—asking if I’d come over and put some lashes on her before she went out. She was 30, a single mom, and she had her own little apartment in Arklow. She was doing everything right.
She’d followed her dream into the beauty industry, loved her clients, adored her colleagues. As far as we were concerned, everything was rosy. She was going out for her auntie’s 50th birthday, right after watching her daughter in the school nativity play. Her ex of six years, Daniel Murtagh, an amateur MMA fighter from Dublin, had agreed to babysit their little girl.
It was the first time he’d ever done that since they split. She trusted him with their child. She was trying to keep things civil, for the sake of their daughter. I remember coming out of that nativity play.
Nadine came out behind me and just said, “See you later. ” That was the last time I ever saw her alive. The night was supposed to be a good one. We all met at the pub—about twelve of us around a table, the way Irish families do, talking over each other.
Nadine sat beside my father, taking on the role of his date for the night. She was in great form, looking stunning, making plans for Christmas. There was nothing about her that night that made me worried. At the end of the meal, I decided to head home.
I had only a couple of months old baby at home, so I backed out of the after-drinks. I still think about that. If I had stayed, would I have walked her the three minutes home? Would it have been different?
Nadine stayed for one more drink with a friend. She got a taxi home alone. A neighbor heard a disturbance and called the Gardaí and our family. My sister Phoebe came running down the hall to my mother’s room, screaming for us to get up, to get to Nadine’s.
We all jumped in the car. That drive felt like two seconds. We ran into the apartment. We went into the kitchen.
She was in the corner, hunched over, blood everywhere. She was making these terrible gasping sounds. You couldn’t see her face. It was like a scene out of a horror movie.
I just kept telling her, “You’re okay. I’m here. Your baby’s okay. Don’t worry now.
” I remember my instinct to save my daughter kicking in, doing what I had to do until the paramedics got there. Nadine was taken to hospital. She had 64 injuries to her body. There wasn’t a bone that wasn’t broken.
She had a stab wound to her neck. And he had destroyed her face. He had focused all his violence on her beauty, the thing that mattered most to her. It was pure vindictiveness.
He wanted her to be unrecognizable. Daniel Murtagh had fled. He’d gotten into his car and headed for Dublin, not on the motorway, but over the Wicklow Mountains, thinking he could avoid the checkpoints. But he crashed.
And the first thing he said to the Gardaí who found him was, “I’ve just killed my wife. ” Then he corrected himself, “I’ve just killed my girlfriend. ”
That got the alarms ringing. He was brought in for questioning.
Meanwhile, Nadine was still alive in the hospital. She was unrecognizable. She needed over 20 blood transfusions. The surgeon said they’d do what they could, but we just had to wait.
We drove home in silence. We ended up in the church, not knowing what else to do. A woman came over to us and gave us little medals. She said, “You guys will be okay.
” The whole town knew. There was a vigil held for her, candles lit, prayers said. But they couldn’t save her. She lived until Tuesday at 3 o’clock.
The nurse let us know when she slipped away. And because I had formally identified her, they took her body away straight away. Her body became evidence. The court case was harrowing.
Murtagh tried to claim it was manslaughter, that Nadine was still his girlfriend, that he was drunk and high and didn’t intend to kill her. But there was no relationship. They had only ever been together for a short time. The only thing they shared was a child.
The level of violence made it clear he intended to kill her. He couldn’t have her, so no one else could. He smirked at us in the gallery. He kept trying to put us through more pain, reliving every detail, just to try and get a leaner sentence.
The jury gave a unanimous verdict. Murder. He got a life sentence. But in this country, life doesn’t always mean life.
He can apply for parole in 12 years. Our family will have to fight then to keep him in prison. I don’t waste a second of my day thinking about him. He’s a waste of space.
But we don’t have closure. He took so much away from us. We never got to say goodbye to her. Her funeral turnout was amazing.
The community was a great source of inspiration. It’s still a shock to see her name on a grave. She was learning to drive. She was so full of life.
She was the glue of our group, a best friend to everyone. She’s in every single conversation we have. She’s part of our family. I want her remembered for who she was.
Not what he did to her. When anyone sees her photos, she’s always smiling, laughing. She was beautiful, both inside and out. She lived life to the fullest.
Now, I live my life on “what ifs. ” What if I had walked her home? What if I had stayed? I can still hear the sound of her gasping.
I live with those nightmares, those flashbacks, the sleepless nights, and the emptiness. She deserved a life. She was a loving mother, daughter, sister, and friend.
And it was all taken away from her on a night that was supposed to be just another night out.
