The Truth Commissioner (13 page)

They arrive outside the wedding shop and as soon as he gets out of the car, Gilroy glances up and lets the cold night air
splash itself against his face. He stands still, looking at the frosted white light of the windows and the ivory sheaths of
dresses. The brightness hurts his eyes and he turns his gaze to the sky where he finds respite in the purple and whorled bruise
of darkness that feels strong enough to envelop this sickly glitter of whiteness and smother it in the blackness of its embrace.
He doesn't want to enter but Sweeney's hand in the middle of his back gently propels him forward. ‘The sooner we get this
over, the sooner we get to eat,' he says. Gilroy nods but lets him lead the way. The door is held open for them by one of
the shop assistants. Inside there's a group waiting for them. He sees Rory and Michael but not his youngest son Peter. Justin
is standing beside someone he doesn't recognise and laughing at some joke his companion has made.

‘Where's Peter?' he asks Marie as she comes towards him.

‘You're late – we thought you weren't coming,' she says, angling her head and staring at him, her face tightened with accusation.
‘Peter's on call and had to go back to the hospital but it doesn't matter, Michael's the same height and size so we can go
by him.'

‘Hi, Franky,' Justin says, stretching out his hand. ‘How you doing? This is Edmund, the best man to be.'

He shakes hands with both of them and resists the urge to pull their arms out of their sockets. Edmund is printed on the same
press as Justin, right down to the glasses. He thinks they're standing smiling at him the way they might smile at an animal
in the zoo.

‘So how's London then?' he asks, loosening the knot of his tie.

‘Busy, busy – we've a lot of new big contracts,' Justin says. ‘Important clients so the pressure's on to produce.'

‘That's good,' Gilroy says, not knowing what he's saying good to. ‘First time in Belfast, Edmund?'

‘Yes, sir,' Edmund says and Gilroy looks at him to see if he is taking the piss but in his face sees only a polite nervousness.
Edmund's head continues to nod slowly in silent affirmation of his answer.

‘You in advertising, too?' Gilroy asks.

‘No, I'm in property – not sharp enough for advertising.'

‘You're a builder?' he asks and over Justin's shoulder sees Rory and Michael smile and squirm a little.

‘No, I invest, develop, that sort of thing.'

‘Very good and how long have you known Justin?'

‘Same school, same uni. Long time. That right, Justin?'

‘Too long. Knows all the dark secrets,' Justin says.

He's going to ask another question when Marie pushes in and pulls him by the cuff. ‘We need to get on with it,' she says.
‘Time for the interrogation later.' Then turning to her prospective son-in-law and his friend she says, ‘Ever since he got
his job he thinks the whole world owes him an answer.'

‘Minister for Children and Culture,' Justin says. ‘Very impressive.'

‘Keeps me busy.'

‘You know what Goebbels said about culture?'

Gilroy looks startled and turns to Sweeney but there's no answer in his face. ‘So, remind me, what did Goebbels say about
culture?' he asks but before Justin can answer, Rory comes forward and rests an arm on his shoulder.

‘He said that whenever he heard anyone talking about culture it made him want to reach for his gun. Now let's try these suits
on and get this over with.'

On cue the manager and his assistant produce the suits and start to direct them to the changing area. As he's handed his,
Gilroy looks at it, then looks at Sweeney and rolls his eyes.

‘It's not so bad,' Sweeney says but as he heads for the changing room, Gilroy pulls his sleeve.

‘What was he talking about? Was he calling me a Nazi?'

‘No, Franky, he wasn't calling you a Nazi – he was making a joke about culture. And don't make this guy Edmund any more nervous
than he already is or he'll be shittin' his pants.'

He turns round to see Marie nodding encouragement at him and shooing him on with her hand. In the changing cubicle he pulls
the curtain tightly closed, sits on the stool in the corner and tries not to look at himself in the mirror. There's the sound
of zips and shoes being taken off in the other cubicles. When he bends over to loosen his laces there's a pain in his back
that makes him wince. He catches the tightened purse of his face in the mirror and tries to steady himself by pressing the
splay of his hand against the glass. When he lifts it away there is a momentary print like a cave painting, before it fades
into nothing. He removes his jacket and drops his trousers, not bothering to hang them up but kicking them into a corner,
then puts on the suit.

‘All right, Da?' Rory calls.

‘No problems,' he says. ‘Who picked this outfit?'

‘Who do you think?' Michael answers.

‘I suppose we should be grateful we're not wearing kilts,' Gilroy says, slipping on his shoes without tying the laces.

‘Everything all right, gentlemen?' the manager asks, his words mixing with the spicy scent of his aftershave.

‘Everything's fine,' he answers but feels foolish as he looks at himself and as he straightens it feels as if he's given away
his dignity. He sits down on the stool again and lets the side of his head loll against the glass. Give your only daughter
away and do it dressed like a clown. Give your daughter away to someone you know nothing about.

‘What's keeping you, Francis?' Marie calls. ‘Everyone's waiting for you.'

‘I'm coming,' he shouts as he stands up. Is it his imagination or does he feel a little dizzy? He's too hot and into his head
come images of Atlantic breakers, of the salted freshness of sea air washing over him. When he steps out of the cubicle it
is not Marie he sees but Christine and she is standing smiling at him, pleased with the suit and enjoying his discomfort.

‘Where did you come from?' he asks. ‘I thought you weren't supposed to see this until the wedding day.'

‘It's my dress the groom isn't supposed to see. You didn't think I'd leave you to your own devices? Suit looks good; love
the waistcoat. But it'd look even better if you could bring yourself to smile a bit.'

‘Smile?' Marie says as she moves closer to her daughter. ‘A smile would crack his face these days. Must be part of the image.'

Behind her the two assistants are checking cuff lengths and securing buttons, their hands moving silently and quickly like
card sharps dealing waxen decks.

‘And you're going to have a lovely buttonhole to set off the suit. We chose the flowers earlier today,' Christine says as
she comes close to him and touches the waistcoat lightly with the tips of her fingers. His eyes rest on the smallness of her
hands, the shiny ostentation of the engagement ring.

‘Suppose the flowers are costing an arm and a leg,' he says as she palms his waistcoat flat. ‘And that's my stomach. Nothing
I can do about it.'

‘You could go on a diet for my big day.'

‘He will not,' Marie interrupts, ‘he's already lost enough weight this past while. If he keeps going he'll be skin and bone
before this is over.'

‘And don't be talking about money,' Michael chips in. ‘Whatever it costs it'll be a bargain to get her off your hands.'

Her hands are small, pink-nailed, perfect – the hands of a child, they push him in the small of his back or tug at his sleeve.
Always insistent, never taking no for an answer. Directing him to wherever it is she wants him to go. Bossy, demanding little
hands, never accepting procrastination or excuse, desperate to show him her latest hiding place or special den. Always building
dens or little rooms – under the kitchen table, under the stairs, or in the corner of the yard roofed with a sheet or tablecloth.
And she always loved to furnish them, to equip them with all the necessary comforts. Never one for roughing it or going without.
He glances at Justin checking his appearance in one of the full-length mirrors and smoothing one of his lapels. Need to earn
a lot of money, Justin, to keep her in the style she expects. Need to know how to keep her happy when some unseen wind blows
through her mind and makes her restless.

‘You'll look just great in the video,' Christine says, then goes to talk to Justin.

‘Video? What video?' Gilroy asks his wife.

‘All weddings have a video, Francis,' she says, grimacing at him.

‘Nobody said anything about a video,' he protests.

‘You can hardly complain when you spend half your life in front of a camera,' she insists as she picks a piece of fluff off
his jacket.

‘What else do I not know about?' he asks.

‘Well, Francis, it's good of you to ask because to date your involvement in the wedding has been limited to not very helpful
comments. Do you think you could cheer up a bit, try to look pleased for her? She's already starting to ask me what's wrong
with you. What am I supposed to say?'

He feels the slow burn of shame, a sense of selfishness, and doesn't try to stem the flow of her words.

‘And another thing – if she wants to leave the reception in a hot-air balloon, that's all right by me. In fact anything she
wants on what is supposed to be the most special day of her life, as far as I am concerned, she can have.'

The others are returning to change back into their own clothes. Rory and Michael are joking with Edmund about something he
can't quite hear. He thinks the joke is about him.

‘She doesn't really want a hot-air balloon, does she?'

‘No, she doesn't, not yet anyway, but if she does we'll get her one whether we have to beg, steal or borrow it. Francis, we
owe her. Big time! For all the times we couldn't take her places, or even go to see her do things. For all the times you weren't
there.'

‘I know,' he says, suddenly feeling so weary that he wants to sit down, sit down somewhere he's not confronted by his reflection.

As always she reads him. ‘Get changed now. Do you want me to help you?'

Yes he wants her help but shakes his head, unwilling to show his need in front of the others. ‘Could we all go out after this
for a meal somewhere? All of us, Edmund, everyone.'

‘They've already got something arranged. Michael and Rory are taking them somewhere. They don't want old fogies like us getting
in the way of their plans. Anyway I think we need to get you home. Have you eaten yet?'

‘Not yet,' he says, beginning to open the buttons of his waistcoat, his fingers feeling heavy and clumsy.

‘Christine,' he suddenly calls, ‘seeing as this wedding is costing me an arm and a leg, you better give your old man a hug
to pay for it.'

She skips towards him and puts her arms tightly around him. Over her shoulder he exchanges smiles with Marie.

‘Paid with interest,' he says.

When she releases him he goes to say something to her but the words feel as if they are lodged too deep inside himself, too
far beyond his reach, and so instead he turns and walks slowly back to the changing cubicle.

‘Dad, you never told me you were having your portrait done.' Her voice is light, teasing, full of mischief.

‘No secrets round here then. And you'll all get a few laughs out of it, I'm sure.'

‘You can take it,' she calls.

He nods and entering the cubicle pulls the curtain tightly closed. Just for a second he feels lighter but then as he faces
his reflection in the mirror, the old tiredness returns and he slumps on to the chair. There is a sullen rumble of hunger
from his stomach. He hears again his self-accusation of selfishness and in his head begins to construct a rebuttal of the
charge but it fails to find any form of words that serves to convince or ward off the accusation, so he resorts to feelings,
letting them swirl about his pressing consciousness in the hope that they will wash away the clamouring voices. He takes off
the suit carefully and places it on the hanger, making sure the crease of the trousers is preserved. He will need to look
his very best on the day. On video, preserved for ever – the thought makes him squirm a little as he puts on his own jacket.
Something shiny in the pocket catches his eye. He takes out a pen. A fountain pen. Crockett's. He spins round as footsteps
pass outside. His breathing is suddenly hurried, finally staunched only by the swelter of swear words that hiss from his lips.
How could he have been so stupid? What was he thinking of? Taking a man's pen, a pen that he will now know is missing and
believe that someone has lifted it. What was he trying to do – tell Crockett that he works for some back-street wide-boy who
would filch the eyes out of the back of your head? Tell Crockett that everything he ever thought about him was true?

‘Hurry up, Dad,' Christine's voice calls. ‘We're going on somewhere.'

‘I'm coming, I'm coming.'

He places the pen back in his pocket. He'll try to leave it back. Drop it maybe in the room they were using when no one is
looking. Drop it where someone will be sure to see it and return it to its owner. He tells himself that it's only a bloody
pen. He must have done it in his confusion and forgotten about it. Crockett probably has a drawerful in his office – he might
not even notice it's gone.

He's the last to emerge. Rory and Michael have gone to look for a taxi. Justin stands with his arm round Christine. He stares
at the arm that rests across his daughter's shoulder. In it he reads different things, affection, the offer of protection,
but there is also something proprietorial in it, an assertion of new ownership. His own hand presses the pocket where he knows
the pen is.

‘You took so long we thought you were writing your memoirs,' Christine says.