The Truth Commissioner (16 page)

James Fenton

James Fenton sits in the car park at the foot of Slieve Donard and waits for his former colleague to arrive. He feels a growing
impatience – if he had been doing the climb by himself he would have started by now. Even though this is the North's highest
mountain, climb is hardly the right word because it demands no more than a slightly arduous walk to the summit. He has come
lately to walking – really since his retirement from the force – and he prefers to walk alone, finding a pleasure in the solitude
after a lifetime of working closely with others. He likes the mountains for their cleanness of air that fills the lungs and
they feel purer than anything he's ever known after thirty years of sitting in offices and interrogation rooms laced with
the sweet stench of sweat and fear; sitting in unmarked cars in clothes worn too long, with the stale taste of those hours
when most of the city sleeps. Too long in offices hyped with human electricity and sour with the remnants of snatched food
and dreg-filled coffee cups. He thinks, too, there is honesty in the mountains – they have no pretensions to prettiness but
only a rugged bleakness and he likes their disdainful indifference to who, or what, he is.

He glances again at his watch and hopes that Alec will arrive soon. He looks up at the sky that's grey and strewn with wind-blown
clouds streaming like shredded shards of last year's flags. The forecast promised some bright spells and if they're lucky
it might clear long enough for them to be rewarded with a view from the top. There was none on his last visit the previous
Boxing Day when the shoulders of Donard wore a shawl of white and the wind's bite was sharp-toothed on the skin. On the way
up he had met only one other person – a young woman who stopped and wished him good morning, both their breaths streaming
between them like smoke, her face flushed with the climb and the pure pleasure of the place. But he remembers the morning
for another reason – it was the day he fell and was lucky not to injure himself. It was on the way down when, weary of the
treacherous ice that had been a constant companion, he had decided to continue his descent by walking on the great granite
slabs that funnelled and shaped the fast-flowing river, white-throated where it tumbled over the rocky outcrops. But they
wore an invisible veneer of ice and almost as soon as he stepped on one, his feet had shot from under him and he had fallen
flat on his back, banging his head against the stone. After the first wave of shock he had lain perfectly still, listening
to the roar of the water that seemed now to pour over him until very slowly and tentatively he had moved the various parts
of his body, checking for damage, but miraculously, apart from a dull pain at the base of his spine and a slight swelling
at the back of his head, he had survived intact. But still he had lain there, curiously calm, and into his mind had come an
image that would repeat itself many times in the future. It was of him drifting into unconsciousness and then slowly slipping
from the polished slab into the narrow rush of water where he is carried and cribbed by the stone sides of the grey granite
until his body is borne to the sea. Then and now, there's no fear in the image but only a sense of calm, an acceptance of
his inability to resist or stop the flow.

Afterwards as he soaked in a salted bath, Miriam had scolded him for his supposed recklessness, for his selfishness in going
alone when he could enjoy the safety and company of others. When she saw the yellow belt of bruising she had complained, ‘I
didn't survive thirty years of being a policeman's wife to be widowed by a mountain.'

‘Think of the pension and the insurance policies,' he had tried to joke, ‘and sure couldn't you go out and find yourself a
younger husband,' but she hadn't responded to his humour so he didn't tell her that he had tried walking with the other recently
retired officers but hadn't enjoyed it. There was something too forced in the nostalgia, the constant banter that deprived
of its context seemed, to him at least, to be meaningless, and their loud laughter in the sanctity of the mountains in his
ears sounded like laughter in church. He has affection and respect for them but the past is the past and he feels a need to
strike out alone at this new stage of his life. He looks up again at the mountain. At 2,796 feet it's hardly Everest but he
wonders what Alec will make of it, wonders, too, why he has suddenly phoned him up and asked if they could do a walk together
and knows already that it will not be merely a social call. He smiles as he thinks of how he will make this young man, who has now acquired his former post on a fraction of the experience, climb a mountain before he's given his chance to reveal the reason for his presence. But there's no particularly strong curiosity about the reason as he carefully ties and knots his laces – probably advice on some aspect of the job, some inside track or information on an unsolved case that someone temporarily deems it politically expedient to reopen. Fenton dislikes the label ‘unsolved case' because in his experience there were very few that were unsolved but rather some where the evidence didn't exist or people were not prepared to say in public what they'd told him in private. Whatever it was, he doesn't particularly welcome the intrusion of his former life into his present one.

Like all his generation he has accepted the pension and the pay-off deals that were too generous to be refused, even though
it stuck in his throat to have to acknowledge that he was considered part of the corporate embarrassment, part of a past that
had to be quietly replaced. At times he feels it as a bitterness to have the service he has given, everything that has been
sacrificed, swept away with a quick thank you and a cheque but he could live with it if he was able, as he believed he would
be, to put it all behind him. But it's been a failure because despite everything, despite his active days, the involvement
with his church and the Romanian orphange, it feels as if nothing has been shed, that nothing has left him. It's there in
his dreams, in the snatches of conversation that replay constantly in his head as if on a loop, in the sudden sour taste in
his mouth and all of which seem able to clutch his consciousness at will and squeeze out the life of the present and deaden
any vision of the future. Sometimes he blames the absence of children in his marriage and believes that it diminishes his
ability to move on. After thirty-five years of marriage to Miriam they have reached a kind of plateau where they continue
to care for each other but lead self-contained lives, always busy – perhaps as a distraction for the absence that leaves an
unresolved and instinctively agreed, inexpressible sense of loss lingering indelibly below the surface.

She had said that she would come with him on the next trip when he will drive a van full of supplies to a small orphanage
in the north-west of Romania but he knows now it is unlikely and he doesn't mind. Recently she has spent more of her time
looking after her declining father who has become increasingly dependent on her. She's been at her best in this care, generous
in her time and giving of herself, and he knows, too, that the journey to the orphanage is exhausting and not the type of
roughing it that she finds easy. Anyway, he will be happier on his own with all those thousands of impersonal, anonymous miles
opening up before him. He has started to think, also, that next year he needs to go on a private journey, go away somewhere
and come back whole and fresh, ready to move on. Sometimes he feels like an old boat, his keel barnacled and coated with the
debris of the sea. There are secret brochures in the house – one of them is for a walking holiday in the foothills of the
Himalayas. It would be a trip of a lifetime but he's a naturally cautious man with money and everything else and part of him
feels it might be selfish to spend so much on himself. Still to breathe in clean air, to fill his lungs and really breathe
deep, to look up at distant mountains and see the whiteness of the snowy peaks stretch as far as the eye can see … What
price on that?

He gets out of the car and lifts his rucksack and the boots he has coated with dubbin the night before. There's a smell of
leather as he checks the rucksack to make sure it contains everything it should. Although he likes to walk alone, he's not
foolish and sticks to the well-worn paths, always carrying sensible equipment, including provision for an emergency. Two elderly
women walk past him, their weatherbeaten faces and classically correct gear testimony to their experience. Only the small
dog scampering at their feet seems a frivolity against their textbook austerity. He puts his boots on carefully, checking
that his socks are smooth and flat and won't produce a blister, then fastens the buckles on the rucksack.

A red BMW sweeps into the car park. Without seeing the driver he knows it's Alec and despite his impatience has to admit that
in reality he's only a few minutes late. He watches him park and walk towards him. He's put on a little weight, lost a little
hair, but he still has that trademark boyish face that has the ability always to appear lightened by good humour and the suggestion
of openness. It was this disarming quality that led others, though never himself, to embrace him easily, blissfully unaware
that it masked a tough ambition and a desire for the rewards of success. Lucky enough, too, to be in the right place at the
right time, the perfect candidate with a good degree, youth and most importantly of all – no baggage. Of all the people Alec
had quietly studied, he knew he had been observed the most and behind that bland facade was a mind garnering everything that
might be useful in the future. But Fenton bears no grudges, so as he stretches out his hand to the approaching, smiling man,
his gesture is sincere.

‘Good to see you, James,' Alec says, shaking his hand enthusiastically. ‘Retirement looks good on you.'

‘I'm staying busy,' he replies, using his set response when the issue is raised.

‘Everybody's asking about you, send their best. Specially Briggsy. The retired officers have a great social thing going – walks, talks, special events, you name it. I know they'd love to see you turn up for one of them.'

‘How is everybody?' he asks, registering the fine lines spreading at the sides of his eyes. It's the habit of a lifetime,
noting faces. The light lines on his pale skin are like sand washed over by water.

‘Charlie's got a job advising on bank security – after the Northern job, shutting the stable door. Michael's taken a post
with a chain store and Andy's been to the Palace to get his gong. Believe it or not Minty Morris is in Iraq training the police.
As if they haven't got enough problems of their own. And get this, I don't know if you heard, but Norman's taken a job with
Iceland doing home deliveries. Says it's the best job he's ever had but I think he's talking about all those lonely housewives
he delivers to.'

‘Could prove more dangerous than his job in the police.'

‘Oh and if you're thinking of ever going to Florida, get in touch with Montgomery – he's bought some properties down in Clearwater.
Will rent one out to you at a good price.'

He watches Alec turn and then lift his gear out of the boot of his car. Everything looks as if it was in a shop window five
minutes earlier. He puts on a fleece and zips it to the throat.

‘So we're really going up there?' he asks.

‘You've never been to the top of Donard before?' Alec shakes his head. ‘Well we're going to the top – you'll like it.' He
watches him take an envelope out of his pocket and hand it to him. ‘What's this?' he asks.

‘It's a cheque. Before I forget. The boys in work had a bit of a whip-round and there was a golf outing brought some in. It's
for the orphanage.'

Fenton looks at the cheque and says thanks, tells him it'll be put to good use. It's for a thousand pounds and he hasn't expected
it but as he carefully places it in a zip pocket he doesn't let it throw him off guard. Alec asks predictable questions but
Fenton feels a shallowness in their exchange and soon after they set off thin stretches of silence settle. He checks the sky
and tells himself that he sees an edge of blue trying to sneak into the grey and smiles to himself when he thinks of the high
price his companion's feet will pay if, indeed, his boots are brand spanking new.

The Glen River is blocked from their view at the start by trees and shrubbery but the throaty gurgling of the water emphasises
their own silence and inevitably Alec seeks to break it with enquiries after Miriam or to share some piece of news he thinks
might be of interest. They pass through woodland of pine, fir and larch, and the necessity of walking in single file momentarily
precludes the possibility of speech. The path they follow is a rough and stony track affording them glimpses of the white
tumble of water until they cross a couple of bridges and on the opposite bank of the river walk alongside the section where
it is shepherded and channelled through narrow chicanes by the large slabs of granite. They pass the exact spot where he fell
but he says nothing and for the first time he takes pleasure at hearing the younger man's broken breathing.

It's not possible yet to see the mountaintop even when they break out into the open spaces of the glen, which is shadowed on one side by forest. The white path is crumbly and bare underfoot and occasionally they meet walkers corning in the opposite direction. He watches how Alec gives even a passing stranger the benefit of his charm and he remembers the young woman whose face was flushed against the whiteness of the snow, how her breath streamed like smoke, and he wishes that there was always snow on the mountains. After a while they pause and he takes a flask out of his rucksack and offers Alec a cold drink, watches him slug it greedily, then they head on towards the stone-ridged path that will carry them up the rising slope to the dramatic gap that links Donard and its neighbouring mountain, Slieve Commedagh. As they commence their climb, a heathery vista sweeps away below them and Fenton knows that with each step the mountains make you feel smaller, less significant, and he wonders what is spinning round his companion's head. They clamber up across the bare swathes of earth that are pitted with rocky outcrops and head for the stone wall that follows the contours of the Mournes. Alec slumps against it, obviously desperate for the rest as his breathing breaks in shallow rasps.