The Truth Commissioner (25 page)

He helps the priest with the practice, organising the passing drills and refereeing some of the small-sided games. As always
the session ends with a full-scale game with Mulryne in charge, his weathered face creasing into ever deeper lines as he struggles
to keep up with the flow. The players hunt the ball in packs soon oblivious to their designated positions while from the bleachers
a handful of parents cheer on their offspring. The ball ricochets from foot to foot as if in a pinball game. After the game
is over he will talk to Mulryne, see what can be done about the wedding. Maybe some small, private affair with only a few
close friends. No big splash, no photographer. Everything could be all right.

When the final whistle goes he helps collect the bibs from the teams and gathers the balls into a net. He tells himself that
Mulryne will understand what is needed. He watches the priest drink from a bottle of water then wipe the broad back of his
hand across his mouth. But just as he starts to walk towards him there's the sound of raised and angry voices and two kids
come from the side of the bleachers in a dispute that grows increasingly animated.

‘Hey, hey!' Mulryne calls. As he hurries towards the two boys, water sluices out of the bottle in his hand. ‘What in the name
of fortune is going on here?'

‘He's got my shin pads,' the smaller boy blurts out.

‘They're mine,' the bigger boy insists.

‘No they're not – my dad got me them last week.'

‘You calling me a liar?' the boy asks, suddenly turning on his accuser, his skinny frame warping into aggression.

‘Hold up, guys, just hold up,' Mulryne says, pushing between them. ‘No one's calling anyone anything, Marvin. If everyone
stops shouting we can sort this out. Now, Roddy, you tell me what's going on.'

‘He's calling me a liar,' Marvin asserts again as if now this is the main issue.

‘Let Roddy speak, Marvin – you'll get your chance in a minute.'

Marvin angles himself away from his accuser to show he is indifferent to anything the other boy has to say and concentrates
on pressing his foot into the grass as if stubbing out some repellent insect.

‘After the game I was gathering up my stuff and I couldn't find my guards. Then I saw Marvin putting them in his bag,' Roddy
says. The smaller boy is acting tough, asserting his rights over his possessions, but it's clear he is upset, close to crying.

‘What sort of guards are they, Roddy?' Mulryne asks.

‘Nike, black and white colour.'

‘Show me the guards, Marvin.'

For a second the boy hesitates, then lifts his eyes from the ground and stares into the distance and it looks as if he is
considering taking flight. When he hands over the guards it is with a practised gesture of silent disdain, his eyes still
not making contact with anyone.

‘These look like your guards, Roddy?' Mulryne asks, holding them in the air in front of the boy while the boy nods his head.
‘Are you sure?'

‘I got Nike guards,' Marvin suddenly says. ‘I got Nike guards, my brother gave me them. You can ask him.'

‘There's a grass stain at the top of one of them where I did a slide tackle,' Roddy says.

‘Look like this?' Mulryne asks and when the boy says yes he hands them to him, then signals him to go with a nod of his head.

‘Bullshit, man!' Marvin says, throwing his bag to the ground theatrically. ‘I got a pair exactly like that so if they ain't
mine then somebody's taken my pair.'

‘Take it easy, son,' Mulryne says. ‘Easy mistake to make – they all look the same. Next practice I'll ask if anyone saw yours.'
He offers the boy a drink from his bottle of water but it's wordlessly refused. Then Mulryne puts his arm round the boy's
shoulder and walks him off across the pitch. He watches them go, the priest dwarfing the boy, and decides that he'll go up
to the parish house later in the week and raise the question of the wedding in the privacy of that place. This was the wrong
time to talk. Better, too, when he has had more time to consider what he should say and understands how to put it without
inviting the questions he doesn't know how to answer. Then before he leaves he turns and stares for a second to the far side
of the field where the priest stands with the boy under the shade of the trees.

‘How did it go with Father Mulryne?' Ramona asks when he returns home and, seeing the anticipation in her eyes, he says, ‘No
problem, no problem.'

‘What did he say, Danny? What did he say?'

‘He'd be happy to do it. I didn't have a chance to talk about dates because something came up – some emergency or something
– and he had to go. But he'll do it, no problem.'

‘And can we use the college chapel?'

‘Yes we can.'

‘But you didn't get a chance to fix a date?'

‘No, but I'll go back and see him when he's free and fix it up.'

‘He'll want to talk to us both, won't he?' she asks.

‘Sure, but I just need to fix up some details with him first.'

‘We can't wait too long,' she says, patting her stomach. ‘I want to be able to fit into a dress. Did you tell him about the
baby?'

‘No, I thought it was better not to say anything.'

‘Why, were you embarrassed?' she asks, smiling at him.

His reply is to hug her, hold her tight but lightly because increasingly he's conscious of the child growing inside her. His
child. He wants to tell her everything will be all right, that there is nothing to fear, but as he breathes in her scent and
feels the brush of her hair against his cheek, he knows the words are what he himself wants to hear and so instead he kisses
her hair and buries himself in her beautiful strangeness. It's the strangeness that he thinks he'll never take for granted
if he is to spend every day of the rest of his life with her. It is not just the naked beauty of her body that holds his fascination
but everything that goes to make her and which is different to him. So it's in the patina of her skin, the deep pull of her
brown eyes that seem to hold an invite to enter some richer world, the timbre of her voice, the smallness of her hands, the
way her name sounds when he says it, which exert a constant magnetism.

‘Why don't we go to the beach tomorrow?' she says. ‘Drive out to the beach – we haven't been in ages. And we'll be able to
talk – there's so much we have to plan about the wedding.'

‘You don't think we should wait until I've spoken to Father Mulryne, got everything firmed up?'

‘No, you said there's no problem and there's so many things to think about. I don't think you have the first idea what's involved
in a wedding, Danny.'

He releases her from his embrace and tries to smooth the wiry spring of her hair, tries to calm her excitement. ‘The beach
would be nice,' he says, then hesitates. ‘Listen, Ramona, I want the wedding to be nice but I don't think we should go overboard.
We need to keep saving for a bigger place and there'll be a lot of expenses with a baby.'

‘You want to give me a cheapskate wedding, Danny?' she asks but there is a lightness in her voice.

‘I want it to be nice, really nice, but just quiet, nothing showy.'

‘You don't think I'm worth showing off?' But he sees the smile in her eyes and knows that she is teasing him so he plays along.

‘No, you're so ugly maybe you should wear a veil or a mask.'

She pushes him in the ribs with her elbow and it feels the closest to happiness he has ever known.

‘So you're going to rough me up now, are you?' he says, squeezing her hip. ‘This child better have his father's looks or you're
in trouble.'

‘What should we call it, Danny? If it's a boy what about Ruben?'

‘And if it's a girl?'

‘I think it's a boy – it feels like a boy. You don't want an Irish name?'

‘No, we don't need an Irish name. Ruben sounds pretty good to me.'

He takes her by the hand and they go outside and sit in the shade of the stoop. Across the lawn their neighbour George is
washing his four-wheel drive. He has the radio on and the music drifts lazily across the grass in vaguely familiar, soft-etched
fragments. He doesn't let go of the smallness of her hand as she sits on the cane chair with her legs curled up below her.
George sees them and waves the soap-sudded sponge in the air. His hand accidentally squeezes out little gossamer bubbles which
get touched by a sudden lingering kiss of light.

‘Having a lazy one?' he calls and they nod their heads in reply. ‘Good on you,' he shouts and then goes back to his washing
and rinsing, the shiny metal of the car steadily mirroring a polished transfer of the sky.

On the Sunday they take the hour's drive out to Cocoa beach and kick off their shoes as they step off the boardwalk and feel
the hot, silver sand press between their toes. The white-crested but soft shift of sea feels cool to look at and there is
a gentle breeze that tempers the strain of the heat. He suddenly realises that it's winter and without being able to stop
it he thinks of what it must be like back there – the grey slant of rain, the raw-edged wind gnawing through the tight funnel
of streets – and he shivers.

‘Somebody walk across your grave?' she asks.

He tries to smile and spreads the rug on the sand. She opens the cool box, hands him a Coke and he presses its unopened coldness
against his lips. A little way in front of them sits a family with two young children. The father has dug a large hole with
a plastic spade and the kids run feverishly to the sea to fill their buckets, then tip in the water, squealing with frustration
when it almost immediately soaks away. Ramona watches them intently and he knows what she's thinking because he's thinking
it too.

‘You better watch,' she says, ‘learn how to build sandcastles.'

‘I'll build the best sandcastles you ever saw, with towers and turrets, and there'll be little flags on all the towers. And
they'll have a moat and a drawbridge. I'll build it closer to the sea so that the incoming tide fills up the moat.'

‘So you're an expert on sandcastles then?'

‘Every boy is an expert on sandcastles.'

‘Did you have seaside holidays when you were a kid?'

‘Just the once – I was taken down south on a summer community scheme. We didn't really do holidays.'

‘Your mother will want to come to the wedding, won't she? We'll fly her over – there's lots of things I want to ask her about;
I hardly know anything about your family.'

‘I'm not sure, Ramona,' he says, staring at the label on the Coke bottle as if he's reading it. ‘She's getting on, hasn't
been keeping too well recently. I think it might be too much for her.'

‘Well whether she comes or not, we have to invite her – let her decide. And if she can't make it, then like I said we can
have a blessing in Ireland and I'll get a chance to see where you grew up and meet all your relations.'

‘Sure,' he says, combing his fingers through the sand. ‘You hungry yet?'

‘I'm always hungry.'

‘You want to go and get something to eat?'

‘In a little while. We've so much to get ready for the wedding.'

‘We should go get a table before the rush starts,' he says as he lifts a fistful of sand and lets it slowly sift over her
foot, then stands up and stretches out his hand to help her up. They walk along the water's edge and she squeals when a wave
breaks around her feet and they scamper with high steps to evade its surge. The sun is warm on his face but not oppressive
and, as they walk, sometimes their feet sink into the softness of the damp sand, making him feel as if he is suddenly heavier
than he is. To live in the moment is what will carry him through, not to have to go back. He looks over his shoulder where
almost immediately the tide reclaims their steps and he feels light, safe in the sweet embrace of love.

Out on the piers the restaurants and bars are already busy and there's live music and the sound of people throwing off the
working week. They sit at a table outside and have seafood and watch old men hunched over the end railing inspect their fishing
lines. Sometimes they throw discarded bait in the air and the gulls swoop then wheel effortlessly away again. The afternoon
drifts lazily away and time feels as if it's been rendered powerless, the normal rigidity of the clock's hard hands reduced
to vague gestures of indifference. There's only the shuck and rasp of the sea and the high-pitched voices of swimmers shocked
by its unexpected coldness which mark the passing of the day. When they drive home early evening Ramona falls asleep after
a few miles and he settles into the pleasure of the drive.

The road passes a seemingly disconnected slew of houses and enclaves of shops and restaurants. The only link is the repeated
neon logos of fast-food outlets, otherwise it is a rambling line of garages and car showrooms, their forecourts awash with
bunting and flags; landscapers and garden suppliers with brightly coloured ceramic pots piled high at their gates; pool installers;
convenience stores and a host of cut-price bargain basements. A run-down-looking lawyer's office advertises the price of a
divorce across its window. He likes the disconnection, the arbitrary piecemeal nature of it all, the way nothing is pushed
tight against its neighbour, the way there's space to breathe between the boundaries and no one has to live inside the pocket
of someone else's paranoia. Here there are no interfaces, just ragged-edged sprawls, and if the rich have their lakeside houses
and their gated communities with names echoing the promise of a perfect lifestyle then it's only money that's needed to pass
through the portal.

He puts the radio on softly and lowers his window to let the night air splash his face. Later that evening he'll go and see
Father Mulryne, fix up a date. The sooner the better, less time to let things get complicated. And there is something else
on his mind, something that he might try to talk to him about but he's not sure, and it's a big thing so he needs to be sure.
Ramona snuggles her head into the pillow of his jumper that she has pushed against the window and wrinkles her nose as if
she's going to sneeze. It's been a very long time, maybe twenty years at least, and up to now he has felt no need of it, never
crossed the door of a church except for Eamon O'Sullivan's daughter's funeral. But part of him thinks that maybe it's the
right thing to do because a wedding is the biggest new start in life and making a confession might carry him across that line
clean and ready to build the future. He feels the seep of sweat on his hands and he bites his lip. If only he could be sure
that it's the right thing to do. And will he feel cleaner, more deserving of her love, have more right to be the father of
their child? He is desperate for a cigarette and in his frustration he blows a thin stream of air against the windscreen.