The Truth Commissioner (33 page)

‘That's good,' Sweeney says, sliding into one of the polished back pews. ‘Let them sing their hearts out. There's some concert
here at the weekend. The more noise the better. I don't know if you know it or not but I was an altar boy here once.'

‘You kept that one a secret,' Gilroy says, slipping in beside him. ‘Can't imagine it.'

‘They threw me out after a month – I got in a bit of a scrap with a couple of the other boys.'

‘So have you got any other secrets you're about to reveal? Hell's bells, Ricky, you're not about to tell me you've been working
for the Brits for the last twenty years?' Gilroy asks wide-eyed, but his voice is laughing.

‘No, I'm probably the only one who hasn't been. Though I hear there's a good pension scheme goes with it and a one-way ticket
to the country of your choice. Maybe I missed out.'

At the front of the church the members of the choir shuffle into their places – there appears to be some confusion as to where
everyone should be standing and there's some coughing and clearing of throats. The conductor is speaking to them but his words
don't carry fully to the back of the church.

‘So what is it you wrant to tell me, Ricky?'

‘Maybe it wasn't a good idea to come here. Maybe we should listen to the music for a while.'

Gilroy goes to swear but stifles it on his lips. The choir breaks into song, their voices suddenly rising and quivering into
the great arc of silence that seems shocked by the intrusion. ‘Spit it out for God's sake.'

‘You remember Connor Walshe?' Gilroy doesn't answer but lightly reaches out his hand and rests it on the pew in front. ‘His
case is coming up at the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. They've sent out letters. They're calling people.'

‘Am I called?'

‘No, you've not been called.'

‘How long have you known about this?' Gilroy asks, looking up at the ceiling as if he might see the musical notes skirmish
in the hidden spaces above them.

‘A while, a while. I didn't want to say anything before. You haven't been good, Franky. I didn't want to give you something
else to worry about.'

‘Does Marie know?'

‘No.'

‘And should I be worried?' He turns his eyes to Sweeney and sees him shrug.

‘I don't know. I hope not. We've people working on this, it could be trouble.'

‘Who for, Ricky?'

‘For you, for the party. For all of us.'

The conductor stops the music but a few stray voices carry on for some seconds before they falter into silence. Gilroy glances
up at the stained glass and the light that seems to bleed colour into the dust motes hovering in the air.

‘Connor Walshe. After all this time. Who would have thought it?'

‘You remember him, Francis?'

‘Of course,' Gilroy says as he rubs a finger across his bottom lip. ‘Connor Walshe. I remember him.' He turns his head away
from Sweeney for a second and looks to the far side of the church. ‘You still practise, don't you, Ricky?'

‘Lightly. For my ma, for old time's sake. You know how it is.'

‘You go in the box and confess?'

‘Once in a blue moon. When I feel the old ticker might be giving out or when I think I've been good. If I was a hypochondriac
like you I'd probably never be out of it.'

Gilroy smiles but slumps a little in the pew. The choir starts up again. ‘I haven't done it since before I joined up.'

‘Must be a good backlog piled up by now. A bit like never emptying your email box. All that junk mail piling up day after
clay.'

‘Nice to be able to press a delete button.'

‘You thinking of going now?' Sweeney asks.

‘No, I've finished with it. And anyway if you're going to confess something, why not do it direct, cut out the middle man?'

‘You're talking like a Prod, Franky.'

They sit back and listen to the music. It sweeps out from the front of the church and then slowly encompasses them in its
rising and harmonic power.

‘It's beautiful,' Gilroy says, slowly gesturing into the emptiness of the air. He lets his hand linger there for a second,
the way a child might hold a hand up to falling snow as if to catch some of its perfection. ‘What is it?'

‘It's not the Wolfe Tones or Christy Moore – I know that, but beyond that I can't help you.'

‘Walshe's family still live local? Has anyone spoken to them?'

‘They've been spoken to – respectfully like, nothing heavy – and the brothers don't want it, don't want to know. None of them wants all this dragged up again. But they're not the ones driving it – it's the sister Maria.'

‘Anyone spoken to her?' Gilroy asks, trying to listen to the music and Sweeney's words at the same time.

‘She's moved away. It's too delicate now to risk anything. We can't take risks with this thing or it'll blow up in our faces.'

Gilroy shades his eyes for a second and in that second he sees his daughter's face and the face he imagines her unborn child
will have. But then another face intrudes and he blinks them open again.

‘I don't need this, Ricky.' He turns his head and looks directly at him. ‘I don't need this. Whatever needs to be done let it be done. You understand what I'm saying?'

‘I understand, Francis, believe me I do. There's people working on it, pulling out all the stops, but best we don't talk about
that. We need to trust them now.'

‘So who has been called?'

‘They've found Michael Madden – he's been living in America. He's coming home.'

‘He was only a kid, too. He can't be too keen to come back here after all this time.'

‘Don't believe he was but things have been explained to him. He had no choice in the end. There's only him left now. Someone
has to stand up and say something. We'll make sure that the right things are said. Now I've told you, you need to put all this
as far away from you as possible. You need to know as little as possible, we don't need to talk about it again – we shouldn't
talk about it again.'

An old woman walks slowly up the aisle and glances at them but their eyes stay staring towards the altar. Two men in overalls
come in carrying a ladder and paint-spattered sheets. The music ends.

‘Are you all right?' Sweeney asks as his eyes follow the men with the ladder.

‘I want to know what the music was called,' Gilroy says.

‘The music?'

‘Yes, what was that piece of music called? Ask them, Ricky.'

‘You serious?' Sweeney says, squirming sideways in his seat and staring at Gilroy. When he sees that he is, he laboriously
lifts himself out of the pew and sets off down the aisle, looking back occasionally to check that he's still there, then he
excuses himself and asks one of the young women in the choir who's placing her music in a briefcase.

Sweeney watches his journey back up the aisle. It looks as if Sweeney is talking to himself as his lips repeat the name so
that he won't forget it. ' “Funeral Ikos," ' he says, standing at the end of the pew. ‘Maybe we should go before this lot
starts to leave.' Gilroy nods but sits on for a second before using his arm to lever himself up and then he follows Sweeney
to the entrance where they both blink their eyes like swimmers when they plunge into the glittering coldness of the raw afternoon
light. Sweeney turns up his collar as he rummages in his pocket for his mobile. As he stands on the step behind him Gilroy
notices how grey his hair has become. He listens while he calls their driver and feels the cold wind brush its lips against
his skin. He tries to summon up the Donegal beach and the sound of the surf spending itself furiously on the shore but already
the memory has faded into some indistinct and wavering mirage and instead he recalls only the bitterness of his failures.

‘You all right?' Sweeney asks.

‘Yes,' he says as he turns his head to watch the members of the choir tumbling down the steps in laughing, gossiping clusters.
One of their phones rings and her meaningless conversation is shared with everyone in the vicinity. One of the men lights
a cigarette and takes deep drags the way Gilroy has often seen both men and women do after mass. It always strikes him as
a slightly indiscreet public acknowledgement that the spiritual is never quite enough to satisfy the demands of the flesh.
As the choir members filter towards their cars Sweeney turns towards him then steps back to be on an equal footing.

‘Franky, you know all that stuff about trusting them, forget I ever said it.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean I don't know who we trust any more. There's some whispering …'

‘Spit it out, Ricky, and don't wrap it up in riddles.'

‘I've just heard a few things and I don't know where it started, that's all. Just Chinese whispers, that's all.'

‘Straight, Ricky; no riddles.'

‘There's some saying that if this thing touches you then it would be too big an embarrassment and basically you should be
…' His voice fades away and he fiddles with his collar.

‘Ditched is the word you're looking for.' Some of the cars' horns sound a farewell to each other. Gilroy walks down some of
the steps. ‘Will Marty be long?'

‘He's on his way. Sooner we get out of this cold the better. It's only whisperings from people who don't have the balls to
put their names to it.'

‘An embarrassment? Fuck them. When they've been through what we've been through then they have the right to judge me. Who
are these people?'

‘Probably nothing but kids who don't know anything about anything.'

‘Except how to talk properly and look good in front of a camera. Who've got degrees coming out of their ears.

Who've never had a single night's broken sleep or had to dirty their hands but who know how to write policies and do tricks with computers.'

‘Sounds about right,' Sweeney says, looking at his watch impatiently.

‘I'll be the one who decides when the time's right for me to go, not them, and I'll not be brought down by this, Ricky, not
by this. And I'm owed, you're owed, and everyone like us, who did what we had to do. So let them do their whispering because
none of them have what it takes or have the first idea.'

‘We'll trust no one, Franky. Come on, let's get out of here – it's starting to give me the creeps,' Sweeney says as he sets
off.

‘We'll trust no one,' Gilroy calls after him and rubs his hands together as if trying to generate some spark of heat then
heads after Sweeney, the heels of his shoes clacking discordantly on the steps.

When Fenton parks the van in the driveway of his house it's already the early hours of the morning and
all the internal lights are off. He gets out slowly, feeling as if the automatic, almost somnambulant mechanics of driving
and the interior of the van have been absorbed into the very quick of his being, and as he stretches his back there is a twinge
of pain and he knows that he's not yet standing fully straight. The grip of the steering wheel is still in his hands like
the consciousness of a phantom limb. The security lights have switched themselves on at his arrival and they give the house
a clinical starkness that remains unsoftened by the ivy and other climbers that each year spread a little higher up the walls.
The night air is mild and the clearest of skies is pinpricked with an intensely bright scatter of stars. A full moon hangs
low, its every blue bruise and blemish visible to the eye. He looks up and massages the back of his neck – perhaps in a day
or so he should go to a physio, get checked out, have a proper massage that might iron out some of the knotted stiffness of
his spine. So many miles, so many roads spooling out endlessly in front of him, and now they've brought him home he struggles
to find the feelings that he thinks should be associated with it.

He locks the van and feels no sense of completion but only the slow silt of sadness at the consciousness of its emptiness.
Searching for his house keys he tastes the sourness in his mouth and is struck by an overwhelming awareness of his grubbiness
and the sweat that beads his pores. It grows into a feeling of physical repugnance and he hesitates for a second, unsure that
he wants to bring it inside his home and not wanting to wake his wife or climb into bed the way he is and the way he feels.
Then on a slight breeze he catches the scent of the sea, that unmistakable briny tang that is like no other, and he takes
the key silently out of the lock and goes back to the van. In that single moment he feels the constraints of his life, that
too much of it has been lived according to the codes that he and others have imposed on it, and he tastes the bitterness of
that knowledge and a frantic, desperate impulse to break out of its tight corral. His life is finite, there may not be much
more time; he has, even at this late hour, to strike out in some new direction, grasp hold of whatever it is he needs.

In his bag he finds a towel and locking the door of the van heads off down the side of the house where another sensor light
suddenly blinks angrily at him. His feet feel the damp softness of the grass as he walks the length of the back garden and
clambers over the wooden stile into the back lane and then follows the narrow pathway that leads into the dunes. He walks
on the wooden boardwalk that has been laid to conserve and protect them from too many feet and the dunes are soft moon-washed
mounds feathered by gently swaying, spiky tufts of grass. What was once familiar to him is now contoured and layered with
strangeness; it feels as if he's walking in some moonscape and what he wants now is to have the lightness of a world where
the deadening grip of gravity is broken. He should have brought the boy, he should have found some way to bring him to a place
where he would have all the things that he wanted and needed. He's angry at his own cowardice, at his conscant clinging to
a correctness that's been nothing more than a spindle-spirited desire for safety. Sometimes, he tells himself, rules have
to be broken for good things to come and perhaps his reluctance to break them is not evidence of his loyalty to honesty but
the craven scruples of the coward.

Rabbits scurry away at his approach, the white bob of their tails vanishing into the shadowy runnels between the dunes. Already
he can hear the dull throb and rasp of the sea and as he lifts his face to its voice he knows he's hearing it in a way that
he's never done before. He breaks into the wide-mouthed gap that opens to the beach and the overwhelming force of the sea
sweeps over him and its living reality shoots through every one of his senses. At first his feet stumble and shuffle in the
sand's softness but he steadies himself and pushes on along the hammered silver of the curving strand. There is the sound
of small shells crunching below the heaviness of his feet as he makes his way to where the sand is tide-washed into firmness.
Close now to the water he stares at the expanse of dark glass that is lightly engraved with white swirls and shivering streaks
of moonlight. If he were smarter, better educated, he might now be able to explain to the boy about the mysterious connection
between the moon and tides, or even let the boy explain it to him. And somewhere beyond the strand and the sleeping town stand
the mountains that have taken him and allowed him to be someone other than who he was and he knows they will accept the boy
as well because they come with respect. He has a book of maps and routes and most of them still are new to him and unexplored
so there are many more days to walk and expeditions to plan.

Perhaps his journey no longer needs to be to somewhere far away because now the world enters into him in strange and unchartered
ways. No longer does it seem differentiated into separate bits, their petty smallness and meanness reconstructing into something
less than the whole, because now the night sky, the sea, the shore, are linked and indivisible and he is part of that seamless
endless roll of the world. So he holds his face to the breeze that is laden with life and drinks deeply, lets the air fill
his lungs and tries to feel the lightness of the moment. But what comes also is an awareness of his tiredness and a need to
sleep that is stronger than he's ever known so he makes his way to a narrow little tunnel between two of the dunes and, rolling
the towel, uses it for a pillow. The sharply spiked grass fans over his head and he turns on his side and pulls his knees
up tightly and when he closes his eyes it feels as if he's hidden from those he doesn't want to see him, those who would never
think of looking here for him, and in a matter of seconds he feels himself slipping into the refuge of sleep.

It's the cold that wakes him just before dawn. His body tries to shiver some heat but he has to sit up and hug and beat himself
with loud slaps of his hands. The first shards of light are slitting the grey weave of sky and sea and the widening tears
are edged with the faint blush of pink and purple as he stands straight backed and instantly awake. Taking off his clothes
he walks into the sea, wading into the waves until it's round his waist then douses his hair and face, splashing great palmfuls
of the darkness over himself. The cold takes his breath away but he forces himself to stay for a few minutes before he heads
back to the dunes, dries himself with the towel and quickly dresses. A steady edge of light is slowly prising the night open
as still shivering he takes the journey back to the house. This time he runs until his heart is pumping before the pain stitching
his side forces him to stop and he stoops over, his hands on his knees, and gasps for breath. With both hands on his sides
he starts to walk, trying to regulate his breathing and ease the pain. The air feels moist and clammy against his skin and
he wants the warmth of his bed now, the warmth of his wife.

In the hall he sees the neat pile of mail waiting for him on the table but he pauses only long enough to turn off the alarm,
reset it and then drop the van keys in a small red Chinese dish. After the claustrophobia of the van's interior the house
feels bigger and more spacious than he remembered it and he is aware of the distinctive smell but unable to identify what
its components might be. The bedroom door is open and as soon as he enters he realises that it's empty and for a second he
feels a squirm of panic but then guesses that she's staying over at her father's, something that she's done more often recently.
He looks at the pristine bed and the insistent tidiness of the room and every other room that is the refuge and consolation
of the childless and he sits on the end of the bed and stares around him. He wanted Miriam here, he wanted to slip into the
warmth of her bed, he wanted to be welcomed home, but he's glad, too, that he doesn't have to talk and he doesn't know whether
he will ever tell her about Florian or not. What would be the point? What purpose would it serve except to tantalise her with
the prospect of what they will never have?

Going to the bathroom he stares at himself in the mirror, shaves with the electric razor and brushes his teeth for a long
time. Already the objects his hands touch, the things his eyes see, are forming into a familiar consciousness that is gradually
distancing him from the wrorld he's left behind. Now everything that happened to him is being slowly shuffled into the store
of memory where each time it's retrieved it will emerge a little more vague and indistinct until whatever force it once had
will be worn smooth and flat like a stone in the stream. He removes his clothes and places them in the laundry basket then
takes a pair of fresh pyjamas from the dresser, feels the familiar comfort of them against his skin and climbs wearily into
bed. But it's as if the events of the last few days are fighting against their eventual fate and they weave through his dreams
in bright hues that disturb his sleep and leave him constantly turning in an attempt to find some respite.

His fitful sleep is weakened some hours later when he hears a car outside and then the front door opening. Almost immediately
and simultaneously, with the ingrained habit of a lifetime of worrying about security, they shout each other's name and he
tells her he's in the bedroom. Her car keys rattle in the same dish as his and then there is the sound of her feet on the
stairs. He feels nervous and then foolish that he should feel such a thing but when she enters she's just herself and there's
only the warm comfort of the familiar and the love that he suddenly knows he feels for her.

‘You look tired,' she says, smiling at him and taking off her coat. ‘When did you get back?'

‘You look tired, too. About five this morning. What time is it now?'

‘About nine.'

‘Were you at your father's?'

‘Yes, I just stayed over.'

‘So you haven't been out with another man then?'

‘Unfortunately not and that settee doesn't exactly give you a good night's sleep.'

‘How is he?' Fenton asks, propping his head with one hand.

‘Much the same, no difference really. So did everything go all right?'

‘Fine, everything went fine. No problems.'

‘Is there any heat in that bed, James?' Her voice is light and playful in a way that pleases him. He pulls the quilt back
as an invitation but she starts to hang her coat in the wardrobe.

‘Please, Miriam, just leave everything. Before what heat there is gets lost.'

She stands still, a little confused, then walks out of his line of sight and undresses quickly. She lifts a nightdress and
he wants to tell her not to, but hesitates and before he can say anything she has it on. In the bed she shivers and teases
him that he had lied when he said it was warm so he reaches out to her and holds her in his arms and feels the shock of their
embrace as if it's something new.

‘This bed's too big without you,' she says, pulling back slightly so she can talk. ‘If anything ever happens to you I'd have to get a single one.'

They feel like lovers. He touches her hair, kisses her carefully and without presumption, unsure of what her response might
be.

‘So you missed me then?' she says, her voice light with enjoyment of the flattery. ‘And how did the magic go?'

‘Like magic,' he says and laughs a little at his own joke.

‘You didn't make a complete fool of yourself then?'

‘I don't think so. The kids liked it. I'll have to learn some new tricks.'

‘It took long enough to learn the ones you did. You're not exactly Paul Daniels.'

He kisses her again and she relaxes in his arms and closes her eyes and he knows the joy of being truly home and safe in the
certainties that it brings and also a fool for all his thoughts of journeys and distant places. Surely this can be enough.
He tries to tell her that he loves her but the words slip away and instead he touches her with tenderness as if she is a young
girl again. They've never known anyone other than each other and been together such a long time that perhaps it shouldn't
have come as a surprise that there've been periods when they've been lost to each other. She tastes the salt on his skin and
he tells her that it must have been spray from the crossing but she doesn't question him and afterwards they both fall into
a deep sleep that feels free from the boundaries of time or responsibilities.

When they eventually wake they both feel a slight embarrassment and get up quite quickly, trying to slip into more normal
rituals as if they have been a little wayward, but he knows she is pleased and glad to have him home. At the breakfast table
they exchange fuller accounts about the events of the previous days but he tells her nothing about the boy or about anything
other than those things that are simple and easy for both of them to understand. She has made him a cooked breakfast, something
they don't usually have, and he eats with pleasure and feels the security of his own world re-forming round him. Perhaps
he's got it wrong and what felt like a corral was in fact nothing more, nothing less, than a protective barrier that preserves
and protects him from the many who would wish him harm. So even when the phone rings it doesn't set him on edge or press him
into alertness as it might normally do as he watches Miriam go to the hall and take the call. He follows her with his eyes,
watching the white exclamation marks of her heels below her dressing gown.

The call is for him and as she hands the phone to him she shrugs her shoulders in answer to his silent question. In a habit
ingrained by a desire to separate his home and his work he walks off down the hall and into the front room where he stands
at the window and looks at the dark overlapping folds of the mountains. It's someone called Ken Young from the Police Federation
and he's offering him things, more things than Fenton can take in or understand at first, so he listens while he speaks of
legal advice and counselling, about help in formulating his statement, about support teams and dry runs and video analysis.
Fenton struggles to interrupt the flow and stares at the mountains whose tops are swathed in mist so that they look like a
child's drawing that's been partially erased. And then he understands and speaks over the voice at the end of the phone. ‘Have
I been called?'