The Truth Commissioner (34 page)

‘Yes, the case of Connor Walshe. Have you not received a letter?'

‘I've been away; I haven't checked yet,' he says and then walks back into the hall and shuffles the post until he finds the
envelope. ‘I'll call you back.' He sets the phone down and stares at the envelope. In the kitchen he can hear Miriam loading
the dishwasher and the clink of glass against glass. He takes the envelope to the window as if holding it close to the light
might reveal its contents and prevent the irretrievable finality that having to open it will bring. Perhaps Young has made
a mistake, perhaps it's some sort of formality that needs to be gone through and will quickly be over. He has to believe that
Alec will see him right, that he will recognise what is personally owed and begin his repayment with this. Was it so big a
thing to ask? And if there are things they don't want mentioned then surely they can see that it would be best to keep him
out of the case altogether. He suddenly feels angry that the letter's come to his home and intruded on his privacy. During
his entire career he strove to keep the two worlds separate and now they've thrust this thing into the heart of his home without
respect or consideration for everything that he's done. Closing the door he sits down and opens it, scanning its contents
before throwing it aside dismissively.

When he makes the phone call it's not to Young but Alec. He rings him several times at work but each time is told he's unavailable
and when he rings his mobile he reaches voicemail. Going back into the kitchen he tells Miriam that he has to go out and when
she asks him if everything's all right he smiles and says that he just needs to drop in to see some old colleagues about an
idea for fundraising.

‘You don't think you should rest up before you start tearing about again?' she asks.

‘I won't be long, just an hour or so,' he says, draining his cup of tea and kissing her on the cheek.

‘Going away again,' she says, smiling, ‘and will it be a repeat of coming back?'

He blushes and looks at her smiling like a girl and then she too colours a little and turns away to the sink.

‘Drive safely,' she calls after him, ‘and don't forget to drive on the right side of the road.'

He opens the garage and reverses the car out and before he drives off he glances up at the house. It's the fourth of their marriage and the one he likes the best with its proximity to the sea and the mountains. He remembers how much she cried when they had to move out of their first house at twenty-four hours' notice. Twenty-four hours to pack all the hopes and dreams of a first home because their details were in the wrong hands. It felt to her that some part of her had been ripped out and dispersed to the elements and she cried for the first few days in the safe house they found themselves dumped in. That was the first and only time she asked him to find a different job. Years later when she was upset and emotional she let it slip to him that she thought that if they had stayed in that first home they would have had a baby. It makes him angry again that they think they still have control over him and that he can be summoned like a common criminal to appear in a court that he doesn't understand or want to be part of. So who will answer
now
for his past, for a woman in middle age crying because she thinks somehow she lost her chance to have a child? Who will answer for the things he's had to see?

He drives to Belfast and the slow smoulder of his anger speeds him on. The car at first feels light as a toy after the sluggish heaviness of the van and once he has to brake quickly to avoid driving into the car in front when it stops at traffic lights. He heads to Police Headquarters and is recognised by the security at the gate but when he checks in with reception he's shown a seat by someone he doesn't know and asked to wait. Everything has been revamped and decorated and he tries not to look at the new crest and instead watches the phone call being made and then he's told that Alec is unavailable because he's in a meeting but he says he'll wait and then answers the questioning look with an insistent repetition. A few minutes later his mobile rings and he hears Alec's voice telling him to meet him in ten minutes in the car park of a nearby golf club. His voice is neutral, stripped of its usual coating of affability. and he says nothing beyond the location and time of their meeting.

When Alec arrives he looks his ear and gets into the passenger seat of Fenton's and his manner is coll and funtional as he asks, ‘What can I do for you, James?'

‘You can' be seen with me. Alec, that we have to skulk here in a park?'

‘It's not like that.'

‘So what is it like then?'

‘It's different from what you know. Everything's different now, James.' A light rain skims across the windscreen and the three women waiting at the first tee put up umbrellas while one starts to search in her bag for waterproofs. ‘What can I do for you? So how did your trip go? Hell of a journey.'

‘What I want to know is why I've got this,' Fenton says, throwing the letter on the dashboard. ‘I asked you, Alec, to keep
me out of this, to let me leave everything behind and be finished with all of it. You couldn't do that for me?'

‘I tried, James, believe me, I tried, but this thing is bigger than you and bigger than me. Believe me when I say I've got
no pull on this. It goes higher and deeper than I can put my hand to.'

‘What if I don't turn up?'

‘You'll be held in contempt. That would be a bad place to be. There could be unpleasant repercussions. You don't want to go there, James.'

‘And what if I send a message to your friends in suits that if they make me go I'll tell the truth. Regardless.'

‘I'm not telling you what to say but you need to consider things very carefully. Have the Federation been on to you yet? They've a good support system set up – they could really help you get through it.'

‘Will they help me to lie?'

Alec looks out of the side window and doesn't answer. A beer delivery lorry passes behind them and parks at the back of the clubhouse. A few seconds later there is the sound of metal barrels being unloaded and they both stare at the two men in overalls and grey gloves that make their hands seem huge.

‘Listen, James, you do what you have to do but do it right and you can walk away. There'll be no more calls – I can guarantee that. Don't make a martyr of yourself. Do whatever it is has to be done and then disappear into your retirement.'

‘And you can promise that I won't be back every five minutes for every case I ever put my hand to?'

‘That's the one thing I can promise. I've been told this is a one-off and do what's needed and it's all put to bed. You'll have done your bit.'

Fenton stares out at the golf course through the rain-splashed window and after a second turns the wipers on then turns them off again.

‘Except one thing, Alec. The moment I tell the first lie they'll have something on me. So how do I know they won't come looking for more?'

‘Because they only want this one thing and because they know you're not a man to be pushed around or taken advantage of. Because you only hold the one card they need.'

Fenton's mobile phone vibrates in the pocket of his jacket and suddenly Alec is grabbing him by the arm and patting his coat.

‘What in …' Fenton shouts.

‘Are you wired?' Alec interrupts and his face is contorted into a tight warp of panic.

‘It's a mobile phone,' Fenton says, taking it out of his pocket. ‘It's a mobile phone. What in God's name is going on, Alec?'

Alec slumps back in his seat and lifts a hand as if to shade his eyes but it's a poor attempt to hide his embarrassment. ‘I'm
sorry, James, really sorry – I don't know what I was thinking of. I'm the one who's wired – wired to the moon. It's hard to
know who to trust sometimes. There's people out there who'd like to see me done down. You always have to watch your back.'

‘Times must have really changed for the worst,' Fenton says. ‘In my day your colleagues watched your back. I don't know what's
going on with you but it's a bad feel about it and maybe you should think of getting out of it before it ends up in a mess.'

‘I'll be all right. These are difficult days but we'll get through them. I'll be all right in the end.'

Fenton looks at him and believes him because already he's put on his open, friendly face again as if nothing has happened,
as if they're sitting in the car waiting for the rain to go off and have a round of golf. And it's obvious that their conversation
is over because now he's diverted into small talk and he's trying too hard to be his normal jovial self so when he finally
excuses himself by saying he's a meeting he has to go to, Fenton does nothing to delay his departure. He lets him drive off
first and then takes the voicemail message from Miriam – it's nothing more than a request for him to bring in milk and bread
from the garage on the way home, but her voice is comforting in its familiarity and its utter lack of pretence.

Fenton doesn't take the journey home immediately but instead drives into the city centre and passes where the Commission sits.
A fine rain is still slanting down, so fine that it's hardly visible to the eye. He looks curiously at the family groups congregating
outside the building in tight supportive huddles. Some of them hold photographs but they're too small for him to see the faces.
A little distance apart three women hold up placards where the rain has run the writing but he can still make out the word
‘collusion'. As he drives away he blinks his eyes because for a second, just for a second, he sees the boy's white owl face
swooping towards him from the darkness of the playing fields. And he blinks again and then there is only the solidifying mass
of traffic and the rain bleeding the blur of neon across the windscreen.

The plane flies into an airport that he doesn't think was there when he left. The journey from London takes under an hour and after the transatlantic flight he's grateful for its shortness. He has endured the company of Lynch for longer than he would choose and although their initial attempts at conversation were soon blocked by the welcome distraction of films and sleep, he felt a physical discomfort in so close a sustained proximity. There's something thin and unhealthy about the older man, in his dried wisp of combed-over hair, the rattle of the smoker's cough in his hollow chest that rings out like a key being turned in the door of a derelict house and in his sunken cheekbones. There is, too, an odour from him that seems to come from his core and envelop him – it's the smell he associates with entering a locked-up, junked-up basement or when he shovels a heaped rain-sodden pile of leaves. Walking out to the plane he thought Lynch resembled a withered stick that a strong wind might snap. He feels a particular repulsion for his nicotine-stained fingers and found himself sneaking glances at them as Lynch tried to compensate his craving for a cigarette with alcohol or a Dan Brown book. It seems almost incomprehensible to Madden that such a man should now exercise power over him and in one meeting is able to control the direction of his life. It also seems incomprehensible that he should be connected with him in any way other than as passing strangers in the street. He tries to stifle his anger and assumes taciturn neutrality as the best defence against Lynch's endless tirades and attempted fatherly advice.

Over and over he hears Lynch repeat like a mantra how different he'll find everything, that he won't recognise the place, that everything's changed. And yet as the plane swoops into the outskirts of the city it feels that he's travelling nowhere but irrevocably and involuntarily into the past and every mile takes him a world away from Ramona and the child that grows inside her. The plane jolts and shudders to a strained landing and he feels one more shock of sickness as he recalls the total incomprehension on her face and his terrible, terrible task of having to persuade her of the truth. She doesn't understand. He tries to explain. She doesn't understand. She cries and speaks in Spanish, only the cadence and timbre of the repeated phrases communicating what it is she feels. He's deliberately locked out of her shock and pain by a different language and all he knows, because he sees it unmistakingly in her broken, glittering eyes, is that now he's another man who's lied to her and abused her love. The next day she doesn't return from work and when he goes to the library he's told she hasn't been there. She's gone and he can't think where to look for her because for the first time he realises that he knows almost as little about her past life as she knew about his. He didn't need or want to hear beyond what she chose to reveal because always he wanted them to live only in a shared future.

‘Easy, son,' Lynch says as he's sick into the paper bag. He feels Lynch's nicotine-stained fingers patting his shoulders. ‘That's a good welcome home. So you'll not be kneeling to kiss the tarmac then.' They sit in their seats as the passengers start to file off and then Lynch says, ‘Come on, kid, I'm busting for a fag.' Then in a change of tone, ‘Everything'll be all right. Do the business and we'll have you on a plane out of here before you've time to miss that sun.'

‘You'll be able to get me back?' he asks.

‘Everything's already sorted. And remember when you walk out of that hearing, you're clean as a whistle – nothing hanging over your head. I've told you, we've lots of important people looking out for you.'

‘I've got to get back,' Madden says and then drinks from a bottle of water.

‘No sweat,' Lynch says. ‘We always look after our own. You believe it, son. Now let's get off this tin bucket, sink a few jars, eat some decent food.'

There's a car waiting for them with a driver and a man sitting in the front passenger seat. ‘All right, lads,' Lynch says as he pulls out a cigarette packet. ‘This is Michael.' The front passenger turns and shakes his hand, says his name is Micky. The sourness in his mouth is suddenly edged with fear – he's in the back of a car, being taken he doesn't know where. He puts his hand on the car door.

‘Relax, Michael. You're in good hands.' Lynch lights the cigarette and inhales slowly and deeply like a drowning man coming up for air.

‘Where're we going?' he asks.

‘We're taking you somewhere safe, out of the spotlight. If you don't mind we think you should wait until the hearing's over before you meet up with your family. It's best not to get distracted or lose focus until the business's done. And we have work to do, preparation for what has to be said. We don't want you getting up there unprepared. We've good people will sort that out. You understand?'

He nods and looks out of the window and he doesn't know what's changed like Lynch kept saying because everything he sees and
everything he feels about this place remains exactly as he remembered it. He pushes back in the seat and tries not to inhale
the smoke from Lynch's cigarette then after a few minutes asks if he can have one.

‘I thought you didn't smoke, Michael,' Lynch says, offering him the packet.

‘I've just started again,' he says and slumps back in the seat and he tells himself that in the light of what he's done one
more betrayal won't count for much.

Everywhere he looks seems like it's printed in monochrome, the roads and streets so narrow that after a while they feel as
if they're tightening round his throat, the ligature cutting off his breath. In the car, with the smoke and the proximity
of Lynch, he feels the choking press of his former world where instead of light and sky there is only an unbroken stretch
of grey squeezing out the smallest possibility of colour. He stubs out the cigarette because every drag reminds him of broken
promises and if he's to have even the smallest hope of refinding what he's lost then he has to begin with this.

The car journeys along roads he doesn't want to remember and sometimes it feels as if the different shop fronts are laughing
at him, so in his head he endures their jeers as they vent their spite and reach out to reclaim him. He wants to say that
things are different now, that he's moved on, that he doesn't belong here any more, but there's only the relentless imposition
of a trembling, shifting topography that sucks him in like quicksand.

‘So, Michael, what's Florida like then?' Micky asks.

‘Bloody hot,' Lynch answers, his head swathed in a sulphurous gauze of smoke. ‘Like sticking your head in the oven.'

‘It's good,' he says.

‘Been to Disney and all that?' Micky asks, half turning in his seat.

‘Sure, but when you live there you don't really bother with those places. They're more for tourists.'

‘It's full of old people,' Lynch says. ‘Sometimes you see them driving cars and they must be about ninety years old.'

‘People go to Florida to retire,' he says.

‘Suppose you thought you had retired, too,' Micky says. ‘Bit of a bummer having to come back here to this shit-hole.'

‘Yes,' he says and increasingly he's aware that his accent is different from theirs and that more than anything he feels a
sense of superiority to all of them and to everything he sees. He asks Lynch again where they're going and this time he tells
them it's a place just outside the city, a safe house, and in a short while the city is a molten scoop of yellow light below
them. The car's lights are switched to full beam and he sees hedges and the overhanging branches of trees. They turn off the
road and then another one and eventually they're in a long potholed lane that brings them to a solid-looking two-storey house
whose walls are rendered in a brown pebble-dash. There is light in all the windows and a satellite dish attached to the chimney.

‘This is it,' Lynch says, ‘you'll be comfortable here.'

‘Got a Sky dish,' Micky says. ‘You can watch American sport. You like baseball?'

‘I prefer basketball,' he says, staring out at the house. He hasn't entirely shaken off the idea that they've brought him
here to kill him but he can't think of any reason why they should want to do that. And there's no sense of menace from the
two men in the front of the car, nor can he imagine it's ever been Lynch's line of work.

Micky helps him lift his case out of the boot and then tells him he'll be seeing him. The driver doesn't turn off the engine
and Lynch doesn't take his own case out of the car but he does go to the door and ring the bell. Almost immediately a young
woman opens it and behind her Madden sees a man standing further down the hall.

‘Michael, this is Kirsty and her husband John Downey. They're going to look after you until this thing's over,' Lynch says.
‘Anything you need they'll get it for you. And Kirsty is the best cook you could get. The only thing you need to worry about
is not putting on too many pounds.' The young woman welcomes him shyly and shakes his hand while her husband comes forward
and takes his case. ‘You get a good rest and get your head clear. I'm going to do the same and tomorrow when we're all fresh
we'll go out for a few jars.'

He offers his hand and Madden takes it as briefly and lightly as is polite. While her husband goes to the door to see Lynch
off Kirsty invites him into the kitchen. ‘There's fresh coffee or would you like a beer?' she says and she's smiling at him
in a way that makes him feel welcome and even a little important.

‘A coffee would be great,' he says, taking a seat at the large table. There's a heaped bowl of fruit in its centre. The interior
of the house is more modern than the outside suggests and he compliments her on it as she sets a cup in front of him and a
plate of biscuits.

‘It's not ours. We just look after it. Wish it was, though.' She hovers at the sink as if sitting at the table would be too
intrusive.

‘So you're like caretakers?'

‘I suppose so. Lots of people stay here and it's our job to look after them.'

‘Are you not having a cup? It's very good.'

‘No thanks, I'm not long after one.' She looks away as her husband enters.

‘Your bag is in your room, Michael,' he says as he pours himself a cup from the percolator. ‘It's the first room at the top
of the stairs.' He sits down and leans back on the chair. ‘There's beer in the fridge – just help yourself when you want one.'

He thanks him and then studies them as a couple. They're both about thirty years of age and look a little like each other,
both being quite tall and dark haired, and, as might be expected, they both seem a little awkward at his sudden presence in
their kitchen.

‘So you get lots of people staying?' he says, trying to ease the thickening silence.

‘Now and again,' Downey says and Madden sees him throw a glance at his wife. ‘So how's America then? I have a brother working
construction in New Jersey. Never been, though. Kirsty, knock the heating on, it's getting cold.' She momentarily disappears
into a utility room and there is a loud rush as it kicks in.

‘It's good. Plenty of opportunities for work.'

‘He wanted me to go out, for good, but I didn't fancy it. I don't like Americans much – no offence like.'

‘None taken,' Madden says, wondering at the stupidity of the statement.

‘Too arrogant for my liking. Nine-Eleven was the price they paid for it, for thinking they have a right to rule half the world.'

Madden watches Kirsty take up a position behind her husband. He sees the embarrassment in her eyes and for her sake he humours
him with vague and bland answers, letting his inane analysis of world politics wash over him without registering irritation
or disagreement. Then at the first opportunity he tells them that he's feeling sleepy and he'd like to turn in.

‘The old jet lag kicking in, Michael? Kirsty'll show you your room and the bathroom. Tell you where everything is.'

Madden says his thanks and goodnight and follows Kirsty back along the hall and up the stairs. She is taller than Ramona but
thinner and wears her hair shorter and her step on the stairs is light and quick. She opens the bathroom door and tells him
that there's lots of hot water if he wants a bath and shows him how the shower works as if he mightn't have used one before.
Then she points him to his room and when he open the door he sees neatly folded towels at the bottom of his bed and a black
suit laid across it.

‘If you wouldn't mind, Michael, could you try on the suit so I can make any alterations need doing?'

‘Right,' he says. ‘So they've got me a suit for my day in court?'

‘I suppose they want you to look your best.'

They want him to go into a court and tell what happened and they think a suit will make him look better. But he says nothing
and instead looks round the room with its neat modern furniture and its double bed with cream linen. Everything feels and
smells new and how he imagines a superior hotel room to look. He thinks of Ramona and the child that's coming.

‘Have you got kids?' he asks as she straightens the closed curtains.

‘No kids. John and I aren't married either. I just think Gerry tells people that because he's a bit old-fashioned and thinks
it sounds better. Have you got kids?'

‘No.' For a second he's going to tell her about the baby but pulls back because he suddenly understands that he doesn't want
to bring Ramona into this world, that he doesn't even want to hear her name mentioned in this place.

‘Married? Sorry,' she says, starting to walk from the room.

‘No, not married.'

‘I didn't mean to pry,' she says. ‘Come downstairs when you've tried on the suit.'