The Truth Commissioner (40 page)

‘Sometime around midnight and I'm not sure how Connor broke a small window and squeezed out of a space it didn't look possible
to get through. He dropped down into the yard and when we came bursting out of the house he had disappeared in the darkness.
There was a big moon and torches were brought from the house. After a while your eyes began to see better. So we split up
and tried to find him. I went round the shed but there was no sign of him and then I heard shouting from the back of the house
so I headed up there where there was a big orchard. I tripped and fell, cut my hand and then when I got near the back of the
house there was one shot rang out. There were torches and I walked towards them and the two senior men were standing there
and one held a gun in his hand and the light from one of their torches was shining on Connor and he was lying on the grass
under a tree and I could see right away that he was dead. I'd never seen a dead person before but I knew he was dead. He'd
been shot.'

He's told it and he isn't sure if he really has, or if he's only imagined the words coming out of his mouth, but it's no longer
his voice he hears but the sobbing of Connor Walshe's mother and sister. He looks down to where Mairead is sitting and she's
shaking her head very slowly at him and he looks away again.

‘I'm deeply sorry for Connor's death and deeply sorry for the part I played in it. Soon after this I ran away and tried to
make a new life in America but I've never forgotten what happened that night. It was a terrible thing and I regret more than
you can ever know that I was involved in it.' He lifts the glass of water but his hand is shaking too much and he puts it
down again. For a second the light coming through the stained glass seems to colour the water.

Francis Gilroy sits in the audience of the small studio theatre and watches the children perform. It's the showcasing of a
cross-community creative-arts project involving three different schools coming together to produce a performance of dance,
music and drama. It's the part of the job he likes best going out and actually meeting people and children, seeing how funding
decisions have been translated into creative results. The theme of the performance is ‘Outsiders' and he sits with some of
the teaching staff and the usual crowd of Department of Education inspectors, representatives of the Department of Culture
and Learning, and arts practitioners and advisers. There are also parents present and the performance is going well. He watches
intently as a group acts out a little drama involving migrant workers and racial prejudice, then a group of young teenagers
performs a dance that involves papier-mache masks and beating drums. He thinks it's all very clever and imaginative and it
makes him feel better, as if there's value in what he's been doing, as if all the endless meetings and welter of paper actually
have some connection with the real world. The children are full of energy, animated by the experience of public performance,
and they come close to the edge of the stage and Gilroy is able to see the painted artwork of the masks while behind the dancers
the drums pound out an insistent beat.

Gilroy shifts in his seat. Perhaps the performance has gone on slightly too long. He's finding it harder to keep focused and
increasingly, although he tries to stop them, his thoughts turn to the hearing that he knows is going on at this very moment.
Ricky and the others have come good for him. He knew that when it came right down to it they'd look after their own. It's
what they do, it's what they're good at. That's why they've never fractured, never split into civil war even though, God knows,
there were times when they came close. Despite this, he still wonders what's happening in the chamber and if Michael Madden
has done his bit yet. On the stage a boy stands alone in a white light while behind him are arrayed frozen scenes from his
life, so there's a family tableau, a bit from school, a group of his friends and each in turn is acted out before freezing
again. It's a play about teenage suicide, about people not ever really knowing what's going on inside someone else's head.
So they think he's all right, that he's a real laugh, and all the time he's crying inside.

Connor Walshe cried a lot. He cried so much that it drove Rafferty mad and he'd want to hit him again. He'd already hit him
too much and they'd have to wait until his face healed up. Rafferty had had a younger brother killed six months earlier and
he was raw as hell, hard to work with, hard to talk to. But he keeps trying. You can't kill him because he's too young and
it would be a complete own goal, a complete fuck-up, and even you should be able to see that. You have to see the bigger picture,
play with the head. But no, no, so it was, That's all you boys do now – talk complete shite – and you've gone soft, Gilroy,
too keen to get yourself into a suit and out of the field. And on and on and Rafferty looking down his nose because he thought
that the border brigade were the real men, the ones who held their ground and didn't compromise, didn't go behind backs and
look for deals, because they'd marked out their terrain, claimed the land back so that the only way the Brits could move was
in fucking helicopters, and if they'd only get them land-to-air missiles they wouldn't even be able to do that. And if they
let this worthless piece of shit go who'd touted and squealed like a pig then they were finished because every bit of scum
would think they could do the same and walk away and his brother, what about his brother? There were people in the struggle
giving everything and there were others begging like dogs for crumbs off the table and if Gilroy didn't want to get his hands
dirty then he should get out of the way. Listen, Rafferty, he'd said, you follow orders like we all do but it was fuck the
Belfast orders and this is a war not some kind of picnic. On the stage the boy walks into the white spotlight and looks around
him and all the groups come slowly to life and wave to him as if they're calling him to join them but he turns away and it
looks as if he's in a dream or a trance and he stretches out his own hands but it's as if there's something separating him
from all the others who care about him and then the lights go slowly down. Dark night sky and cold so that when they ran their
breath streamed in front of them and Rafferty calling to get torches and splitting up and running in blind circles and pausing
to listen and listen and then it's Rafferty's voice and he's in the orchard behind the house and then there's a gunshot, please
God no but it's a gunshot, and the torchlight shows the gun in his hand. And the boy is sprawled on the ground with a bullet
wound in his head and twigs and rotten apples round it and Rafferty is standing looking down at him and whatever was inside
him has drained away and he doesn't say anything and so he gives him the gun without saying anything or resisting and for
a second he wants to shoot the bloody fool but as the others arrive he takes control and tells them to get the black plastic
out of the barn they use for baling and cord and wrap the boy in it. And then Rafferty walks back to the house and leaves
them to get on with it and the torches make the plastic shine like moonlight on thick black water as they parcel him up.

Gilroy starts as the audience breaks into loud applause. He gulps for air, clenches his jaw tightly with his hand. The cast
is bowing and the clapping rises into a crescendo. Some of them are standing and as he lumbers to his feet his seat tips up
noisily behind him. It's his turn now and as arranged he makes his way to the stage where a microphone has been hastily set
up and he waits until the applause fades away before he starts to speak.

‘I'm sure you'll agree with me that we've been privileged to see something very special today. So much talent, so much creativity,
and I think all the young people who participated today and all the teachers and artists who were involved in putting the
project together deserve the highest praise, and let's not forget the parents either who have given so much support to their
children and the project. The theme of outsiders was highly relevant and provides us all with a lot to think about. And as
we look to the future we want to use the talents of our children to be the foundation of an inclusive society in which there
are no outsiders any more but everyone finds an equal and respected place. So once again I'd ask you to show your appreciation
for these wonderful young people who give us all hope for the future.' As he walks off stage there is a new burst of clapping
and he stretches out his arm to signify that it's directed to the children.

‘There is an important question that now needs to be asked, Mr Madden,' Stanfield says and Madden turns his face sideways
to him that's blanched of all colour. ‘Are you able and willing to help locate the body of Connor and see it returned to his
family?'

‘I am and I've already prepared a sworn deposition that gives every detail I can remember as to the location.'

Stanfield looks at the Walshes' advocate who nods to indicate she's finished and so he tells Madden he can resume his seat
but as he steps away from the lectern someone calls his name. It's a woman's voice and Maria Harper is on her feet and she
calls his name again.

‘Michael, will you tell us now who killed Connor?'

Her voice is high and splintering. Madden stops and looks at her. He glances at Mairead who's also getting to her feet and
is about to speak but it's not Mairead or even Maria Harper that he wants but Ramona with her womb full of his child and to
have a chance of getting them back he can't hold any part of this thing any more. It's been part of him too long and he has
to rip its corrosive heart out of wiiere it's lain hidden all these years.

‘Francis Gilroy. Francis Gilroy killed Connor Walshe.'

Stanfield blinks his eyes and blows a thin stream of breath. The court has ignited into a flare of noise and already journalists
are scampering from their seats, phones in their hands, their momentary pretence of dignity disappearing as they start to
shove and push each other aside in their haste to make for the door. He calls for order, remineis everyone of the need for
calm. And then he almost smiles. The best-laid schemes. There's nothing he can do now, it's out of his control, and Maria
Harper is still on her feet and Matteo's almost bursting out of his seat and the whispers are growing louder so slowly he
rises and stands waiting until there's perfect silence and then with a curiously light and pleasing sense of recklessness,
of flying close to the sun, he says in a loud and steady voice, ‘The Commission for Truth and Reconciliation calls Francis
Gilroy.'

Sweeney's phone rings as they're crossing the foyer of the building and about to leave but it's a phone that's always ringing
and Gilroy walks on without him to the exit door. Suddenly he steps into a scrum of people – at first he doesn't know who
they are but there are voices calling him and tape recorders pushed close to his face and cameras ricocheting with light and
the ambushing voices are shouting about Connor Walshe and because they're all shouting at once he doesn't understand what
it is they're asking him and then in the confused babble he finally hears the question and in reply he shakes his head and
looks for Sweeney. A van is pulling up at the kerb and he sees it's a television crew and someone is pulling at his sleeve
but then at last it's Sweeney's voice in his ear shouting at him to get into the car and say nothing, not a single word, and
Marty's opening the door and shoving people aside as he's bundled into the back seat and then they speed off with squealing
tyres.

‘Where to?' Marty asks and at first Sweeney tells him just to drive but then says to take them straight to Gilroy's home.

‘What happened?' Gilroy asks and when there's no immediate answer repeats the question.

‘Madden said you pulled the trigger,' Sweeney says as he turns on his seat to see if they're being followed.

‘What the hell happened? You told me everything was OK.'

‘I thought it was. I don't know what's happened.'

‘Why would he do this?' Gilroy asks, staring at Sweeney as if he thinks the answer will be printed in the lined whiteness
of his face.

‘I don't know, Franky, I really don't know. All I know is it's a total bollocks.'

‘It's a total fuck-up. I expected better than this,' Gilroy says then slumps back in the seat and rubs his closed eyes with
his finger and thumb. It feels as if the lights from the cameras are inside his eyes and then he opens them and blinks. ‘I
need to ring Christine and the boys,' he says, searching in his pocket for his mobile phone, but remembers he's left it on
the dresser at home. ‘Best they hear it first from me.' Sweeney offers him his but then realises he doesn't have the numbers.

‘We'll have you home soon,' he tells Gilroy. ‘You can phone from there.'

We'll have you home soon. It sounds to Gilroy that the words make him an old man found wandering the streets, or some kind
of ill person being conveyed to his final resting place. And then he understands the significance of what's happened.

‘Am I called?' he asks, already knowing the answer.

‘Yes,' Sweeney tells him as he switches off his mobile.

‘It's bad then?'

‘It's not good, Franky.'

‘How bad?'

‘We'll have to wait and see,' Sweeney says, turning his head away to look out at the city streets. ‘Someone must have got
to him.'

‘Ours or theirs?'

‘I don't know, I just don't know. He looked sound, there's no way we could have seen this.'

‘It's all over when you're not sure if you've been screwed by one of your own or the Brits,' he says, pauses for a moment
while he angles himself towards Sweeney then says in a lowered voice, ‘For what it's worth, I didn't kill the boy.'

‘We all did what we did. We don't need to talk about it.'

‘Ricky, I want you to know didn't kill the boy. I didn't kill him and I didn't want anyone else to kill him.'

‘We shouldn't talk about it now, Franky. We shouldn't talk about it now.'

‘And I'll have to appear?'

‘There's no way round that. We'll work out the right things to say. We'll say it's an attempt by the securocrats, by the remnants
of the RUC and those opposed to the process to damage it, we'll say whatever it is we have to say. But it's a bollocks, Franky,
no two ways about it. Madden looked sound, like we could depend on him. I don't understand.'

Sweeney goes on talking but Gilroy turns his face away from the flow of his words and stares out as the streets gradually
become the ones he thinks of as his own but they bring no sense of security and instead he has to blink away his breath streaming
before him as he runs, a boy with his head bruised and damaged like rotting fruit and wreathed by twigs and last season's
windfall apples. Whatever happens now he knows it's over. The idea he once played with has come for him and it's no longer
dependent on what he wants. They'll stand by him – they never give up their own – he knows that, but whatever happens he's
damaged beyond repair. He knows it and the whole world knows it and as soon as a respectable time has elapsed they'll pension
him off, find him some new backroom job, or say his health has necessitated his retirement from public life.

Sweeney's still talking, trying to reassure him as much as possible, trying to absolve himself of the blame, but he doesn't
blame him. He just wants him to be silent now, to let him finish his journey in quiet. They pass a mural with a picture of
a British soldier and the slogan that says it's time to go and for the briefest of seconds he smiles. A time for peace. He
closes his eyes and tries to shut out Sweeney's voice and then he thinks about the phone calls that he has to make and bowing
his head the car is suddenly filled with his own silence.