The Truth Commissioner (11 page)

He nods his head half-heartedly, looks around for his socks.

‘Do you want me to help you get dressed?' she asks but he knows he has to pull himself together or he will never get through
the day so he shakes his head. She goes to the door and pauses, looks back at him and smiles. ‘Just as well that painter boy
can't see you now – it would make some portrait.'

‘I must look like,' he pauses. ‘What was it that idiot Micky said? The dog's bollocks.'

She laughs then says, ‘You look just fine but hurry up and get changed before these two eat us out of house and home.'

When he comes back down, Micky is wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His plate is a shiny skim of emptiness. ‘Never
took my eyes off the car, Francis,' he says.

‘How did you get the food in your mouth then?'

‘Natural instinct, but not all made it,' Sweeney says, dabbing at the corner of Micky's mouth with a tissue.

‘Leave the boy alone, the pair of you,' Marie says. ‘And, Ricky, under no circumstances let him miss that suit fitting.'

‘On my life.'

Gilroy follows the two men into the hall but then doubles back and kisses his wife lightly on the cheek. She nods and pats
him on the back as if sending one of her sons off to school. As he walks to join the other two in the car the mist has vanished,
leaving only a dampness in the air that feels like someone's cold breath on the back of his neck. He sits in the back with
Sweeney for the short drive to the new party offices and again Sweeney suggests that they don't really have the time for this
but he says nothing, too busy asking himself if Marie is right, and all it must be is tiredness, to tell his assistant that
the day people think he has no time for them is the day he's dead in the water. Adrift on his own power trip and mandated
by nothing except his own ego. They pass the Bobby Sands mural. It has fresh graffiti on it.

‘Bloody kids,' Sweeney says.

‘There's no respect any more,' Gilroy says. ‘Not for anything.'

The waiting room is half empty and he greets everyone with light good humour, joking about the mist and making up a story
about a returning all-night reveller unable to find his own door. Sweeney takes charge, checking the fax machine and email,
speaking to all of the workers, casting his eye over the security-cleared post but letting it sit unopened. A quiet night
in the city – a couple of burglaries against old people, a racist attack against Portuguese migrant workers, some minor flooding
in the lower Ormeau Road. He checks the names of the people waiting and establishes the order, ushers the first one in and
then sits at the side of Gilroy's desk and takes notes. Problems with housing application and benefits, a school dispute involving
possible suspension, complaints about anti-social behaviour by young people, problems about noise at night from neighbours.
Gilroy has heard it all before, knows what to say, how to reassure, who to see and what can be done. Sweeney notes it all
and in his head is already deciding who must follow things up and who must assume the necessary responsibilities. The constituents
are nervous at first then pleased with how they are treated and leave feeling a little honoured to have had a personal audience.

Two women come in, a grandmother and her daughter, bookends separated only by the thickening shape of time. Short, bottle-blonde
hair, hooped earrings, ringed fingers, jeans and cheap trainers. It is the grandmother who does the talking while the daughter
barely lifts her eyes from the desk in front of her.

‘It's about our Gerard, Francis,' she says. ‘He's fifteen and gone off the rails a bit recently since his father left – nothing
serious, just the usual sort of trouble. We're really worried about him. He's not a bad lad really but he's started to hang
round with a bit of a wild crowd and we think there might be drugs involved.'

‘You don't know that for certain,' the mother says, barely raising her eyes.

‘Well, Kathleen, it was you told me that's what you thought.'

‘Yes, but I don't know for sure.'

It rambles slowly on, slowed down occasionally by differences of opinion, but Gilroy doesn't let his impatience show, nodding
his head in a way that says he understands.

‘And you see, Francis, he got in a bit of bother last week with some neighbours and they said they were going to get him kneecapped
and he's really a sensitive boy and we're worried that he might harm himself if it ever happened. He was a friend of the Meaney
boy, the one who did himself in God rest his soul. And the family's never got over it. We're scared, Francis, scared that
Gerard might go the same way. Please, please, could someone speak to him, try to help him before it's too late?'

‘I understand what you're saying and you've done the right thing in coming here. And listen, God only knows it's not easy
bringing kids up any more and I know that as well as the next man. And I'm going to do my very best to help with Gerard and
believe me no one's getting kneecapped or beaten. There's lots of kids out there like Gerard and we need to find better ways
to help them, bring them back on board, get them to make something useful of their lives.'

Gilroy soothes them, promises them, calms them down and Sweeney makes his notes. He tells them about the counselling services
that will help, about experienced people he knows. When he has finished he stands up behind his desk and when the grandmother
steps towards him he thinks she is going to shake his hand so he offers it to her but instead she takes it and kisses it and
invokes God's blessing on him. The mother contents herself with a mumbled thanks and uses a shredded ball of tissue to dab
her eyes.

After they have gone Gilroy sits down again and says to Sweeney, ‘Give this to Theo, get him to see the boy and look after
it. Tell him to try and sort it out best as he can.' He shakes his head. ‘You know what I think? I think half the mess we
see is caused by the breakdown of the family. Too many one-parent families, too many young men walking away from their responsibilities.
Look at that guy Micky – though in his case they're probably better off without him.'

Sweeney smiles and shows in the final person from the waiting room. It's an elderly man in an overcoat carrying a dog lead.
He sits down on the seat but does not speak, and his eyes flit round the room like restless moths, never settling on anything
for more than a few seconds before moving on elsewhere. Gilroy looks at the list of names on his desk.

‘So what can we do for you, John?'

‘I've lost my dog,' the man says.

‘You've lost your dog?'

‘Not exactly.'

‘No?' Gilroy asks, glancing at Sweeney.

‘He's been stolen. He wasn't in the yard this morning and the back door was open. Someone's taken him.'

‘So what type of dog is he?'

‘A sheepdog. He's called Lassie.'

Gilroy shifts a little on his seat and avoids looking at Sweeney who has lowered his head as if concentrating intensely on
his note-taking.

‘So Lassie's missing? Have you phoned the council?'

‘No point – he's been stolen.'

‘And you've no idea who might have taken him?'

‘No. But he's a friendly dog so he would go with anybody he took a liking to.'

‘And have you had him a long time?'

‘Since he was a pup.'

‘Does he have a collar?'

‘With his name on.'

‘And would you have a photograph of Lassie at home?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well here's what we'll do, John. You bring your photograph in to the office and we'll scan it into the computer and make
Wanted posters. Then you can stick them up round the area. There's a good chance someone will see it and get in touch. What
do you say, John?'

‘Right, Mr Gilroy,' the man says, then without another word stands up and leaves the office, the dog lead trailing behind
him like a metal tail.

After he has gone Sweeney closes the door and chuckles. ‘Lassie is lost,' he says. ‘I think thon boy is half barking mad himself.
Lassie is lost. What does he think this is –
101
Dalmatians?
Listen, we need to get a move on, hit the road. I'll get Micky to bring the car round.' He pauses at the office door. ‘Listen,
Franky, I know who would know where Lassie is.'

‘Who?'

‘The dogs on the street,' he says and as he walks away Gilroy watches his shoulders heaving at his own joke.

Sweeney tells the joke again as they drive across the city but Gilroy concentrates on reading his draft papers, sometimes
squinting at the print.

‘I need to get my eyes tested,' he says to Sweeney. ‘Think the time has come for glasses.'

‘Glasses would be cultured,' Sweeney says. ‘Wouldn't they, Micky?'

‘Make you look like a brainbox,' Micky says.

‘You should get a pair,' Gilroy says as they pass the city airport. ‘Are you checking your rear mirror to see that nothing
is following us?'

‘Yes, Francis.'

They sweep round on to the Upper Newtownards Road and then through the ornate, black metal gates of Stormont, pass under the
aggressive defiance of Carson's statue with his outstretched arm which always makes Gilroy think the Unionist icon is giving
him the finger and up the long, lawn-flanked driveway.

‘Another day, another dollar,' Gilroy says as they get waved through the security check but the nonchalance of his words is
designed to hide the tremor of anxiety that hits him, as it does each time at this precise moment, and with it an awareness
of how far they have come and the magnitude of what has been achieved. Once inside the building his footsteps clack on the
marble floor and announce his arrival and he steps out with his head held high. It's a building designed to make you feel
small, that arches too much space over your head, that can smother your voice with its heavy wood and white marble, but he
will not be bowed by it or intimidated by its ostentatious show of history. Harder, however, not to allow a sense of pride
to fill his steps. Pride for himself, the son of a sign-painter, pride for his people the second-class citizens – who now
through him sit at the very top table. So to scatter the distracting weight of these thoughts he makes a joke about Davy Crockett
and the Alamo as they come round a corner to suddenly meet Crockett standing with a file under his arm.

‘Good morning,' Crockett says.

‘Good morning,' he replies, wondering if they have been overheard. Crockett's face betrays nothing. ‘Busy day ahead.'

‘Indeed,' Crockett says, glancing at his watch. ‘We meet in the committee room in half an hour.'

‘That's right,' Gilroy says and then walks on to his office. When the door is shut he says to Sweeney, ‘That fella gives off
a cold draught every time he opens his mouth. He looks at you like you're something stuck to the sole of his shoe.'

‘If he was a lollipop he'd lick himself.'

‘Try to find out about him. Ask around. Try Montgomery in the Press Office. And are we sure this office is clean?'

‘It's been swept twice now,' Sweeney says, glancing round the room.

‘Have it done on a regular basis. Go through it with a fine-tooth comb. And no one is to use the phones for anything that's
important, either in or out. Now check with the secretary for what's come in this morning and if there's anything really important
that I need to see, otherwise I want to spend the half hour looking over this stuff again. Tell her I'm not available during
this time.'

As Sweeney shuts the door Gilroy sinks back in his chair and shuffles through the papers in front of him. His eyes are sore
already and the day has only started – he will have to see about glasses. Perhaps they add a little gravitas to your image.
Perhaps they just make you look like an old man. He tries to focus on the document before him but it's the image of himself
walking his daughter down the aisle that dances before his eyes. The blackness of his suit, the whiteness of her dress. Chess
pieces on a board. As a child she was always trying to outmanoeuvre him, exploit his weakness for her, and in her armoury
she had a cunning range of moves which showed no mercy until she got what she wanted. So she could work on his guilt about
his all-too-frequent absences; about the constant strain of living on the edge of fear, of being a child sitting in her pyjamas
at the top of the stairs as the Brits kicked in the door, in her child's imagination their blackened faces like chimney sweeps.

Their relationship has been a continual skirmish and long ago he gave up trying to rein her in and if anything he loves her
even more for her independence of spirit. He smiles as he thinks of the school revolt she led against the petty strictures
of the nuns, of her early experiments with the extremes of fashion, her holiday work as an au pair where the family stuck
her for a week then sent her home. And does this Justin deserve her? Justin who works in London in advertising, who wears
rectangular designer glasses and watches cricket. Justin who calls him Franky when no one calls him that who has not struggled
at his side for twenty years. Justin whose shell-shocked parents will fly in the night before the wedding and straight out
the next morning. His mouth feels dry at the thought of that walk down the aisle. And what will he say in his speech? What
words will he compose for the guests? He remembers the Larkin in his bag and takes it out and starts to read the title poem,
‘The Whitsun Weddings'. It's about different, newly married couples getting on the same train and heading for London, travelling
into the future. He wonders if she will be happy or if she, too, will slowly fade from his life into the vastness of London.
He doesn't know if the poem is a happy or sad one. He doesn't understand the ending and he is reading it slowly, word by word,
as if climbing a sheer face where each one is a handhold, when Sweeney enters.