The Truth Commissioner (28 page)

‘I know they did it. This isn't a religious thing – I haven't been inside a church since I was a kid.' He does not know what
else to say and instead follows some way behind. At the fence Edward slips through an almost invisible gap and then turns
to him again, his face pressed close to the wire, both hands held above his head and clutching the links.

‘You know why he picked Marvin instead of one of those rich white boys? Because he was a black kid and he thought he could
get away with it. That no one would complain or make a fuss. Now you go back there to that sicko and tell him that we're going
to fry his ass.'

There is nothing more to be said. He watches as Edward slips away into the shadows between two buildings then retraces his
own steps. At the water tank he pauses and touches the coldness of the metal. He lets his fingers trace the contours of a
rust patch and when he looks at them they are stained as if with nicotine. He needs a smoke. Instead he thinks of the choir
of women, their white gowns flapping like unfurled flags against the darkness of the night.

At the car the two youths are still sitting on the fence. ‘It's still here, Champ,' one says, ‘but we had to hold off armies
to keep it safe.'

He doesn't answer but gets in the car and turns on the engine. It does not start first time and he sees his two spectators
smirking and shaking their heads. Suddenly he feels angry, humiliated, and he wants to roll the window down and say something
sassy, something that shows them he is a man and isn't afraid, but the engine starts up and instead he drives off quickly.
As he slows for the corner he sees Marvin standing with a soccer ball in his hand. The boy stares at him, proud, indifferent,
and as their eyes lock, he takes the ball and spins it on his finger.

As he drives it's not words that fill his head but images the women on the steps of the church still sharp as the flash of
a camera; the spreading patches of rust on the water tank; the scorn in Edward's eyes; Mulryne's head buried in his arms,
his grey hair wet and flattened to his skull. But then into the chaos settles another image and it presses all the others
to the outer edges of his consciousness and it's that of the priest on the far side of the field standing with his arm round
the boy's shoulders under the shadows of the tree. It feels as if it's printed and fixed on the road as he drives and it can't
be blinked away even though he tries and now the words he hears are, ‘Because he was a black kid and he thought he could get
away with it.' Suddenly his certainty is washed away and although he tries to persuade himself once more of his earlier conviction
he knows it's gone now, replaced by a confused conflict of clamouring voices insistent on the truth of their assertions. All
he knows for sure is that he doesn't want to take the discordant claims and counterclaims of his brain to his home. He tells
himself he did his best but then is unsure if it was the best thing to do. He switches on the radio and tries to drown out
the voices.

It is Ramona's night to work late so he decides to wait for her, drive her the short distance home. He drives to the mall
where there are only about three dozen cars in the car park. He's able to park almost at the door. The single security man
leans against an inside wall, the contours of his uniform creased with boredom, his hat pushed back on his head revealing
the youthfulness of his face. His languid indifference says that he thinks he should be somewhere else, like cruising in a
car with a pretty girl or smoking a joint in some badly lit parking lot. Certainly not here where there's not even the momentary
distraction of a shoplifter or a lost child to colour in the time or embroider his uniform with a momentary importance. No
breathless thanks from a teary-eyed young mother or the chance to frisk some drugged-up punk. Just the slow passing of time,
like watching over an elderly relative who takes too long to die, dragging it out, fighting the inevitable fade into nothingness.

Each time he comes here it feels as if the remaining stores have somehow pulled towards themselves, circling round each other like wagons against the marauding misfortunes that threaten. ‘Everything must go', ‘closing down sale' – these are the harbingers of another departure. He sits outside the bookshop and watches an old man with a cart push a mop along the tiles. His heavy clacking feet beat against the squeak and slither of the mop. When he comes to empty the trash cans he looks in each one with expectancy, followed by disappointment, and then swiftly consigns the contents to the back of the cart. He watches him trundle the cart towards the next bin, the mop extended in front of him like the sniffing trunk of a baby elephant. Two jobs done at once to the chorused, clacking castanets of his heavy feet. The sound rises up and seeps into the curved ceiling with its painted frescos of blue sky and wispy clouds. For the first time he notices that there are little Zephyrs with blond curls and puffed cheeks blowing the clouds and then his gaze moves to the almost empty second level where a Christmas-all-year shop has draped Christmas lights and tinsel garlands over the railing. It has silver plastic trees at its entrance and a giant model of Santa with a toy-filled sack.

How could he have been so stupid to consider making his confession to Mulryne? What was he thinking of? After all this time
to open the closed box of the past and try to unpack what he's been so careful to stow away. The only thing he knows is that
it wasn't a religious impulse because he has already stopped believing in one part of his head. It was for Ramona, for the
child – to somehow be more worthy of them. To start afresh, step into the future clean and entitled to the happiness that
it promises. At Christmas he will drape the front of the house in white icicle lights, light it up like a birthday cake. Do
it when she is out with the child so that it's a surprise and she will come home unsuspecting and see the whole house lit
up like the biggest smile. So how could he, even for a moment, have thought of letting loose the spores of the past, of casting
them to the wind with no way to predict or control where they would land?

He thinks of the anthrax scare, of envelopes seeping with white powder. Of contamination. Of isolation wards and men in white
suits like spacemen who cautiously trace the surfaces of unknown and possibly hostile planets like diviners with their outstretched
twigs. A young man hands him a leaflet advertising a new car valet service. As one business dies another is born – it's another
part of an unending circle of human optimism. So why even in this place should he let these tainted seed heads blow through
his mind and infect the future? He was foolish to get involved with Mulryne and try to help, never fully considered what he
was getting into. It was nothing to do with him and he was crazy to let himself drift close to the flames of a public dispute
that might have spread in all kinds of directions he could not anticipate. Just walk away, let people sort out their own mess
in their own ways. Never take risks, never lift your head too high, never draw unnecessary attention to yourself – for a moment
he had forgotten the wisdom of his own rules. Keep your eyes only on the future. And so as the tune of ‘I'm Dreaming of a
White Christmas' slithers slowly like a snake through the sleeping mall, he thinks of the business he could build, of the
houses on the lake with the screened pools and perfect lawns, of contracts and franchises.

Ramona is pleased to see him, telling him that she's a little weary and that her ankles are sore. He imagines the smile on
her face when he drapes the house in white lights and then asks himself why he should wait for Christmas, deciding that he
will do it for her the day she brings their child home from hospital.

‘You want to eat Chinese?' she asks as she massages her ankles.

‘Sure, save a lot of time and hassle,' he answers and drives the short distance to their favourite restaurant. The manager
greets him by name and shakes his hand. He orders their usual to go and while he waits he flicks the pages of a real-estate
magazine absorbing the poetry of pool and lakefront homes. That is his only concern now – to make enough bucks to be able
to buy into the world displayed in the photographs. He looks at the picture of Barbara Bloemstein – ‘She's working ten times
smarter to deliver the American dream' – and reads her descriptions of ‘lush landscaping', of security systems, of ‘small
single-entry neighbourhoods' set amid ‘greenbelts of mature trees'. Get in a gated community and lock the world outside. Feel
safe – it's all he has ever wanted – and he tells himself that it's in reach of his grasp if he works hard enough for it,
makes his plans and is bold and brave enough to make them real.

When the owner hands him his order he tells him to call again and holds open the door as he leaves. As he walks towards the
car he feels the heat that like some possessive lover refuses to let the day slip out of her embrace. The bright neon of the
other shop fronts ignites the dusk with coloured promises of pleasure and issues gaudy invitations that spark the senses.
There is a lightness to his step, a new sense of conviction, as he feels the dazzle of light spray across his path. Build
the walls high, make the gates strong and everything will be all right. But when he puts his hand to the car door it is locked
and he has to knock the glass before Ramona opens it. As he gets in he hands her the bag but as she takes it she turns her
head away and stares at the night.

‘What's up?' he asks but there is no reply so he asks again.

‘I saw him,' she says in a whisper that forces him to lean his head towards her to catch the words.

He knows now that something is wrong. ‘Who did you see, Ramona?'

‘Vicente. I saw Vicente.'

‘Where? Did he try anything?'

‘He didn't see me. He was going into the bar. Drive the car, Danny, take me home.'

The sourness of fear smothers the sweet smell of the food. ‘Everything's all right,' he says and stretches his hand across
to hers as he drives. ‘Everything's all right. We'll be home soon.' She doesn't answer but as he glances at her she seems
smaller, to have shrunk into herself, and for a moment he gives admission to the anger and frustration beginning to bubble
up inside him. Part of him wants to turn the car round and go back and find him, let him feel what fear feels like, but he
knows it would be for himself and not for her so instead he goes on telling her everything will be all right. When they reach
the house she does not open the car but stays sitting staring ahead.

‘I had a bad dream a while back,' she says. He stretches across and puts his arms round her, strokes the back of her hair,
but she feels lifeless as if everything that makes her who she is has been drained away. For a second he thinks she's not
going to say any more. Now the smell of the food is cloying, oppressive. ‘I dreamed he came and hurt the baby.' Suddenly she
is crying like he's never seen her do before, breaking free from his embrace to put both hands to her face, perhaps to try
to staunch the flow, perhaps to hide what she thinks is the shame of it.

‘No one's going to hurt the baby, sweetheart. No one's going to hurt our baby or ever hurt you again. Everything's going to
be all right.' He tries to hold her again.

‘He can do what he likes to me but not the baby,' she sobs, her words tumbling out in broken, breathless gasps.

‘Shush, shush,' he whispers. He's not going to do anything to anyone. You're safe now, everything's going to be all right.'
He thinks of telling her about the pictures of houses he looked at in the restaurant, of the one they are going to buy when
their ship comes in, but he doesn't have the words so instead he holds her and rocks her gently until the tears stop and are
replaced by deep breaths, like someone pulled back to shore from a drowning sea.

They get out of the car and she leans against him until they have entered the house, then goes to the bathroom and closes
the door. He's unsure of what to do about the food so he lets it sit unopened on the kitchen table but when she comes out
she asks him why he's not got it ready and so he smiles and scurries for plates. When he asks her if she's all right she nods
and smiles. ‘It's the hormones,' she says dismissively. ‘They're all over the place. I'm fine now.' But she eats little of
the food, mostly pushing it about with her fork, and in a little while she says she feels tired and would like to go to bed.
He needs a cigarette and wants to go down to the lake but he knows he won't leave her so he cleans up and joins her on the
bed. She is lying on top of it because she is too warm and he stretches out beside her, propping a pillow behind his head.
He knows she doesn't want to talk about what happened so he says nothing.

‘You know Justine in the library?' she asks. ‘Her husband works out at Canaveral and she says she can get us passes next time
there's a launch. Says it's really worth seeing. Can we go?'

‘Sure,' he says.

‘Sometimes it's at night and you have to get there early. It's supposed to be really spectacular.'

‘Like to see it. Something to tell our children about.' He watches her slowly rub her stomach with the palm of her hand. ‘There
were two astronauts on the moon went into a bar but left a few minutes later – you know why?' She shakes her head. ‘Because
there was no atmosphere.' She pushes her elbow into his thigh and then a short time later she turns on her side and falls
asleep. He thinks again of going out to the lake but wants to be there in case she wakens so he curls himself into her back
and falls asleep thinking of great fantails of flames as rockets hurtle skyward and lift their heads towards the vast darkness
of space.

In the week that follows there is no sign of Mulryne and he doesn't go looking for him. Someone else takes the soccer – two young coaches, male and female, with badges on their tracksuits and T-shirts that say ‘Soccer is a kick in the grass'. At work Edward drifts round him as if once more he is out on the court with an opponent to be avoided, sidestepped with silence.
As with Mulryne he lets him go, holds tightly to his creed of not sticking his head above the parapet, of not getting involved.
He tells himself that it only comes down to doing your job, then going home and looking after your own. The baby is coming,
Ramona seems to get bigger by the day and she has started to build a nest, clearing out cupboards and laying in things, telling
him where needs painting, getting things ready with an intensity of purpose that galvanises him into action.