The Truth Commissioner (35 page)

After she's gone he opens the curtains slightly and looks out but all he sees is his own reflection in the blackness. He turns
to the suit. It's plain but expensive and looks to him like the type you might wear to a funeral. He's reluctant at first
to try it on. The trousers are several inches too long so he hitches them and goes back downstairs. In the kitchen Downey
is still sitting at the table watching the news on a portable television that nestles on a work surface between the microwave
and a bread bin. He has a bottle of beer in his hand and each time he drinks from it his mouth makes a slurping noise.

‘Trousers are too long,' Madden says and Downey leans round on his chair to look.

‘You're a bit of a shortarse, Michael. No offence, mate.'

‘I'll pin one up and then shorten them tomorrow,' Kirsty says, lifting a sewing box out of one of the cupboards.

‘Better to do it tonight, in case Gerry wants him to wear it tomorrow.'

‘Stand over here in the light,' she tells him and then kneels down at his feet and folds one of the legs. ‘Does that look
the right length, Michael?' she asks as she pulls her head back and measures it with her eye. When he says he thinks so she
starts to pin the new length, holding the pins in her mouth and taking one out at a time.

‘There you go, Michael, women falling at your feet already.' There's another slurp. Madden looks down as she bends over the
hem. Her neck below the blackness of her hair is pale, almost white, and on this whiteness rests a thin silver chain. For
a second he feels the impulse to reach down and touch her hair, to say something kind to her, but instead he turns his gaze
to the television.

‘It's the Commission,' Downey says. ‘Every night they put it on and every night it's shoved further back and given even less time. Everybody's sick of it by now and there's no end to it. Another day or so and it's your turn, your fifteen seconds of fame. American television is rubbish, isn't it, Michael?'

He nods and Kirsty tells him that she only needs to do one leg and if he leaves them outside his door she'll have them ready in the morning. Saying goodnight for the second time he returns to his room and after taking off the suit puts the trousers on a hanger on the outside door handle. But he doesn't unpack his bag because he wants to convince himself that his stay is only the most temporary of ones. After using the bathroom he walks back along the landing and pauses for a few seconds to listen to the voices talking in the kitchen but he can't make them out except that John is complaining about something and then it all gets lost in music from the television,

The bed is laundry fresh and part of him wonders who else has slept in it but another part of him wants only to think of nothing and momentarily wipe everything from his memory in the oblivion of sleep. As his head hits the pillow he is suddenly conscious of how utterly exhausted he is and the wave of sleep that overwhelms him seems to have its origin deep inside.

In the morning when he eventually shrugs himself awake, his head feels groggy, unfocused, as if he has a hangover. He thinks
of falling back into sleep again but looks at his watch and sees it is almost eleven o'clock. Shaking his head he tries to
stir himself, to resist what's threatening to drag him back under, and as he does so he hears a car driving away. He sits
on the edge of the bed and rubs the back of his neck before going to the window and opening the curtains. Outside there is
only a clotted mesh of small fields tacked together by hedgerows and ragged, scrubby trees. No road is visible and he can't
see the car that's just left. He goes to the bathroom and showers and shaves but it's her face he sees in the mirror, standing
in front of him, the shock of her hair coursing against his cheek, the warmth of her body permeating his. She's just been
sick, her face is sprinkled with water and pale like the lake before the first light has touched it. Men have it easy she
says and he says he's sorry. He holds the razor frozen a few inches from his cheek and tries to tell her he's sorry, so utterly
and completely sorry, that he will do anything to keep her love, but she tells him that she has given her love to someone
other than who he is, that he can't be two people, that she loved someone who never existed. And then everything collapses
and everything is lost inside a language he doesn't understand. The words are a torrent, a flash flood that carries her far
beyond his reach. His hand shakes a little as he tries to finish shaving. But he does exist, he tries to tell her that he
does exist and the man she loves is no one other than him, but then she is borne further from him in the tumbling cascade
of her words that rush through a canyon created by the sharp-edged gestures of her hands. He tries to calm her by his touch
but she throws it off and there is nothing he can do to stem the flow, nothing he can conjure to staunch her pain. Now he
holds the sink with both hands to steady himself and then splashes his skin. He presses the towel tightly against his face
and holds it there as if the longer he does so, the greater the chance that when it's removed he might see that something
has changed.

When he goes downstairs there's some post on the hall floor and picking it up he looks at the address before carrying it into
the kitchen. Only Kirsty is there, standing as if she's been waiting for him in front of the table that's set for breakfast.
She tells him that John's gone to the shops and won't be long. He hands her the post and without looking at it she sets it
on a shelf where it adds to the pile of unopened mail.

‘That was some sleep,' she says as she starts to busy herself about the cupboards. ‘Would you like a cooked breakfast? It's
all ready to go.'

‘I guess I was pretty tired. But if you don't mind I'll just have some coffee and a bit of toast.'

‘Are you sure you wouldn't like some eggs, bacon, the traditional fry-up?' And when he says no thanks, ‘Your suit's ready
– you can take it back up with you when you're going.'

‘I'm sorry to put you to all this trouble,' he says, pouring himself some orange juice from a carton.

‘Not freshly squeezed, I'm afraid. And this is my job so you don't need to worry.'

‘It's fine,' he says, saluting her with the glass.

‘I never understand when Americans say all that stuff about eggs over easy in films. What's it mean?'

He explains to her while she pours him a cup of fresh coffee. For a tall woman she has small hands. Her fingers are ringless
with nails that are a little ragged and white flecked as if lacking in calcium. In the morning light she looks a little washed
out, the blue of her eyes diluted by tiredness.

‘What day is it?' he asks, suddenly uncertain.

‘Saturday. They're coming to take you out later this afternoon. It'll be good to get out and see some things.'

‘Gerry Lynch?' he asks.

‘I'm not sure. John said you were to be ready for four. They'll pick you up.'

He wants to ask her if she does everything that John tells her but after his breakfast he thanks her and says that he's going
to get some air and take a walk. Immediately he sees that she's nervous about the idea and tries to put him off by telling
him that there's a cold wind and it might rain. When he persists she tells him that she'll come with him and he understands
that she's not allowed to let him out of her sight but he says nothing and waits for her to clear the breakfast dishes. Once
as he helps her they bump into each other and she reddens and apologises. Then she lifts a coat out of the utility room and
after she's carefully locked the front door they step into the sharp morning light. She's right about the wind and he shivers
as the first cold breath whispers against his face.

‘I told you,' she says, ‘it's very deceiving.'

‘In the college I work in the kids complain about the cold in winter if it means they have to wear a jumper for more than
two days in a row.'

‘You teach in a college?'

‘No, I work in maintenance – for the ground staff. Looking after the campus.'

‘Sounds good.'

‘I'm thinking of starting up my own landscaping business,' he says instinctively and then understands that what was once a
realisable dream has disintegrated with everything else. The knowledge silences him and they walk along the lane on opposite
sides of the potholes that punctuate the central passage. At a gate they pause and look at two horses silhouetted nose to
tail on the brow of a hill. The horses stir and lift their heads curiously then one begins a slow amble towards them.

‘They think we've come to feed them,' she says, plucking at grass growing on the verge. When the horse lifts its head over the top bar of the gate she holds
the grass out to it and the horse sniffs it disinterestedly then turns away. ‘Suit yourself,' she says, dropping the grass
and drying her hands on the sides of her coat.

‘It's cold,' he says. ‘Let's go back.' They walk back along the lane again, skirting the pools of trapped sky. Everything
around him – the hedges, the tussocky fields, the sky itself feels ragged. and damp. He longs for the slow burn of the sun,
knows that if he's ever to feel its heat again he won't complain or take it for granted.

When they get back to the house he asks if there's anything he can help with but she tells him that there's nothing so he
goes into the living room and flicks the television channels. After a while he feels sleepy again but resists the temptation
to doze. John returns and looks in on him, offers him a beer again but thankfully doesn't hang around. He watches an old black-and-white
movie but doesn't get to see the ending as Lynch arrives to take him out.

‘Marty and Micky are coming with us,' he says. ‘Micky's always good for a laugh. We're going to get something to eat first and then we'll have a few jars and a bit of Irish craic.'

Madden gathers his coat unenthusiastically as he imagines the type of evening he associates with Irish theme pubs and fears
that authenticity will only make it even worse. But the meal is in a city-centre Pizza Express and then they have a few drinks
in a downtown bar that has coffee tables and leather suites and where the barman tries to get them to sample cocktails. Afterwards
they go to a club in West Belfast and when Lynch introduces him to people they shake his hand but no one knows him or has
any interest in him. There is a group of teenagers in one of the corners playing noisy drinking games and Lynch rolls his
eyes as he studies them. A giant television screen is showing live soccer. When Madden goes to the gents' one of the teenagers
follows him and offers to sell him coke.

Afterwards he tells his companions and Lynch says, ‘The whole bloody world's gone to the dogs. All they're interested in is
getting smashed out of their heads. No interest in anything else.'

Madden thinks they're settled for the night so he's surprised when Lynch takes a phone call and then tells him they're due
back at the house. ‘Work to do now, Michael.' On the return journey there's little conversation and Lynch mostly keeps his
face angled to the window. When they reach the house no one moves and they tell him they'll see him in the morning so he gets
out and as he does so he sees two cars parked in the yard. He feels apprehensive but when he knocks on the front door Kirsty
greets him with her normal smile. She invites him in as if it's the first time she's seen him then leads him into the living
room. As he looks at the three people sitting there he hears the door close behind him. The older man stands up and comes
towards him with a smile and an outstretched hand.

‘Good to see vou, Michael, I'm Sean Rollins and this is Ricky and Mairead. Have a seat.' They nod and smile at him as Rollins
gestures to a chair that has been positioned in the middle of the room. ‘How does it feel to be back home again?'

He wants to tell him that he doesn't think of this as his home but tells them that he's keen to get back as quickly as he
can. With a sweeping glance he tries to take them in. Rollins is the oldest but broad shouldered and with a strong head of
white hair that doesn't appear to have retreated a single inch on his forehead. He wears a neat herringbone sports jacket
and grey trousers. There is something dapper about him unlike the man who sits beside him and who despite the suit looks untidy
and uncomfortable in his chosen clothes. His shirt collar is grubby, his tie loosened and askew and there is a fine sprinkling
of dandruff on his shoulders. The woman is the youngest – Madden estimates that she's in her late thirties – and she's wearing
a dark trouser suit that advertises sober and serious efficiency.

‘We understand, Michael, we understand that you've built a new life. And good luck to you in that. We'll be doing everything
that we can to get you there as soon as possible but there are things we need to sort out before Monday.'

‘Monday?'

‘You're called on Monday. We always think it best to do things this way – fast, the way you want it, and no time to get nervous
or worried about what's coming. Just let us guide you through this and it'll be done and dusted before you even know. All
right, Michael?' He nods in reply and shifts uneasily on the seat. ‘But we need to tell you that we understand that for you
and for all of us things have moved on but there are some things that are still the same even though sometimes they get called
by a different name. This is a new phase of the struggle, Michael, and even though some people might think it's a bit unfashionable
to call it that, it's still a struggle.' He pauses as there is a knock on the door and when he gives the OK, Kirsty enters
with a tea tray and pours carefully for the three of them. When she offers him a cup he declines. ‘You want something stronger,
Michael?' Rollins asks but he declines that too. As Kirsty walks past him to leave again she smiles at him and he nods quickly.
‘So, Michael, where were we?'