The Truth Commissioner (36 page)

‘A different phase of the struggle,' he offers.

‘That's right, that's right. We're all volunteers in that same struggle and we'll all be volunteers until we live in an Ireland
that's finally free.' He raises his cup as if he's toasting that prospect. Madden turns his gaze to the man beside him who
sits staring at him and sometimes angling his head as if he's about to draw him or measure him for a suit. ‘Isn't that right,
Ricky?'

‘It's right, Sean. Just another phase of a long struggle. Michael, you've already played a part in that struggle and we're
all grateful for that and mindful of what it's cost you. And now we need you to do one last thing and when you've done it
your war is over. It's all over and you can go back to your life.'

‘Mairead is going to leave us now,' says Rollins. ‘She'll come in later and help with things, the words to use, how to present
yourself- that sort of stuff. She's a bit of an expert in court appearances and the law. She'll be with you tomorrow.' At
this she places her cup on the tray and lifting her briefcase leaves the room and as she passes him she pats him on the shoulder
in a gesture of reassurance. He sits as the two men finish their tea and no one seems to be in a rush to speak but eventually
Rollins puts his cup down and dries his mouth with one of the paper napkins.

‘OK, Michael, let's give this a go,' Rollins says, crumpling the paper into a misshapen ball and dropping it on to the tray.
‘What I want you to do now is think very carefully and remember very clearly and I want you to tell us everything about Connor
Walshe. Everything, Michael. Leaving nothing out because this is very important. You understand? And whatever you say you
can rest assured that none of your words ever leave this room. Now let's give it a go. Right from the very start, Michael.'

There is a relief in the telling. The thing that has pressed so tightly for so long against his inability to tell is being
slowly released. Bit by bit. It feels like a magician's trick, an endless piece of string that slips out from where it couldn't possibly be. He's hesitant at first, stammers sometimes into a dead end, but they look at him with open faces and nod their understanding and he knows he shall never have this opportunity again, be able to tell this thing to someone who will listen to his words without judgement. There is a sense of freedom in it, a frantic relief that the secret stored for so long has finally been given its release. However as he gets to the end he hesitates again because he can't recall it without reliving the inseparable feelings that were bound up with it but he knows they don't want feelings, only the facts, the things that actually happened, and everything that did happen is lodged inside the crevices and hidden places of himself. His hands are shaking – he slips them under his thighs. He hears the quavering tremor in his voice and tries to steady himself. They will despise him if he shows himself weak, if he's less of a soldier, less of a man than them. And so he tells them it all, lets it pour out until there's nothing let expect shock at his own words and a slowly unwinding wake of silence that gradually fills the room.

Rollins gets up and pats him on the back. ‘You did well, Michael Very well. He did well, Ricky, didn't he?'

‘He did very well, Sean. No two ways about it.'

Rollins goes and sits down again. The two men look at each other and then stare at him. He waits for something to happen but no one speaks. There is the indistinct yammer of the television in the kitchen.

‘Expect, Michael, there are two ways about it after all,' Rollins says, leaning towards him on the chair. ‘And that's not the right way, son.'

He does't understand. He goes to speak but his mouth is dry and inside he feels a barren void opening up. He mouths something but no words come out.

‘It's all right, Michael, ‘ Rollins says, ‘it's all right, son.'

Stanfield wakes early and after the lightest of breakfasts takes his coffee to the small table and chair that look out over
the river. The river is a slow, almost motionless flow of grey and everything appears monochrome and imprecise like an old
out-of-focus photograph. On the table sit two letters, both sealed and stamped. He will post them as soon as the hearing is
over. One is his resignation and one a letter to Emma. The resignation was the easier and the quicker to write and in it he
gave up any thought of disguising his decision with a spurious claim to moral principle and instead explained it by citing
personal circumstances and implying that health issues had arisen. It's possible they will know the true reason but it's also
possible that the photographs exist in some underworld that never permeates the higher strata unless needs must. He also feels
a curious moral indifference to the photographs themselves, the absence of any sense of shame, and has looked at them only
once before destroying them. Despite it all, despite everything that has happened, he felt only a strong curiosity about the
girl and so she was the one he focused on. She must have known, been part of it right from the start, and yet when he studies
those eyes he tells himself that he can see nothing except what he hopes to see. As he shredded them he wanted to hold to
that belief and so he told himself that they used each other and there is nothing more to be said and no blame to attribute.
Even now if there was a way he would take her with him when he leaves.

And perhaps he really is ill, perhaps he has imbibed too many of the poisonous spores that filter through the airways of this
place. But soon he will be somewhere he can fill his lungs and breathe again. He thinks of his going as a period of convalescence,
a time when he can refind his old vigour before entering some new round of his life that will provide him with better nourishment
than this. Where he'll go he isn't sure but he imagines a flight to Geneva and a hired car to the French Alps – perhaps somewhere
like Chamonix and a good small hotel or an apartment and some skiing. Perhaps even some late sun in Morocco and a riad in
Marrakesh complete with courtyard and orange trees. He tries to find some consoling images that will fuel the day ahead but
as he looks out on the water below he sees no spark of colour or sheen of morning light that might ignite his imagination.
And he does feel unwell. His head is heavy and there's a gently rising swell of stress as he thinks of what stretches ahead.
Once more he has to become a ringmaster in a three-ring circus and this is the day when he must perform better than any other
day. He's probably ill and then he knows that what he feels, if such a thing can exist, is the withering of his heart and
he's angry and bitter that he should suffer such a thing, that such a thing should be visited on him. He has no belief in
punishment for sin, which he thinks of as only a convenient excuse for those too frightened to live, but this morning he feels
diminished and irrevocably less than himself.

There are two swans on the river, their drifting whiteness bright badges in the lour of grey. After watching them for a moment
he lifts the letter written to Emma. In it is the elegantly expressed lie that he did everything he could to help Maria Harper
followed by the truth that he wishes his daughter and her unborn child everything good in the world. He tells her that he's
resigning from the Commission and that he's going away for a while – it's a letter of farewell, a final letting go, and he
rewrote it many times late into the night to try and get it right but even now is unsure if it's what he wants to say. Sometimes
truth indeed has to be faced and he believes that there's only future grief if he doesn't accept that what Martine came to
feel for him has been transfused into their daughter's bloodstream and silts her veins with a bitterness for him that no passing
of time can assuage or ameliorate.

Stanfield stands and looks our for one last moment and then drains the last of his coffee before going to the bedroom and
laying out his dark suit on the bed.

Fenton has slept badly, breaking in and out of a shallow, dream-filled sleep. Even Miriam's restraining arm stretched protectively
over him had failed to calm him or restrain his constant search for respite. So in the morning he feels groggy and leaden
in thought and movement. Miriam has collected his Sunday suit from the drycleaner's and it hangs from the top of the wardrobe
door still in the polythene wrap. He hopes the shower will wake him and he takes longer than usual, turning slow circles of
himself. When he comes out Miriam is already downstairs and preparing breakfast. The previous night when she asked if she
could go with him he was almost angry that she should have even suggested it and told her that he's never let his job affect
his home life and he's not going to start now. He'll go and do whatever's required of him and then he'll come home and it'll
all be over for good. But as he sits at his breakfast he wishes it were the mountains he was going into where sometimes he
can walk for hours and not see another living thing except a raven or a distant windblown sheep.

Just before he's due to leave Miriam kisses him and tells him everything will be all right but as he starts his journey he
wants only to steer the car in the opposite direction or to be following Florian along the maze of trails towards his secret
hiding place in the woods. What will become of the boy? How could he let him go? He punishes himself by insisting that there
must be some way he could be brought out if only he had the ability to think of it. Once he finds himself looking in his mirror
because for a second, just for a second, he thinks the boy is behind him in the car. A boy who wants to build bridges that
span the widest rivers, a boy who can build what his imagination decrees, who learns things quickly. How can such a boy work
in the fields, ploughing and hoeing every last one of his dreams away? He feels the bitter frustration of it rising up before
him and darkening the days ahead. He tells himself he has to go back, that he has to find a way. And then he looks in the
mirror again and this time it's not Florian but the blue eyes of Connor Walshe he sees. The eyes are more delicate than any
other part of him. A light shade of blue, cleaner and lighter than all the things that cling sourly to him. The face and body
are thin boned and thin ribbed. Even in the car he shivers against the wind that always seems able to stab through the skimpy
layers of sportswear he dresses in and once more there's the smell that slowly permeates from him as if he's climbed his way
into existence from some underworld. The memory of the boy courses through his consciousness even after he looks in the mirror
and blinks his physical presence out of the car. He thinks of the final phone call – the spreading, thickening silence so
tangible that he could feel it on his skin. Somewhere far beyond the reach of sight, beyond the reach of love, lies the boy's
pale moon face. He thinks he hears him whimper like the way he did that first time. There's nothing he can do – it's too late
now and part of everything that's too late to change with no way to alter the course of a trajectory that feels like a shooting
star bursting through from another time, another universe, before it burns up and extinguishes itself in the hidden folds
of memory. His phone rings and his heart kicks against his chest but he doesn't answer it and instead tries to shrug himself
back to the moment by switching on the distraction of the radio.

When he reaches Police Headquarters he shows the pass that's been given to him and parks in the allocated space, then as arranged
he meets his Federation adviser and his legal representative, George Anderson. Part of him thinks them unnecessary and if
it weren't for the promise he made to Miriam he would dispense with them because he just wants to say his piece and be gone,
let those who took the boy face the spotlight and acknowledge their guilt. When they greet him he's polite but restrained
and after some last-minute detail about procedure they go to the unmarked car that waits with its driver and personal protection
officer who's been allocated to him for the duration of the hearing and start the drive to the city centre. No one speaks
and without knowing why he feels embarrassed to be in the car. The driver and the personal protection officer are both unknown
to him and despite their quiet respect he knows he means nothing to them and they have no knowledge of the service he has
given or the reputation he has. Once he tries to make a joke, say something that shows he knows what it's like on the inside,
but in his own ears it only sounds like an embarrassment and so he sits in silence for the rest of the journey. As they reach
the city centre Young turns to him and says, ‘Don't get out of the car until Ross opens the door and stay close to him on
the way in. Don't speak to anyone on the way in, especially anyone from the press, but if there's photographers or a camera
crew, keep your head up and look straight ahead. Don't talk to anyone on the way out either – keep everything for the Commission.'
The traffic has slowed now as they find themselves not far from their destination. ‘At the start of the hearing George will
make a request for your evidence to be heard in private. The Commissioner will have already consulted with the family and
most likely they'll insist on it being public. It's a waste of time but it's important we keep making the point that we should
be entitled to the protection of a private hearing. Isn't that right, George?'

George looks up from his papers, places them in his briefcase and nods, then says, ‘And, James, try to stick to the outline
we've gone over. Try to avoid wandering off the agreed outline. Least said is usually best. Cool, direct, factual. Sympathetic
is good, of course. Don't splash names around or be led into offering opinions on things you don't need to have an opinion
on. Everything has to be answered but sometimes the answer is you don't know or you don't have that information.' He drums
his fingers on the hard surface of his briefcase. Fenton glances at it and sees it has a combination lock as if it contains
valuables. ‘It'll be over before you know it. A bit like the dentist's.'

‘I've given evidence in courts before,' Fenton says.

‘Of course you have,' Young says. ‘And it'll not be a problem for you. Like falling off a log.'

‘Except this isn't a court and that doesn't make things simpler but more difficult,' George says. ‘No one has to be proved
guilty. People have to admit their own guilt, put the truth in their own words, and when you're up there we don't have the
normal protection of the law to fall back on. It can be an exposed place, James.'

‘But we're here for you,' Young insists, shooting his colleague a critical glance. ‘Shoulder to shoulder.'

Fenton turns his gaze away and watches the crowds on the pavements and for a moment envies their preoccupation with daily
journeys and mundane rituals that he thinks now he would gladly exchange for the day that awaits him.

‘Shoulder to shoulder,' Young says again, as if he believes that through their repetition the words might suddenly solidify
in the air and form a protective shield around them.

Michael Madden looks at the dark suit on the bed. It makes him think of funerals and as he touches the material it feels as
if on this coming day he must bury something. Just maybe that can be done but he knows the words he has to use will bury the
future as well so he can't bring himself to put it on. Pulling his hand away he goes to the window and looks out on the morning.
In the field the horses move languidly towards the furthest hedge, the flick of their tails the only sign of animation. When
they get there they graze and then one lays its head across the other's neck. Why must he do this thing? Why does he have
to pronounce judgment on himself? They'll listen and think he's walked away, clutching his amnesty, and not one of them can
know the price he'll pay or the sentence he'll have invoked on his future. He thinks of Connor Walshe and the members of his
family who'll be there staring at him and he hears a voice say that this is the price that has to be paid and that because
they've had to wait so long to hear the truth they're entitled to interest. The payment of that interest they'll never know,
never receive in their hands, but it'll be real enough.

He looks at his watch and sees that time's passing so he goes again to the suit. It feels, too, that if he's to put it on
he'll immediately become someone else and it's followed by a surge of self-pity which begins with him saying that he's not
a bad person, that what he did was done in a different time and in a different world that's a far-off one he stumbled into
accidentally, pulled into its orbit by forces beyond his power to resist. If there was any way to change what happened he
would grasp it with both hands, wiiatever it cost him, but he can't bring himself to accept that what now seems like something
that happened in a dream, or in a remote and distant land, should have the ability to destroy what he's built for himself.
He thinks of parallel universes, of miscarriages of justice and cases of mistaken identity, because whoever he was back then
bears no connection to who he is now. Nothing remains, not even the name, so let them do this thing to who he was then, but
let who he is now walk away.

He thinks, too, of Arnie out on the lake in the early morning, almost hidden in the soft mist-laden wrap of light. He thinks
of the big houses on its shore as they slowly burnish into life and their staff stoke the fires of the day ahead; the gardens
that sweep down to the reed-ringed shore and from where their jetties reach out into the still sleeping water. Gardens that
need men to manicure them. He knows he could make a success of it if only he's given the chance and that he'll work all
the hours of daylight to make a go of it, break his back in the heat of the day. But he thinks, too, of the dying shopping
mall and remembers the sad fragility of its dreams, the echoing emptiness of its stores and walkways. Perhaps all he's ever
been is a dreamer and now it's time for dreams to fade into the inescapable examination of the reality this day will bring.