The Truth Commissioner

by David Park

  Afterwards as he soaked in a salted bath, Miriam had scolded him for his supposed recklessness, for his selfishness in going alone when he could enjoy the safety and company of others. When she saw the yellow belt of bruising she had complained, ‘I didn’t survive thirty years of being a policeman’s wife to be widowed by a mountain.’

  ‘Think of the pension and the insurance policies,’ he had tried to joke, ‘and sure couldn’t you go out and find yourself a younger husband,’ but she hadn’t responded to his humour so he didn’t tell her that he had tried walking with the other recently retired officers but hadn’t enjoyed it. There was something too forced in the nostalgia, the constant banter that deprived of its context seemed, to him at least, to be meaningless, and their loud laughter in the sanctity of the mountains in his ears sounded like laughter in church. He has affection and respect for them but the past is the past and he feels a need to strike out alone at this new stage of his life. He looks up again at the mountain. At 2,796 feet it’s hardly Everest but he wonders what Alec will make of it, wonders, too, why he has suddenly phoned him up and asked if they could do a walk together and knows already that it will not be merely a social call. He smiles as he thinks of how he will make this young man, who has now acquired his former post on a fraction of the experience, climb a mountain before he’s given his chance to reveal the reason for his presence. But there’s no particularly strong curiosity about the reason as he carefully ties and knots his laces – probably advice on some aspect of the job, some inside track or information on an unsolved case that someone temporarily deems it politically expedient to reopen. Fenton dislikes the label ‘unsolved case’ because in his experience there were very few that were unsolved but rather some where the evidence didn’t exist or people were not prepared to say in public what they’d told him in private. Whatever it was, he doesn’t particularly welcome the intrusion of his former life into his present one.

  Like all his generation he has accepted the pension and the pay-off deals that were too generous to be refused, even though it stuck in his throat to have to acknowledge that he was considered part of the corporate embarrassment, part of a past that had to be quietly replaced. At times he feels it as a bitterness to have the service he has given, everything that has been sacrificed, swept away with a quick thank you and a cheque but he could live with it if he was able, as he believed he would be, to put it all behind him. But it’s been a failure because despite everything, despite his active days, the involvement with his church and the Romanian orphange, it feels as if nothing has been shed, that nothing has left him. It’s there in his dreams, in the snatches of conversation that replay constantly in his head as if on a loop, in the sudden sour taste in his mouth and all of which seem able to clutch his consciousness at will and squeeze out the life of the present and deaden any vision of the future. Sometimes he blames the absence of children in his marriage and believes that it diminishes his ability to move on. After thirty-five years of marriage to Miriam they have reached a kind of plateau where they continue to care for each other but lead self-contained lives, always busy – perhaps as a distraction for the absence that leaves an unresolved and instinctively agreed, inexpressible sense of loss lingering indelibly below the surface.

  She had said that she would come with him on the next trip when he will drive a van full of supplies to a small orphanage in the north-west of Romania but he knows now it is unlikely and he doesn’t mind. Recently she has spent more of her time looking after her declining father who has become increasingly dependent on her. She’s been at her best in this care, generous in her time and giving of herself, and he knows, too, that the journey to the orphanage is exhausting and not the type of roughing it that she finds easy. Anyway, he will be happier on his own with all those thousands of impersonal, anonymous miles opening up before him. He has started to think, also, that next year he needs to go on a private journey, go away somewhere and come back whole and fresh, ready to move on. Sometimes he feels like an old boat, his keel barnacled and coated with the debris of the sea. There are secret brochures in the house – one of them is for a walking holiday in the foothills of the Himalayas. It would be a trip of a lifetime but he’s a naturally cautious man with money and everything else and part of him feels it might be selfish to spend so much on himself. Still to breathe in clean air, to fill his lungs and really breathe deep, to look up at distant mountains and see the whiteness of the snowy peaks stretch as far as the eye can see … What price on that?

  He gets out of the car and lifts his rucksack and the boots he has coated with dubbin the night before. There’s a smell of leather as he checks the rucksack to make sure it contains everything it should. Although he likes to walk alone, he’s not foolish and sticks to the well-worn paths, always carrying sensible equipment, including provision for an emergency. Two elderly women walk past him, their weatherbeaten faces and classically correct gear testimony to their experience. Only the small dog scampering at their feet seems a frivolity against their textbook austerity. He puts his boots on carefully, checking that his socks are smooth and flat and won’t produce a blister, then fastens the buckles on the rucksack.

  A red BMW sweeps into the car park. Without seeing the driver he knows it’s Alec and despite his impatience has to admit that in reality he’s only a few minutes late. He watches him park and walk towards him. He’s put on a little weight, lost a little hair, but he still has that trademark boyish face that has the ability always to appear lightened by good humour and the suggestion of openness. It was this disarming quality that led others, though never himself, to embrace him easily, blissfully unaware that it masked a tough ambition and a desire for the rewards of success. Lucky enough, too, to be in the right place at the right time, the perfect candidate with a good degree, youth and most importantly of all – no baggage. Of all the people Alec had quietly studied, he knew he had been observed the most and behind that bland facade was a mind garnering everything that might be useful in the future. But Fenton bears no grudges, so as he stretches out his hand to the approaching, smiling man, his gesture is sincere.

  ‘Good to see you, James,’ Alec says, shaking his hand enthusiastically. ‘Retirement looks good on you.’

  ‘I’m staying busy,’ he replies, using his set response when the issue is raised.

  ‘Everybody’s asking about you, send their best. Specially Briggsy. The retired officers have a great social thing going – walks, talks, special events, you name it. I know they’d love to see you turn up for one of them.’

  ‘How is everybody?’ he asks, registering the fine lines spreading at the sides of his eyes. It’s the habit of a lifetime, noting faces. The light lines on his pale skin are like sand washed over by water.

  ‘Charlie’s got a job advising on bank security – after the Northern job, shutting the stable door. Michael’s taken a post with a chain store and Andy’s been to the Palace to get his gong. Believe it or not Minty Morris is in Iraq training the police. As if they haven’t got enough problems of their own. And get this, I don’t know if you heard, but Norman’s taken a job with Iceland doing home deliveries. Says it’s the best job he’s ever had but I think he’s talking about all those lonely housewives he delivers to.’

  ‘Could prove more dangerous than his job in the police.’

  ‘Oh and if you’re thinking of ever going to Florida, get in touch with Montgomery – he’s bought some properties down in Clearwater. Will rent one out to you at a good price.’

  He watches Alec turn and then lift his gear out of the boot of his car. Everything looks as if it was in a shop window five minutes earlier. He puts on a fleece and zips it to the throat.

  ‘So we’re really going up there?’ he asks.

  ‘You’ve never been to the top of Donard before?’ Alec shakes his head. ‘Well we’re going to the top – you’ll like it.’ He watches him take an envelope out of his pocket and hand it to him. ‘What’s this?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s a cheque. Be
fore I forget. The boys in work had a bit of a whip-round and there was a golf outing brought some in. It’s for the orphanage.’

  Fenton looks at the cheque and says thanks, tells him it’ll be put to good use. It’s for a thousand pounds and he hasn’t expected it but as he carefully places it in a zip pocket he doesn’t let it throw him off guard. Alec asks predictable questions but Fenton feels a shallowness in their exchange and soon after they set off thin stretches of silence settle. He checks the sky and tells himself that he sees an edge of blue trying to sneak into the grey and smiles to himself when he thinks of the high price his companion’s feet will pay if, indeed, his boots are brand spanking new.

  The Glen River is blocked from their view at the start by trees and shrubbery but the throaty gurgling of the water emphasises their own silence and inevitably Alec seeks to break it with enquiries after Miriam or to share some piece of news he thinks might be of interest. They pass through woodland of pine, fir and larch, and the necessity of walking in single file momentarily precludes the possibility of speech. The path they follow is a rough and stony track affording them glimpses of the white tumble of water until they cross a couple of bridges and on the opposite bank of the river walk alongside the section where it is shepherded and channelled through narrow chicanes by the large slabs of granite. They pass the exact spot where he fell but he says nothing and for the first time he takes pleasure at hearing the younger man’s broken breathing.

  It’s not possible yet to see the mountaintop even when they break out into the open spaces of the glen, which is shadowed on one side by forest. The white path is crumbly and bare underfoot and occasionally they meet walkers corning in the opposite direction. He watches how Alec gives even a passing stranger the benefit of his charm and he remembers the young woman whose face was flushed against the whiteness of the snow, how her breath streamed like smoke, and he wishes that there was always snow on the mountains. After a while they pause and he takes a flask out of his rucksack and offers Alec a cold drink, watches him slug it greedily, then they head on towards the stone-ridged path that will carry them up the rising slope to the dramatic gap that links Donard and its neighbouring mountain, Slieve Commedagh. As they commence their climb, a heathery vista sweeps away below them and Fenton knows that with each step the mountains make you feel smaller, less significant, and he wonders what is spinning round his companion’s head. They clamber up across the bare swathes of earth that are pitted with rocky outcrops and head for the stone wall that follows the contours of the Mournes. Alec slumps against it, obviously desperate for the rest as his breathing breaks in shallow rasps.

  ‘How did they get these stones up here?’ he asks as his hand traces the boulders in the wall.

  ‘Some job all right. And look how steep it is up there.’

  Alec turns his head to the section of wall that leads the way to the summit. ‘And that’s where we’re going?’ he asks.

  ‘You up to it?’

  ‘A few minutes’ rest and I’ll be right as rain,’ he says, pulling up the collar of his fleece as he feels the colder air beginning to snake around him.

  ‘You need to watch your health, Alec. It’s a hard job to stay healthy in – too much riding round in cars all day or sitting in over-heated offices with computers and fluorescent lights blasting you. Too many snatched meals.’

  ‘Maybe I should sign up for the bicycle squad – have you heard about them? A couple of guys patrol the city centre on bikes – apparently volunteered for it. Can’t imagine the stick they must get about it.’

  ‘We’ll go to the top when we’ve had something to eat. It’ll only take another half an hour. Have you got anything in that rucksack?’

  ‘A Mars Bar, a packet of crisps and a bottle of Fanta.’

  ‘Just as well I made extra then,’ Fenton says, pouring two cups of steaming tea and opening a plastic container of cheese sandwiches.

  They huddle tightly against the wall, their backs pressed in whatever niche they can find, their rucksacks pulled like blankets against their knees. Fenton knows now that it’s almost time to let the mountain hear what it is has made Alec come all this way. He feels safest hearing it here, hoping that whatever it is will fritter and fragment in the face of the mountain’s indifferent magnitude, that whatever it is will seem small and inconsequential, quickly blown away by the rising wind.

  ‘So, Alec, why are you here? You didn’t come just to admire the view.’

  ‘Is it so obvious?’ he asks, cupping his tea in both hands for warmth.

  ‘I haven’t gone senile since I retired.’

  ‘I know. But it’s not an easy one.’

  ‘So it’s bad then?’ Fenton asks.

  ‘It’s not good, it’s not good.’

  ‘Well, you’ve had plenty of practice in giving people bad news. Comes with the territory, doesn’t it?’

  ‘This is personal. I’m not giving it to a stranger – makes it harder.’

  Fenton looks up at the dropping, scouring cloud that he knows will rob them of the view from the top then watches a raven sharpen its wings against the cutting edge of the wind.

  ‘Tell me,’ he says quietly and finally.

  ‘In a couple of weeks’ time you will be called to appear before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. It will be the case of Connor Walshe – the boy whose body has never been found.’

  ‘Why are they calling me?’ Fenton asks. ‘What can I tell them?’

  ‘The family want to know the circumstances surrounding his disappearance. They want to know as much as possible about what led up to it and what happened to him. They want some form of closure.’

  ‘We all know what happened to him,’ Fenton says angrily. ‘The IRA said he was a tout and shot him, then disposed of his body somewhere. How will that help them find closure? And what about my closure? When am I allowed to walk away and put it all behind me?’

  Fenton stands up and leans against the wall, pushing at the bottom stones with his foot.

  ‘Sit down, James, I have to talk to you.’

  ‘There’s more?’

  ‘Yes, there’s more,’ Alec says but falls silent while a couple of walkers pass them. This time he does not look up or make eye contact with them. ‘This is very difficult and you’re not going to like it but I’ve been asked to talk to you by important people.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘People I don’t know and don’t want to know. Men in suits, the heavy brigade … I don’t know.’

  ‘And what do these people want you to tell me?’

  His companion hesitates. ‘They don’t want Gilroy’s name mentioned. They want him kept out of the frame.’

  ‘Kept out of the frame? It was Gilroy who killed the boy. He may not be the one who pulled the trigger but he was the one who gave the order, the one who arranged it.’ At first there’s no answer and Fenton watches him pick up some white pebbles and throw them aimlessly. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t look too good, even in this crazy country, if the Minister for Children had a child’s blood on his suit. Just maybe some people would think that wasn’t quite right.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Let me get this right,’ Fenton insists, his anger bursting open so that his words hammer home like hailstones. ‘They took the badge, they took the name, any kind of respect that was owed, and now they want to take the truth and twist it into whatever shape they think suits them best?’

  ‘It’s hard to grasp,’ Alec says. I don’t claim to fully understand it but it’s got to do with protecting the institutions, safeguarding the future. With bringing people inside the system and making sure they stay there. Trying to build something better than we had in the past.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘I don’t know what I believe but listen, James, these are important people and this is important to them. They could make things difficult.’

  Fenton stands up again, his face pinched and white in the cold. ‘You listen: I’ve had a lifetime of bei
ng threatened by thugs, of looking under my car every day, so I’m not scared of a bunch of public-school boys. Who are they? MI5? MI6?’

  ‘I don’t know who they are but they could help you, too. They know about the work you do for the orphanage.’

  ‘They told you to say that?’

  ‘They don’t say anything directly – the words just slip out the sides of their mouths and hang in the air. They leave you to piece it all together, work out what they mean.’

  Fenton walks from the wall with his face upwards and lets the wind stream against it. His eyes catch the raven drifting and free-falling in a great wheeling arc. He throws the dregs from his cup then walks back to where his companion is now standing.

  ‘I’ve never asked anything of you, Alec,’ he says, ‘and there’s been times when I’ve helped you so I’m asking you now – if there’s any way of me not appearing before the Commission I want you to find it, do whatever you can to find it. Will you do that?’