The Truth Commissioner

by David Park

  That night after everything is over he takes his short walk to the restaurant. It’s no more than a couple of hundred yards but he almost looks forward to it. The cold night serves to stir him awake after the stuffy overheated chamber where no matter how low they try to set the heating there is always a flushed and stifling charge that sparks the air. And there is no air – it’s as if those who appear before the Commission consume it all in their broken breathing and floundering, painful need as they drown in their own sorrow. Now it’s the hour when the city changes shift and those who work in it abandon it to those who use it for pleasure. There are too many people about to feel threatened, but there’s still the slight nervousness of the wealthy walking in a city where there are many poor, and he injects his step with a sense of self-confidence and quiet authority to ward off any lurking danger. And there are always pretty women to catch his eye – he’s been grudgingly forced to admit that the city has its fair share. Sometimes if one meets his gaze he fantasises about stopping her and persuading her to join him in a restaurant more expensive than she’s probably used to and advising her on the menu and explaining to her about wine. But whatever pleasure he momentarily devises for himself is soon vanquished by the imposition of reality and the vision of a solitary meal and afterwards there’s not even the prospect of Kristal’s company to console him. His last two phone calls have solicited a polite statement that she’s not available and his subsequent questions received no further elaboration than the information that she was away at present. And no he doesn’t want someone else. Surely he might have expected her to say something if she was going away, even if it was no more than a professional courtesy. He turns the possibilities over in his mind but there’s always one more unknown than he’s able to assimilate. He’s forced to admit, however unlikely and indeed foolishly, that he’s grown fond of her and he consoles himself that perhaps her absence will only be a short one.

  His sense of irritation is exacerbated when he enters the restaurant and sees two men sitting at his table. They’re wearing dark suits and one is perusing the wine list. Stanfield looks round the restaurant and sees other empty tables that might just as easily have accommodated two diners. His unspoken question to the maitre d’ is answered with an apology and a slightly perplexed hunch of the shoulders but when he leads him to a table it’s to his normal one and the same one that now has two other people sitting at it.

  Before he can say anything the older of the two men stands up and greets him with a handshake.

  ‘Good evening, Henry,’ he says in a voice that Stanfield immediately associates with a particular kind of breeding, its plummy richness redolent of public schools and public service. ‘So sorry to drop in on you like this unannounced but it seemed a good opportunity for us to meet again.’

  ‘We’ve met before?’ Stanfield asks, staring at his face. Out of the corner of his eye he detects a thin sneer on the lips of the younger man whose cropped haircut is curiously out of sync with the expensive cut of his suit.

  ‘I think so. Some time ago. I was working for the Foreign Office at the time of the Balkan trouble. It was only briefly – don’t expect you to remember, hardly do myself. Messy business. Please sit down – I’m told the food is rather good here.’

  ‘Not bad at all,’ Stanfield says, suddenly conscious that something is happening to him but uncertain what it is and conscious also that he feels a sense of volition that is not entirely under his own control. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Sorry: of course. I’m Michael Walters and this is William.’

  For the first time he looks at the younger man who stares at him with the same smirk and rudeness of intensity that annoys Stanfield into saying, ‘And does William have a second name?’

  ‘Just William I think might be best for the present,’ Walters says.

  As the waiter arrives and takes a drink order Stanfield thinks of Richmal Crompton books and midnight feasts in the dorm. For a second he thinks Walters might order a ginger beer but he sees something darken in the younger man’s eyes. He looks back to Walters’s hands with their long effeminate fingers, neatly manicured nails and the two rings he wears. Walters orders a gin and tonic and a beer for his friend who has not yet spoken. Without being asked he also orders Stanfield a bottle of his normal wine.

  ‘So who are you?’ Stanfield asks again. ‘And what do you want?’ Already he has a bad feeling about this.

  ‘I think we’ve introduced ourselves,’ Walters says, smiling thinly at him.’And we just want to talk some things over.’

  You work for the Foreign Office?’ Stanfield asks.

  ‘Not quite. but same firm.if you understand me.’

  ‘I think I’d like to see some identification, be given some explanation as to whywe’re here talking to each other.’

  ‘Best to keep this purely social,dont’t you think. No real necessity to me you can contact me on this number.’ He hands Stanfield what looks like a particularly plain business card containing only his name and a phone number.

  ‘Look,I dont’t know what this is all about but if you dont’t mind I’m going to leave now and when I call him, my police driver will be here in a few minutes.’

  Standfiels stands up as if to go and fumbles in his pocket for his phone but as he does so the younger man jeans across the table and says in a low voice that resonates with threat, ‘Sit down. Henry, and dont’ act the prick.’

  ‘William,’ Walters says in a tone that suggests he is gently reprimanding a naughty schoolboy, ‘no need for rudeness.’ Then he stands up and gestures Stanfield to his seat. ‘Please, Henry, I don’t think Beckett will mind a little more time in the car, do vou?’

  Stanfield slumps back into just as the waiter arrives with the drinks. The younger man deelines a glass and puts the bottle to his mouth. Walters looks at Stanfield and rolls his eyes. But Stanfield knows already that despite the mock disdain, the older man views the younger with something that approximate affection. A waiter comes to take their order but Walters taps his companion’s arm and says, ‘Why dont’t you take a seat at the bar, William? We’ll call you if we need you.’ William’s face assumes a momentary look of hurt but he glowers only at Stanfield before wearily lifting his body slowly from the chair and going to the bar where he immediately lights a cigarette. ‘No point wasting good things on William, I’m afraid he doesn’t have a very cultivated sense of the finer things of life.’

  They know who he is, they know about Beckett, but who they are or what their purpose is remains unclear to Stanfield. He has no recollection of ever having met Walters but now he discusses the menu with the waiter and offers opinions to Stanfield as if they are old friends about to share a meal at their club. He orders only a starter, claiming that he doesn’t want to intrude any longer on Stanfield’s evening than is absolutely necessary. Stanfield orders quickly and when he’s finished he glances up to the bar where in the expanse of mirror he catches the younger man’s leering stare. For a second he returns it and then sees William’s hand slowly point at him in the glass. It’s meant as a gesture of menace and Stanfield feels it as it’s intended and for a second it insults him that he should suffer such a third-rate little cliche of a threat. The indignity makes him angry.

  ‘In what zoo did you find him?’ he asks Walters, pointing with his wine glass.

  ‘Please don’t mind William,’ Walters says, ‘his enthusiasm sometimes makes him a little bold. Not quite the right type but in these troubled times, sometimes useful, I’m afraid. Please forgive any rudeness – I’m sure it’s not intentional.’

  ‘I was appointed personally by the Prime Minister,’ Stan­field says and then regrets that he’s felt compelled to assert his status so blatantly. He needs to match Walters’s self-controlled and apparent casualness of tone, not betray his mounting nervousness so openly.

  ‘Indeed you were and a well-deserved appointment. You’ve managed to build up quite an impressive CV in relation to some of the world’s troubled spots. So tell me
, how do you feel the Commission is going?"

  Stanfield feels a sense of relief. Perhaps the purpose of the meeting is simply to gain some insights into his judgement on the process, to unofficially pick his brains about the way forward, but as he glances to the bar again where a wreath of smoke garlands the younger man’s head and he thinks of the circumstances of their meeting, this relief wavers. His suspicions are increased by the awareness that Walters isn’t really listening and is more intent on exploring the artistic creation that is framed on his white, square-shaped plate. When Stanfield pauses for a second it is to hear Walters say, ‘Terribly good, and yours?’

  ‘What is it you want?’ Stanfield asks, resolutely setting his knife and fork down on the table.

  ‘A pity business always intrudes in the end,’ Walters says, replicating Stanfield’s actions. ‘It would have been quite nice to enjoy a civilised meal – I haven’t had that pleasure recently. It’s not quite the culinary capital of Europe, is it?’

  ‘It’s not the capital of Europe in any regard,’ Stanfield says.

  ‘Perhaps only in creating a sordid little mess and then expecting others to bail it out – it’s very good at that. I think we’re all a little tired of it: it’s time to move on. Except the one problem I find here is that they will give up anything – their wives, their money, their self-respect – before they’ll give up their past. And that makes constructing the future a little difficult, as you can imagine. Do you understand, Henry?’

  ‘What is it you want from me?"

  Walters pauses as if a student in his class had just asked him a difficult question and he needed time to consider. ‘Well, Henry, I suppose, in a nutshell, we need you to help build that future.’

  ‘The Commission is an independent body,’ Stanfield asserts. ‘It stands free from political bias and pressure from any source. That ineiependence is crucial to the process. I’m not sure we should be having this conversation or where exactly it’s leading.’

  Walters’s smile almost evolves into a snigger but he holds up a hand in a gesture of appeasement. ‘Of course, Henry, of course. I understand completely. But sometimes in life you have to see the bigger picture. It’s not an attribute we can universally expect but you are a cultured, intelligent man.’ He pauses, ‘A man who could go on to very great things indeed.’ Then he looks at Stanfield and nods slowly.

  ‘I can’t be bought,’ Stanfield says and then thinks it makes him sound like an actor in a film built on some tedious little tale of a moral dilemma and suspects also that despite its rhetoric they both know it’s patently untrue.

  ‘That’s a pity, Henry – a real pity – because I always thought of you as a man who might be amenable to seeing the broader picture, who might help achieve what was clearly in everyone’s best interests.’

  ‘And what is the broader picture?’

  ‘Well that depends really, doesn’t it. You see it’s quite liable to change from time to time, even from day to day, in ways that we might not quite expect. There’s only one thing that’s certain and that is that we’re leaving. Not today and perhaps not tomorrow but within a foreseeable future and you see, the problem is, Henry, we can’t tip our hats goodbye until the bricks are in place to hold the house together. So as you might also appreciate we need people like you on occasions to understand this broader picture, to have the necessary vision.’

  Stanfield smiles briefly – it almost amuses him that Walters should use the word vision when they both know that what he really means is people who will close their eyes at the required time and because he understands now what it is that they want from him. As Walters goes on speaking in his delicate, gossamer riddles Stanfield feels a dislocation from the moment. He thinks of Maria Harper, he thinks of Emma and sees again the naive earnestness of their faces. What can they ever know of the world’s realities? What can they ever guess lies beyond the reach of their simplistic sincerity?

  ‘And this is an official or a personal view that you’re giving me?’ Stanfield asks.

  ‘Who can know these things? Wheels within wheels – that sort of thing. Pointless to worry about where ideas start. The only thing that’s certain is that if it works out, a politician will claim it.’

  ‘So what if I walk away now and ring the politicians or the press and relay this discussion?’ Stanfield asks, feeling the first tremble of fear.

  ‘Most unwise and I’m sure when you’ve had time to reflect you’ll see the foolishness of that idea. But I don’t want to drone on all evening and distract you from your meal, so I’ll let William sort out some details.’ He delicately dabs the corners of his mouth then stands up and smooths the front of his jacket before raising his hand lightly in farewell.

  Stanfield watches his steady walk through the restaurant and then at his companion’s back still hunched over the bar. Their eyes meet once more in the glass but this time Stanfield sees nothing in his watcher’s eyes except perhaps a grey glimmer of tiredness. Stanfield is uncertain about what he should do and then after a few minutes he sees him stub his cigarette out with a curious twisting movement of his wrist and come towards him. Now he’s close enough for Stanfield to see the light blink of disdain in his eyes and just for a second he thinks of the shiny sleekness of the shark coming alongside the boat and he shivers a little. When he sits down there is a thin smirk on his lips.

  ‘All right, Henry? he says. ‘The old lad’s a bit of a tosser, isn’t he? Past his sell-by date if you know what I mean.’ Stanfield nods non-committally and lifts the wine glass in an attempt to appear nonchalant. ‘You like your wine, don’t you, Henry? In fact you like a lot of expensive things. I admire your taste.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Stanfield says, ‘I’m glad it meets your approval.’

  ‘Oh yes it does, Henry. I like a man with good taste. Sometimes in my line of work I have to deal with people who have very poor taste and some who have no taste at all.’

  ‘So what is your line of work?’ Stanfield asks.

  ‘Well there’s some would say that I’m the monkey and Mr Walkers is the organ grinder but it they were to say that directly to me, I’d take offence – know what I mean?’ Stanfield nods again – he has a feeling that the less he says to this person the better it might be. ‘Now you’ve heard what Mr Walkers had to say, Henry, and he’s one of the smartest men I’ve ever met, even if he is a bit of a tosser sometimes, so my advice is to pay good attention to him.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’ Stanfield utters the words before he’s had a chance to determine whether it was a good thing to say or not. And at first there’s no reply as the man leans back on his chair and takes a theatrical little intake of breath. Then he slowly reaches inside his jacket pocket and just for one ludicrous second Stanfield thinks he’s he’s going to be shot but what is produced is a brown envelope that is dropped dismissively in the middle of table.

  ‘This is what happens, Henry. You get screwed. Big time.’

  ‘Stanfield lifts the envelope, trying hard not to let his hand shake. Inside are photographs. They’re taken in the hotel room that first time with Kristal. As realisation floods in he tries to hold his face impassively and he flicks the photographs with an attempted display of indifference.

  ‘Lovely girl that Kristal. Quality goods. You did all right there, my son.’ Then stretching across the table he points to one and says, ‘That’s my favourite.’

  Stanfield feels a sickness welling up in his stomach but tries to hold himself together. It feels like he’s on that boat again and the man opposite him is the captain steering him into a dark and deepening sea. He wants to be sick, he wants to go back and place his feet on sure ground. But all he can do now is slide the photographs back in the envelope and wordlessly toss them back on the table.

  ‘No, Henry, you keep them. They’re a good reminder and maybe you’ll still be able to get a thrill on some dark and lonely night.’

  ‘What is it you want me to do?’ he asks, but as he slips the envelope quickly into his
inside jacket pocket he already knows the answer.

  Gilroy Isn’t sure whether the tiredness is in his head or his body but after the wedding he feels empty, drained of whatever used to sustain him from one day to the next. Something he took so much for granted that he doesn’t even know its name has deserted him. In every speech he makes, every soundbite for the radio or television, he speaks of the future but increasingly he wants to lie down in the comfort of the past; but not his own one, instead it’s a past shaped and nurtured by his imagination where his life is divested of all its complications and responsibilities. And in it he’s a family man with all his children safely round him. So they sit at a kitchen table and talk about their day and jokes and laughter are passed with the food and holidays are planned. Gilroy isn’t a religious man any more but in his dream the meal always begins with him saying a grace and when he’s finished the children chorus amen and Marie lifts her head and smiles at him.

  Sometimes in his lowest moments he tries to pray but he has no sense of the words going anywhere beyond the tightening confines of his own need and sometimes the words get mixed up with lines and phrases of poetry. He wonders if a poem can be a prayer. ‘The Poet Laureate’ is what Ricky has started to call him after his wedding speech. He feels a squirm of embarrassed nervousness at the memory – did he make a fool of himself? Or did he say the things that although illusive and only vaguely glimpsed he wanted to say? He shall never know because amidst the congratulations and back-slapping afterwards, he could find no indisputable witness to the truth in anyone’s face. He remembers how one old comrade told him how good it was to hear someone quote Larkin again before he slowly realised that he thought the words were from James Larkin, the Labour leader.

  Never before has Gilroy felt his life so full of words and so depleted of those that carry meaning. Some days it feels he’s wearing a straitjacket or his brain is clamped in a vice. He wants a new way to speak; he wants whatever’s still ahead of him to be lived in a different way. As he sits in the armchair and stares at an afternoon quiz show on the television he feels himself slowly slipping into a doze. At first, as his head jerks awake, he tries to fight it but knows that resistance is futile and then he meekly surrenders.