To Kill The Truth

by Sam Bourne

  She was back on the bus, her eyes closed. She was exhausted, though she would find the strength to do it all over again if she had to. She had been giving at least one of these talks every week for nearly twenty years, sometimes two or three. She had to. They all felt the obligation, the survivors, or at least the ones she knew. They were all so old. In a decade, give or take, they’d all be gone. What if the memory of the Holocaust were to die with them? Who would be left to tell the truth?

  If she hadn’t dozed off, would she have noticed the woman on the bus who had been watching her since she had waved goodbye to the headteacher at the school? Would she have even given her a second glance? Judith Beaton had experienced much in her eighty-seven years, but she was no spy and no soldier. She had no idea what to look for.

  So she had not seen that this woman had followed her into the underground station, onto the platform and onto the train, keeping just far enough away to remain out of view. She had not seen her get off the train a couple of seconds after Judith. She had not seen her hang back at the bus stop, taking care to board last. She did not see her now, watching and waiting.

  Judith woke up just in time for her stop, gathering her bag and stepping through the buggies and mothers glued to their phones to climb off. It was nearly dark; she had to watch her step. But she made it. Habit made her check her bag, to see that the bread roll was still there. She was not four minutes from her front door and, behind it, her kitchen and fridge, both fully stocked. But the habit had never left her. As she would have told the children if they had asked: once you’ve known real hunger, you will never risk knowing it again.

  She took the stairs upward, another habit that had refused to loosen its grip all these years later. The lift might be quicker and easier, but it was a confined space and those were to be avoided.

  Besides, there was no hurry. There was ample time to stop on each landing, to pause and catch her breath. By the time she had got to the third floor, it would have been an effort to say hello to the woman who had appeared just behind her or, given that she did not recognize her, to ask her if she was lost and did she need any help, dear?

  But, as it happened, there was no opportunity for such pleasantries, nor even to notice the woman make a small, fleeting movement – more a nervous tic than a gesture – as she briefly reached for and rubbed her left eyebrow. For the woman came up from behind and, in a swift, practised movement, placed a handkerchief over Judith’s mouth, so that she could make no sound. Then, in an equally efficient move, she pulled her backward so that the old woman’s back was against the bannister. After that, it was a simple pivot, requiring next to no force. Gravity took care of the rest, sending Judith Beaton to the bottom of the stairwell.

  For Judith, the shock and the terror lasted only two seconds, three at most. Even then, as she plunged through the air, the fear was not pure. After what she had seen nearly three-quarters of a century ago, nothing could ever be as frightening. Not even this. A threat, even a mortal threat, induced in her only a kind of resignation. Ah, here comes death. Again.

  But there was room for one more thought as she felt herself heading for the ground. Yehudit Botsky wondered if she might, if only for a split-second, glimpse her brother’s face at last.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Charlottesville, Virginia, 7.53am

  Breaking news on the Charlottesville fire that has stunned the nation. Reporting live for us this morning, correspondent Laurel Berry. What do you have for us, Laurel?

  Chuck, this tragedy just got more tragic. As we’ve been reporting since late last night, the fire at the University of Virginia destroyed millions of precious documents as well as priceless rare books from the civil war era and earlier, ripping the heart out of this key archive. But now there’s more. Anthony Gowdridge, the man in charge, has just told a news conference here in Charlottesville that not only were the hard, physical copies of those books and documents destroyed in last night’s blaze – but the digital back-ups have also vanished. Let’s roll that tape.

  ‘Meticulously and over the last two decades, we have been digitizing our collection here at UVA, in part guarding against a catastrophe like this one. Today it is my grave duty to tell you that that digital archive has, it seems, also been taken from us. Our technicians are investigating the situation, but their preliminary conclusion is that the UVA archive has been the target of a sabotage operation that did not begin last night but has been underway for several months. It was subtle and my deep regret is that it was not noticed until now. For that failure, I bear ultimate responsibility. Which is why I have submitted my resignation as University Librarian and Dean of Libraries, effective immediately.’

  Chuck, that resignation is a big blow to Virginia officials as they deal with this crisis, but historians are saying this loss represents a devastating blow for the nation itself – the destruction of millions of key texts depriving America of some of its most cherished documents. One historian telling CNN this morning: ‘We are a tree that has been severed from its roots.’ Chuck?

  Maggie clicked the remote, muting the TV. Jesus Christ, what the hell was happening here? She resettled herself, returning the pillow to her side, letting out an involuntary yelp of pain.

  That prompted Uri to leap out of his seat at the desk, readying himself for emergency action. He was placated by a smile from her, an act of reassurance she had made a thousand times, even if she had not needed to deploy it with Uri for several years. She waited for him to return to his machine and then let out what she hoped was a silent sigh.

  She had been re-examined by paramedics at the library building, at the insistence of the governor. Shaking her head, and with an expression of exasperated admiration that Maggie had grown used to in those she worked for, Donna Morrison had had her driver escort Maggie over to one of the dozen ambulance teams on the scene, most of them idling since, it appeared, the library had been unoccupied when the fire struck. ‘Do not come back here until you’ve seen her get serious medical help!’ the governor had called out. ‘I know her tricks.’

  Two nurses had examined her and their advice was clear, repeating the verdict of the paramedics who’d first seen her but which she’d been too dazed to absorb: she needed to get to a hospital.

  ‘Am I burned?’

  ‘Exposure to such intense heat can lead to—’

  ‘Is that a no?’

  ‘Well, you’ve got severe cuts and bruises here, here and—’

  ‘But no burns?’

  ‘Skin damage does not always appear straight away, there can be blistering—’

  But Maggie was already on her feet, clambering out of the vehicle and joining Uri. She promised the nurses she would rest up. He had driven her back to his hotel, where she had had an ice-cold shower – any hotter and the water seemed to scald her. She felt as if she’d been out in the sun for twelve hours without suncream or a hat – and just as stupid.

  ‘You know, if you’d have told me I would find myself in Uri Guttman’s bed, this is not exactly what I’d have pictured,’ she said now.

  Uri turned away from his screen. ‘Me neither.’ His smile suggested he was relieved that at least one of them had had the courage to nod towards the elephant in the room.

  He turned his chair so that he was facing her. ‘You’ve had a busy few years, Maggie Costello.’

  She shrugged a modest shrug.

  ‘I read what you did: you know, the whole president thing. Everyone did.’

  ‘It wasn’t just me.’

  ‘I cheered for you, Maggie. Like millions of others.’

  She adjusted her position in the bed. ‘And what about you, Mr Guttman? What have you been up to?’

  He talked about a couple of the films he’d made, a prize he’d won at a festival in Europe. But they both knew that wasn’t what she meant.

  ‘I got married, Maggie.’

  She smiled widely, the same smile she’d seen on the faces of runners-up at the Oscars. ‘Who’s the lucky woman?’
>
  ‘Who was the lucky woman, you mean.’

  ‘Oh my God, Uri, what happened?’

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that. It just . . . didn’t work out. She was lovely. Is lovely. A doctor. From Boston. And we tried really hard. But somehow . . .’

  Maggie nodded. ‘I’d say I know what you mean, but actually . . . I’ve never been married so I don’t—’

  ‘Yet.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve never been married yet.’

  At that, Maggie contrived to resettle herself once more in the bed, even though she didn’t need to. She made a small whelp, more by way of diversion than pain. ‘So, fucking hell. They destroyed the entire library. Hard copies and back-ups. They know what they’re doing. I could see that when I was in there.’

  The memory of being there alone, of looking for Uri and not finding him, returned and, with it, her puzzlement at the extraordinary synchronicity that had led them both to be in the same southern town at the same time.

  ‘How do you mean? What did you see?’

  ‘The CCTV cameras in the library. They’d all been turned off.’

  ‘How the hell could you tell that?’

  ‘No little red light. They’d been disabled. Remotely, I reckon.’

  ‘Jesus, I can’t believe—’

  ‘That, and taking out all the key experts. They’re serious, these people. They’re skilled. And they’ve been planning this a long time.’

  ‘ “They”? You think it’s the same people doing this?’

  ‘Bit of a coincidence if not. Five historians of the slavery period, all found dead in a matter of days, at least one of them very obviously murdered. And now the key records of the same period wiped out completely, print and digital.’

  ‘You’re certain this is all one operation?’

  ‘I’m not certain. But there’s one person I’d very much like to ask.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Richmond, Virginia, 11.27am

  One of Maggie’s regular complaints about America, one she shared frequently with her sister, was that the place was so new, it was hard to take seriously. She remembered telling Liz about a trip she’d taken in Houston, Texas.

  ‘So they do a “Historic Houston” bus tour, you know, open-top, tour guide, the whole thing.’

  ‘Right.’ Liz knew where this was going.

  ‘And the guide goes,’ and here Maggie attempted a Texan accent, ‘ “So welcome, ladies and gentlemen—” ’

  ‘So the guide was from Cork? Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘Fuck off. He goes, “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to this tour of Historic Houston. We’ll be looking at homes and sites that date as far back as 1912.” ’

  ‘He never said that.’

  ‘He did!’

  ‘Nineteen twelve?’

  ‘Nineteen fucking twelve!’

  ‘Wasn’t Nan alive in 1912?’

  ‘ “Historic”. Can you believe that?’

  For two girls from Ireland, where you could walk past a thousand-year-old church and barely notice it, the United States seemed positively infant. On some days, Maggie liked that about it: to be in a land unladen with centuries of baggage, a land so unlike her own. It held out promise, the chance to start over and not be judged for it. The country had invented itself anew, so why couldn’t you? In other words, the opposite of Ireland.

  But there were also days when it was unsettling to be in a place whose roots felt so shallow. You could feel unsteady.

  And then there was a third sensation, and she felt it now as she pulled into Richmond. Here, in the one-time capital of the Confederate south, there was plenty of history. You couldn’t move for statues and memorials. But that history was dark and troubled and, crucially, insufficiently distant. Race was still dividing America, not yesterday but today. This wasn’t like visiting old churches or ruined monasteries back home. Here the past refused to be past.

  Still, that was only one source of her disquiet. Mainly, she was worried by the prospect of her next meeting. Oh, she had faced – and faced down – powerful men before, men much more powerful than this one. She had worked in the White House, at the side of more than one American president, for God’s sake. But, still, she could not deny the feeling. She feared the man she was about to meet.

  Her phone told her she had reached her destination. If only. She found a spot and parked the car.

  William Keane had made great play of the fact that he was acting as his own attorney in his libel action against Susan Liston and her publishers: it nicely reinforced his casting of himself as the plucky little guy, daring to challenge the establishment. But his choice of venue for this meeting with Maggie suggested there was some spin at work in that narrative. He’d asked to meet at the downtown offices of Harper Montaigne Brice, a Richmond law firm. Outside was a small knot of Keane supporters, holding out buckets for cash donations. They wore T-shirts bearing the slogan Maggie had heard at Georgetown. On the front: Don’t know, don’t care. On the back: Nothing happened, nothing’s there.

  Getting a meeting had been easier than she’d expected. She’d played the ‘Governor Morrison’s office’ card early and it had worked. But that only made her warier. She’d been in Washington long enough to know that people did not agree to meet out of politeness. They met only if they saw some advantage for themselves. The last thing she wanted was to get played.

  She was ushered into a boardroom and asked to wait. She refused the offer of a seat. An instinct told her that you wanted to be at full height when meeting a man like this for the first time.

  And then, after three or four minutes – just long enough to make her feel like a supplicant, but short enough not to be rude – he strode in, as if he’d rushed in from another appointment and would be off again shortly: a man in a hurry and in demand.

  ‘Miss Costello, the pleasure is mine,’ he said, extending a hand. The white suit, the baritone voice, the confidence of a tall, broad man used to commanding space. ‘I can barely abide unpunctuality in others, so I apologize for committing that sin myself. As perhaps you can imagine, we are in the very final stages of this case and time is just not my own. Interviews, TV appearances – I have even, and this surprises no one more than me, just fended off a request to do what I believe they call a “photoshoot”. Absurdity in this country reaches new heights – or should that be depths? – every day. Why the readers of Vanity Fair would want to have their dreams darkened by the image of a pot-bellied bookworm from James City County, Virginia, the Lord alone knows. The sooner I can return to my study and my work, the better. One thing I have learned about myself through this process, Miss Costello: the spotlight is not for me.’

  Maggie’s face had adopted the rictus grin that came to her whenever she was in the company of the American far right – and she’d had no shortage of practice. In those few months when she served in the administration of the current president, as a holdover from the previous one, she had been surrounded by men just like Keane, most of them supported and enabled by a phalanx of ultra-conservative women whose look was as uniform as their politics, all of them equipped with long, straight hair in a shade she called Fox News blonde. (Working in that White House, even Maggie’s hair colour – Irish red – had seemed like an act of rebellion.)

  ‘Well, I appreciate you seeing me, Mr Keane.’

  ‘I’m a loyal citizen of this fine commonwealth, Miss Costello: I’d always bow to a request issued by the governor.’ He dipped his head in a courtly little bow.

  ‘This is a sensitive matter and I want you to be assured that we’re speaking in confidence.’

  ‘Consider me assured.’

  ‘It’s about the fire last night, at the library in Charlottesville.’

  He suddenly looked aghast. ‘Forgive me, Miss Costello. Where are my manners? Put it down to the stress of this case. Please. I should have asked you the moment I walked in this room. Of course, I heard you were caught up in that horrific disaster. How are you manag
ing?’ He cocked his head to one side, in a show of sympathy.

  ‘I’m sore, but I’m fine. Now about that fire—’

  He held up a finger, as if correcting her. ‘That tragic fire.’

  ‘Yes. About that tragic fire. As you know, there are dozens of libraries in Virginia, thousands in the United States. There are even several collections held by the University of Virginia at Charlottesville.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘And yet the one that was hit, the one that was targeted—’

  ‘Forgive me interrupting you, but you say “hit”—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And “targeted”.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, do we know that?’

  ‘The working assumption of the fire and police departments, shared with the governor, is that this was arson, yes.’

  ‘Assumption. That’s their working assumption.’

  ‘Based on their preliminary investigation, yes.’

  ‘So they don’t know for certain. Not yet. They can’t know for certain.’

  ‘With respect, Mr Keane. We’re not in your courtroom now. I don’t want to play your little games about what can’t be known and what can’t be proved, and how every document is a forgery and every witness is a liar. I’m not playing that game, do you understand me?’

  She was surprised at her own anger. She could hear the quality of rage in her voice, and judging by his face, so could William Keane. He retracted his neck, like a jungle animal that has just glimpsed a fellow predator. She continued.