Darkest Truth

by Catherine Kirwan

  ‘Some kind of abuse, you mean?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I said. ‘You know I can’t tell you.’

  I could have said more, but more revelations might have led to more questions.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I do understand. You’ll get there, I know you will.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘When we were out at Muskerry Castle, was that to do with this case?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘I’m feeling really bad about all that now.’

  He wrinkled his nose.

  ‘I thought we were … I mean, if you’d said it was a work thing, I’d still have gone, of course I would’ve. But when I realised it wasn’t what I thought it was, I felt, I dunno …’

  ‘Used?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that, in all fairness. Don’t beat yourself up about it, please. Most of this is down to me, how I handle it when shit happens. Which has always been badly. Disastrously, in fact, as you know.’

  ‘I do.’

  He laughed.

  ‘You needn’t have agreed so readily,’ he said.

  We both smiled and said nothing for a while. Then Davy spoke again.

  ‘Anyway, what I’m saying is that I ran for the hills, when I should’ve stayed and talked it through. Since I’ve been in treatment I’ve been trying to do things differently. But it’s not always easy. On Sunday, I reacted. Badly. Like a fucking arsehole.’

  I laughed.

  ‘Fucking arsehole is a bit strong.’

  ‘Is it?’ he said. ‘I don’t know. Anyway, what do we do now?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About us.’

  ‘You’re asking me?’

  ‘Yeah, I am. Like, what was that, last night? And this morning?’

  ‘It just happened, I suppose, I mean …’

  ‘A case of, you could resist my charms no longer and just had to fuck my brains out?’

  ‘That’s kinda true, actually,’ I said.

  Davy reached across the table and took my hand.

  ‘You know, in rehab they tell us not to get into relationships until we’re, not recovered exactly, we never recover fully, but until we’re secure in our new way of life. A lot of people ignore the advice.’

  ‘Yeah. AA seems to be Cork’s top dating agency, as far as I can see.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Davy said. ‘For a lot of people. Not me. I haven’t exactly been a monk …’

  I laughed.

  ‘Okay, okay. I know what you think about me and the yummy mummies. But I haven’t been in a relationship since I left Tabor Lodge four years ago. Haven’t felt ready, I s’pose, but now, this thing with us …’

  I wrenched my hand away, leapt up from the table, and grabbed my coat.

  ‘I totally agree. We’re not relationship material. Last night was great, but it’s not to be repeated. We’re friends, Davy, nothing more. Take your time, finish your coffee. Pull out the door after you when you’re leaving. I’ve got to run.’

  18

  By 8.45, I’d already fielded a call from my mother. Yes, I was all right. No, I wasn’t working too hard. I’d tried calling Alice Chambers but got her voicemail. And I’d texted both Aifric, Deirdre’s former schoolmate who worked in St Finbarr’s School, asking her to call me, and Sadie O’Riordan, asking if we could meet up that night. By then, I would have had two more opportunities of seeing Gill and I intended to use them well: once he left Cork, he’d become unreachable. And it would be good to review the evidence with Sadie while it was fresh.

  Though calling it evidence was overstating it. What I’d found were fragments, signposts, no more than that. But the previous evening I had been sure that Gill was guilty, as sure as I’d ever felt about anything. This morning, I was even more sure. I remembered some of Davy’s words (‘I know you’ll get there’) and tried to forget the rest, what he had said, and what we had done.

  And then I remembered the sense that I had that Gill was a chameleon, that he changed his personality to suit his own ends. There was something about power too, not the power that came with his position in life, though that was part of it. Meeting him had left me with the feeling that whatever Gill wanted, he felt entitled to take.

  But at 17–19 MacSwiney Street, real life, and the work I’d been neglecting, got in the way. It was Wednesday and I remembered that, while I was in the office on Saturday, I had moved all my client appointments into Thursday and Friday. That meant that, if I didn’t make some shape at getting control of my workload today, I’d be left with mayhem by the weekend. When Tina came in with the post at 9.30 exactly, as usual, I barely saw her but gave a quick wave. She replied with a mock salute.

  ‘Normal service has resumed, I see,’ she said.

  At 10.55, my mobile rang.

  ‘Wasn’t expecting to be talking to you again,’ Aifric Sheehan said.

  Snap. I wouldn’t be calling if I didn’t have to.

  ‘Um, something came up, Aifric. Can you talk?’

  ‘I’m round the back of the bike sheds having a quick ciggie. Strictly out of bounds for students, positively essential for teachers. But there’s nobody near me. Talk away.’

  ‘It’s about your boss, Eoghan MacGiolla. I found out that he might have been a neighbour of Deirdre’s in Turners Cross but I’m nearly sure he told me he didn’t know her.’

  ‘That’s the impression I had too.’

  ‘Would you mind checking for me?’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Not really. I probably got my notes wrong and I just want to make sure, but I don’t want to make a big deal of it by making another appointment to see him.’

  ‘I get you,’ Aifric said. ‘I’ll easily find out, don’t worry.’

  ‘Thanks so much, Aifric. And you’ll be, what’s the word? Subtle?’

  ‘Finn,’ Aifric said. ‘Subtlety is my middle name.’

  They wouldn’t open the doors for the public interview until twenty minutes before the start so I needed to time my arrival for after the long queue of enthusiastic movie nerds but before the more casual Film Festival patron. They are the ones who don’t go to see a film for the rest of the year but during the festival go to everything, from worthy documentaries about rainforest loss in Brazil to feature-length subtitled Czech stop-motion animation. I definitely needed to get there before them. Ten to noon would be about right, and would give me time for a coffee at the House café.

  Or it would have, were it not for the crowd. I bypassed the coffee queue and went into the auditorium, finding a single seat, seven rows back and three in from the edge, that gave me a decent view of the stage. Glancing around at the audience, I saw, and waved at, the many familiar faces, the curse and blessing of small town life. What would they say if they knew what I had been up to for the last few days?

  I checked my phone before putting it on silent for the duration of the interview. I had a text from Sadie O’Riordan: ‘off at 8 – could meet for food?’

  I texted back: ‘Ramen @ 8.15?’

  I’d check later but I knew it would be a yes: Sadie loved Thai food.

  At 12.05, the curtains parted to reveal two comfortable armchairs and a superfluous lamp on an even more superfluous coffee table. We’re here for a bit of a chat, the tableau proclaimed. It would be interesting to see how much chatting there was. Gill liked the sound of his own voice and I reckoned that poor Tiernan McDevitt, the arts journalist doing the interviewing, would be lucky if he got a word in. After a moment, Alice Chambers came onstage to do the introduction. She was working her way through an impressive range of outfits, I noticed. Having a special guest in town must have sent her on an anticipatory shopping spree. Today she was wearing a striking-looking red dress that finished at the knee. It was probably from Zara: the clothes there always suited her. Tragically, they never looked good on me.

  Tiernan McDevitt came onstage first to warm, though muted, applause. He was average height, had average looks, and seemed averagely
nervous. Even his clothes were average, I thought, sand-coloured chinos and a blue shirt, the kind of thing a medical student might wear to look professional on ward rounds. Tiernan sat down, then stood again quickly, clasping his hands in front of him as he waited.

  After a few long minutes, Jeremy Gill walked onstage. He was greeted with deafening cheers and another standing ovation. What does that kind of adulation do to a person? Even if they start out half-decent which, according to Colm O’Donnell, Gill hadn’t. And what would happen if someone tried to tell a different, less praiseworthy, story about him? I remembered what Deirdre’s note had said: ‘He’s too strong now.’ It was up to me to prove her wrong, to show that, with enough evidence, even the most powerful can be beaten. It hit me that I had strayed very far from my initial plan: to seek evidence of Gill’s innocence as well as his guilt, but I shelved that thought as Tiernan signalled for quiet.

  He opened by listing Gill’s films in chronological order, with the audience clapping and hooting to varying degrees, according to their favourites. I had been expecting to learn something about Gill by being here but he had hardly said a word so far, apart from mouthing thank-yous and nodding and doing the joined hand namaste sign. My mood was sinking into seriously pissed off territory when, at last, there was a diminution in applause, and the interview began.

  In many ways, Gill’s behaviour was nothing I hadn’t seen before, on TV chat shows or in promotional interviews. There was a recital of well-worn facts, and well-practised anecdotes, that the audience hailed as if he were Moses conveying tablets of stone from the mountain top. No matter what the question, Gill was in control at all times, but the long format of the interview meant that, for those watching closely, and it seemed to me that I was the only one who was, there was useful information to be gleaned.

  He was wearing the same suit as the night before, but today he had on a plain black T-shirt, unbranded but expensive-looking, under the suit, instead of last night’s white shirt. He looked slick but, even so – observed at length, in all his pomp – Gill was downright weird: a combination of hubris and petty cruelty that, had he not been rich and famous, would have rendered him friendless. It got even more interesting when the Q & A started. An audience member asked Gill about Another Bad Day at the Office.

  ‘Mister Gill, I remember seeing your first fillum here in Cork back in 1998 and we all knew then that a star was born. But how hard was it to get that fillum made and do you have any advice for young fillum-makers? I’m sure there’s loads of them here today.’

  ‘Well I don’t know anything about fillums,’ Gill said, imitating the man’s heavy Cork accent and not getting much of a laugh from the audience for a change. ‘But if you want to know about my first film, ask this guy.’

  He pointed at Tiernan McDevitt.

  I had read the credits and there had been no mention of Tiernan. He paled. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth.

  ‘Em, I think, Jeremy, the gentleman would, ah, probably prefer to hear from you.’

  ‘Look at him,’ Gill said, pointing again. ‘He’s gone all quiet now. You see, myself and Tiernan have known each other a long time, haven’t we?’

  Gill’s voice had taken on the hectoring tones of a schoolyard bully.

  ‘Yes,’ Tiernan said, so quietly that the microphone hardly registered the sound.

  ‘I first met this guy when he was just out of UCD with first class honours in something or other, English, I think. And he wanted to be a film-maker, as I recall. How’s that goin’ for you?’

  ‘Ah, not great, Jeremy,’ Tiernan said, to the sound of a few nervous laughs from the audience.

  ‘All together now “Aw”.’

  To my astonishment, most of the audience went along with it, as if Gill was the pantomime Ugly Sister to Tiernan’s Cinderella.

  ‘Well, yeah, to cut to the chase, he wasn’t up to much. You see, I had those years in ads behind me – a crap degree from UCD, mind you, but experience of the world. That’s what really counts. We had to put Mister Top o’ the Class here making the tea. That’s what I put in the credits, actually – d’you remember, Tiernan? Tea McDevitt?’

  ‘Oh yeah, I remember all right,’ Tiernan said.

  ‘Good for you it was, I’m sure,’ Gill said.

  ‘Good enough to make sure I never worked on another film, anyway. Went down a different road. And it seems to be working out okay …’

  It was excruciating to watch. Before Gill had a chance to say anything else, I started clapping for Tiernan’s last comment and the rest of the audience joined in. Gill realised that he was losing the crowd. Instantly, he was warm and avuncular again, the version of Jeremy he had been on stage the previous night. After a few minutes, the audience settled; mollified, it seemed.

  There was nothing else of significance until the final question. A young woman who said she was a recent drama graduate from UCC asked Gill about the casting process: if he used casting directors, what he thought about them, and if they were an important part of his crew.

  ‘No,’ Gill said. ‘Totally overrated as far as I’m concerned. I do my own casting, prefer to develop a relationship with the actors myself from the beginning.’

  ‘Is that ’cause of the casting couch, Jeremy?’ a wit shouted from the audience, to general hilarity but to the embarrassment of the unfortunate woman who had asked the original question.

  Lightning fast, Gill replied in a broad Dublin accent:

  ‘I gave up on the casting couch years ago. ’Twas doin’ me back in.’

  Everybody thought it was a joke. Everybody except me. As the audience roared with laughter, I kept watching Gill, his face blank, a benign mask.

  His eyes told a different story.

  19

  Now that the festival was under way, the action was elsewhere, with most of the staff deployed at locations all over town, at workshops and screenings and at the various box offices. I had another missed call from Alice and I had a feeling that she wasn’t calling for a friendly chat. Had Sarah-Jane told her about the photos? Or had Alice overheard my conversation with Gill? Either way, it was better to try to mitigate the damage. I had taken the photographs from my desk drawer earlier. If I hurried, I could sneak them back to the Film Festival office before the workshop. I introduced myself to the young staffer on duty (Dylan, his name tag said) and told him I was a board member and needed to replace something I’d borrowed from the 1998 archive.

  ‘Oh grand,’ Dylan said.

  I got the impression he’d have said ‘grand’ even if I’d told him I planned to burn the building to the ground. He looked about eleven, though he was probably a recent graduate. But it took a while for academic smarts to turn into usable workplace skills. I thought back to my days as a trainee, more of a hindrance to the operation of a law office than a help. At least nobody had put me on tea duty. As I took down the 1998 archive and removed the note I’d left and replaced the photographs, I thought about Tiernan McDevitt. What a bastard Gill was, for what he had done to Tiernan back in the day, and even more for what he did to him onstage earlier. Still, Jeremy had unwittingly given me a useful lead. If I could get talking to Tiernan, I might be able to find out more about Rhona Macbride, and how to contact her. After seeing her on screen last night, I knew I had to meet her.

  I sidled over to where Dylan was sitting.

  ‘Thanks a lot, Dylan,’ I said. ‘You know, all of us on the board really appreciate your work. The festival couldn’t run without people like you.’

  ‘I’m just an intern. Graduated this summer. Hoping to do a master’s in film next year, filling in here meanwhile to build up credits for my application and stuff.’

  ‘Well you’re making a valuable contribution, Dylan, I want you to know that,’ I said, which would have been true even if I didn’t have an ulterior motive. ‘But, actually, maybe you could help me more specifically?’

  ‘Course I will, Finn, if I can, like.’

  ‘It’s just that I nee
d to meet up with Tiernan McDevitt and I just can’t remember what I did with his number,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t have it there on the system, would you?’

  ‘I don’t know if we have it but I can have a look. I’ll check under contacts first.’

  ‘Oh that’s a good idea, Dylan,’ I said. ‘And you know, as you’ve the system open there you couldn’t get me Daniel O’Brien’s number as well, could you? He’s an old mate of mine from his days working here and I seem to have lost his contact details. If you knew the number of times I meant to ask Alice or Sarah-Jane. That’s D-A-N-I-E-L, Dylan.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ Dylan said. ‘Em, no phone number for Daniel, but there’s an email, if it’s the same guy. Though the address might not be current. But we definitely have Tiernan’s mobile number and email. Will I print the two of them for you?’

  ‘That’d be great.’

  Subterfuge was getting easier, and lying was bothering me less.

  As I walked in the front door of the Opera House, I saw Tiernan McDevitt standing by the box office in conversation with another man. I took a table by the window with my back to the river and watched. The man with Tiernan was slim, blond, tanned, possibly fake-tanned, and dressed in light grey trousers, a fine-knit pink cardigan and a collared T-shirt. He was slightly too old for the boyband look, but he had it down. While I was waiting, I sent an email to Daniel O’Brien. Dylan in the festival office had been right: nobody used ‘@ireland.com’ any more. Predictably, the email bounced back. Meanwhile, Boyband man appeared to have left. I waved to catch Tiernan’s attention, and he came and sat opposite me.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ he said. ‘I’m on the 3.20 train so it suits perfectly.’

  ‘The least the board of Cork Film Festival can do is buy you lunch,’ I said. ‘Who was that you were chatting to, by the way?’

  ‘Oh that’s Jeremy’s assistant. He was trying to console me, telling me how well the interview had gone. Which was a big fat lie, obviously.’

  The waiter came along then and I ordered the mushrooms on toast, Tiernan the omelette and a glass of Rioja.