by David Park
It’s almost time. They’ll be coming for him soon. They’ll expect him to be ready. Downstairs he can hear the television in the kitchen and the sound of cupboards opening and closing. He goes to the window but the horses have vanished. The morning light has brightened and for the first time since he arrived there are traces of blue in the sky. He puts on the suit and then he sits on the edge of the bed and cries.
Stanfield takes his seat at the top table and looks down at the rows of people looking back at him. The public seats are not entirely full and the press benches have started to thin out, their initial interest in the proceedings having faded away after the first flurry of saturation coverage. He sees Maria Harper and her mother with their advocate but as far as he can tell, the other members of her family appear to have stayed away. Across the aisle sits the man he assumes to be James Fenton with the people he recognises as members of the police team. Matteo and Laura sit with other members of the secretariat. Outwardly everything appears as normal and he tries to reassure himself that in this, the final case he’ll preside over, everything will go according to the script and it can be brought to a speedy and satisfactory conclusion. Then waiting until the clock signals the hour and after his nod to the ushers, the doors are closed and he rises to his feet.
‘This morning we have come together to hear case number one hundred and seven, the case of Connor Walshe, and as with all hearings of the Commission I shall begin by asking everyone to stand in silent memory of all those who lost their lives in the conflict. This is an opportunity to show communal respect and in the short silence to prepare ourselves for what we are about to hear.’ In the minute of silence he stares at the bowed heads and then sees one lift and look at him and it’s Maria Harper and what’s in her gaze he can’t gauge and he bows his own head to avoid the steady fix of her eyes. ‘Thank you. Please be seated. As always, too, I shall open these proceedings by briefly reminding you of their purpose. Firstly, we meet to give a voice to the victims of the violence, to remember those who have died or suffered and to try to help those who grieve to take the difficult and painful steps towards healing. Without this individual healing there can be no societal healing and without confronting our past in a spirit of reconciliation and understanding society can never build a better future. Secondly, we meet to try to initiate a process of healing through the establishment of truth and openness. Truth is vital if this society is to open itself to the possibility of communal atonement and bring closure to those whose suffering has been compounded by uncertainty and unanswered questions.’ Stanfield glances briefly at his autocue but the words are lodged in his memory. ‘Finally, in this search for truth we offer amnesty to those who appear before the Commission but I remind you that this amnesty is dependent on full disclosure and a full and truthful account of the incident for which they are seeking amnesty.’ He finishes his required preamble by reminding everyone of the solemnity and dignity required by the occasion, asks that all mobile phones are switched off and informs them that it’s an offence to make any visual or auditory recording of any part of the proceedings, but in accordance with the wishes of the Walshe family there are no reporting restrictions in place.
‘I declare this hearing now in session and, as is customary, I begin by asking a member of the Walshe family or their chosen advocate to speak to us about their relative.’
Maria Harper stands and walks to the microphone at the front of the court. Her advocate, a young woman in a grey trouser suit and shiny black shoes, comes with her and stands at her shoulder.
‘I am Maria, Connor’s sister, and this morning I want to tell you about him.’ Fenton stares at her – he doesn’t remember ever seeing her before, finds it hard to connect her with the boy. ‘When Connor disappeared he was fifteen years, four months and ten days old. Connor could always tell you exactly how old he was. Sometimes he sounded like a prisoner who could tell you exactly how long was left in his sentence but the reason Connor knew was because he couldn’t wait to leave school. He didn’t like school and, if I’m honest, school didn’t like him much. He couldn’t see the point of it and all he wanted to do was leave and get a job that earned some money. You see, there wasn’t very much money in our family. Our father died just after Connor was born and things were never easy but my mother did her best to see we all got by.’ She pauses and looks down at the bit of paper from which she’s reading. Fenton shifts in his seat. He always thinks of the boy as solitary, detached from any family or social framework. He knew, of course, he had a family but until this moment it was always anonymous and irrelevant, part of his world about which he’d no need to consider.
‘Connor was not an angel. In the year before he disappeared he had many problems in his life and he lost his way quite badly. He did some bad things, got involved in petty crime and ran a bit wild. I often think that the absence of his father was a big factor in this. We tried our best to keep him on the straight and narrow but if wasn’t easy and maybe if he’d had a father to look out for him, things could have been different.’ Her voice breaks a little and she pauses, gulping the air. The advocate puts a supporting hand on her shoulder. ‘But Connor was capable of being a good boy – he could be kind to his mother, he could be considerate. Sometimes when the notion took him he could be funny. And what I want to say is that the people who took Connor, took away his chance to maybe find a better way in life, a chance to make something of himself.’ She pauses again and sips some water. When she speaks her voice is wavering and higher in pitch. ‘Whatever he did, or was supposed to do, he was only a boy, only a child, and this shouldn’t have happened to him.’
She’s crying now and the advocate is talking quietly to her. Stanfield asks if she’d like a short recess but she shakes her head and instead takes another drink of water. Fenton stares up at the stained-glass windows and feels his breathing becoming slowly shallower. He opens his jacket and sees a small purple ticket pinned to the lining. Without drawing attention to it he carefully unfastens the pin and slips both into his pocket.
‘Would you tell us, Mrs Harper, about the events leading up to Connor’s disappearance,’ Stanfield says. ‘In your own time, just when you’re ready.’
She half turns towards him and then faces the front again. ‘Connor disappeared on the tenth of May. It was a Thursday night. He had gone out about an hour after tea, said he was going down to the boxing club. We used to joke with him, tell him that he could be the next Muhammad Ali, but none of us really believed he did any boxing because he was skinny as a rake and his brothers used to tease him, tell him that the wind could blow him over. Afterwards one of the men who ran the club told us that he just sat and watched, liked to hang around, but despite trying to persuade him, he wasn’t keen to give it a go. Always made excuses, said he’d no kit or he’d broken his arm a while back and wasn’t allowed to until it properly healed – that sort of thing. But he did go there that night, messed around a bit with a punch-bag, acted the lig and then he was asked to leave. That was the last Connor was ever seen. He didn’t come home.
‘Connor often stayed out late and no one waited up for him, or paid much attention. Sometimes he ran the streets very late until he got bored or too cold and then he’d drift home. It was in the morning we realised he hadn’t come in, that his bed wasn’t slept in. But we weren’t really worried because he’d stayed out a few times before and when Mother started to fret we told her not to worry, that she’d see him as soon as his stomach was empty or he’d run out of money.’ Stanfield sees her glance at her mother for the first time and he follows her gaze. Her mother’s face is wizened, worn old and pinched by each word she listens to. He looks at the back of Maria Harper’s head. There are thin threads of grey veining the black and yet she can’t be much older than Emma. He thinks of the letter for his daughter that nestles in his inside pocket and wonders how it will feel if he never sees her again.
‘But he didn’t come back. Another day passed and then we started to look for him. We went round the s
treets and places he might be hanging out, asked everyone we met if they’d seen him but nobody had. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air and then we checked the hospital and when another day passed we went to the police. Some of the family didn’t want to involve them but my mother insisted and went to the police station herself. They took his details and a description but no one came to the house and we didn’t hear anything from them for about three days. Then on the Wednesday two of them came to the house and told us that they believed he’d been abducted by the IRA.’
Michael Madden sits at the back of the hall and watches her pause and drink again. His companion plays with her rings, sometimes putting them on different fingers. She seems detached from what she’s hearing and he wants to shake her out of the studied calm that mocks his own nervousness and the sickness starting to swirl round his stomach. For a second as Maria Harper pauses to compose herself he thinks of making a run for it but is stopped only by the knowledge that it would be a run with no destination and without any end and that’s no good to him, because what he wants more than anything is to return to one place and never have to leave it or look over his shoulder again.
‘It didn’t make any sense to us. One of my brothers even laughed – that’s how ridiculous we thought it was – and the police didn’t say much or answer any of our questions so when they left we were more confused than anything. And then we thought that if it was true Connor must have done something bad that had got him into trouble and we were really worried that he’d get a beating or even worse they’d kneecap him. And my older brother, Brendan, went to some people he knew were involved but they wouldn’t tell him anything and when he came back he didn’t say much but we knew it wasn’t good. And then that’s when the whispering started and we had the word “tout” painted on the side of the house. My brothers got into fights in the street and after a while they wouldn’t go out, as if they were ashamed to show their faces. We got a couple of letters that were disgusting and used the same word. Then wre were told through a third party that Connor was touting for the police and that he’d confessed it all, that it was all on tape. We went to the Church and they intervened for us. The priest was told that because he was young he wasn’t going to be harmed but that he wasn’t allowed to come home, not for a while anyway, but that we’d get a letter from him saying he was OK and where we could get in touch with him. But it never came and then there was like this curtain of silence that fell round it and no matter how hard we tried we couldn’t get anyone to admit they knew anything. My mother went to the police station every week and they treated her like she was reporting a lost dog, said they’d no further news but their enquiries were continuing and no one would say whether it was true that he was working for the police. How could Connor work for the police? What did he know about anything?’
For the first time her words are edged with anger and she’s lifting her head high, throwing a challenge to the room.
‘We didn’t know how to use the media, didn’t know how to get the right sort of help or the publicity that others have got, and the family split into different camps and things became very difficult. Time passed and we knew, even though we never said it, that he wasn’t coming back but even though we knew it in our heads there was always part of you thought you’d hear the back door open and you’d look up and see him standing there. But it never happened and the years went by and still nobody was able or willing to tell us anything. But gradually we knew that we had to get him back, to give him a burial and try to move on with our lives, but even after the ceasefire no one claimed to know anything about Connor or where he was. It was almost as if he never existed but he did exist and he was my mother’s son and our brother and we have a right to know, a right to have him back. A right to have him back with his family, back where he belongs.’
She folds her notes carefully and with the advocate patting her on the shoulders she walks back to her seat. Stanfield sees the straightening of pride in her walk, as well as her suffering, but he knows there’s more still to come for her and, as he watches her resume her place and take her mother’s hand, thinks that when it’s all over she, too, will look back into the chamber with a white salted face, frozen in disbelief that truth has been both partial and incomplete.
Madden sits at the end of a row and as she returns to her place he leans slightly into the aisle and looks at her, tries to remember her face, but there’s no recognition and he wonders if it’s because so much time has passed and then he’s conscious of how long these people have stayed waiting for something that never came. His eyes flicker to the stained-glass windows and they make him think of church and suddenly he sees again the choir of black women pouring down the steps of the church in their white dresses, blossoming in the darkness like magnolias. He wants the warmth of those nights when the baked heat of the day lingers long after the light has faded. He wants to feel the burn of the sun on his back, to sit in the morning on the shore of the lake. There’s a boat in the glass, the waves spuming up round its hull, but soon he knows it will be time for him to stand at the front and have the eyes of Connor Walshe’s mother and his sister fixed on him and he doesn’t know if he should try to look at them when he speaks or if he should try to stare ahead. He rehearses his words in his head, the words he’s been given, and tries to calm himself, to bring his focus exclusively on what it is he has to say.
When Fenton is called, his name stripped of its former rank seems to hang naked in the air. However, as instructed, he remains in his seat and instead Anderson rises and approaches the bench where he makes a request that Fenton’s testimony should be given in closed court because there is the possibility of state security being compromised and that Fenton deserves the protection of the court.
‘As has already been established by the authority of the Commission,’ Stanfield says wearily, ‘only the defendants have the right to request a closed court and it is the expressed wish of the Walshe family that these proceedings remain open. In relation to the question of state security no public-interest immunity certificates have been presented and so your request is denied. Thank you, Mr Anderson. Now let Mr Fenton take the stand.’
As Fenton passes him Anderson gives him a smile of encouragement, then Stanfield begins by asking him to introduce himself and his connection with the case. He gives them his name and former rank, where he was stationed, the broad outline of his former duties and experience.
‘And when did you first encounter Connor Walshe?’ Stanfield asks when he’s finished.
‘I first came across Connor in January of that year. I can’t remember the exact date but it was towards the end of January.’ He glances involuntarily at the two women staring at him then continues, ‘Connor was suspected of being involved in some incidents of petty crime – vandalism, making a nuisance of himself, that sort of thing. There were also some break-ins and his name was mentioned to us as a possible suspect.’ He spares them the details – it’s one of the few kindnesses he can give them. ‘A boy fitting his description had been seen leaving one of the premises in question. We picked him up and informally asked him what he knew about it. Connor denied any knowledge of any wrongdoing and we let him go again. There wasn’t enough evidence to charge him with anything so we gave him a word of warning and sent him on his way.’
‘When did you hear he was missing?’
‘The thirteenth of May. His mother reported Connor missing at the station.’
‘And what were the results of your inquiry?’
‘No trace of Connor was found. There were apparently no witnesses to what had happened or where he had gone. We did over two hundred interviews and did door-to-door but nothing to assist us was produced. At that particular time it was difficult to get people to talk openly or come forward and that undoubtedly hampered the inquiry.’ He glances down at Young and Anderson and they nod in encouragement. ‘Some time later, certain sources supplied us with information that he had been abducted by the IRA and taken to a different location
.’
‘And did these sources say what had happened to him?’
‘No, no one appeared to know. We conducted searches locally and further afield but without success. The police on the southern side of the border also conducted enquiries but equally without success.’
‘And do you know the identity of those who abducted Connor?’
‘I might surmise it was the work of the local unit of the Provisional IRA but I wouldn’t be able to identify the actual people involved.’ He stares at the back wall of the chamber. ‘We had no specific information or intelligence as to who these people might be.’
‘And what do you think happened to Connor?’
‘Again I can’t say but there must be a significant possibility that it was something serious.’
‘Thank you, Mr Fenton,’ Stanfield says but as he sees Fenton about to leave the stand, ‘I think Mrs Walshe’s advocate, Ms Clarke, would like to ask you some questions.’
Fenton stares at the young woman coming towards him and thinks she hardly looks old enough to be a lawyer. She stares back at him and he sees that in her hand she’s carrying a cassette player. He doesn’t understand and looks at Anderson and Young whose angled heads are almost touching and when they finish speaking to each other Young shrugs his shoulders at him then Anderson rises and says that it’s expressly forbidden under the remit of the Commission to make recordings and he wishes to lodge the strongest objection to this breach of procedure.