by Sam Bourne
The article was headlined The Ten Defining Traits of Children of Alcoholics. Maggie skimmed through it, refusing to look at more than the first few words of each paragraph.
One: Fear of Losing Control.
Two: Taking on a High Burden of Responsibility. Feeling a ‘super-responsibility’, as if they are duty-bound to take care of all those around them, even to take on the cares of the world.
Three: Inability to Relax and Have Fun.
Four: Harsh Self-Criticism and Constant Sense of Guilt.
Five: Difficulties with Intimacy.
Six: More Comfortable Living in Chaos or Drama than in Peace.
If she could have, her sister would have circled and underlined that last one. ‘Adrenalin junkie with a Messiah complex’: the verdict she’d passed on Maggie years ago.
Maggie put the phone away.
She closed her eyes and an image of Martin Kelly filled her head. She pictured him in his cabin, the loner alone yet again – hammering away at his keyboard, listening in to the online debate among William Keane’s followers and disciples, as slowly he grasped what was underway. Steadily, he’d understood that a plan was forming, in the mind of one person at least. Who knew what it was – maybe an offhand remark in that closed forum, maybe a whistleblower from inside the company – that made Martin look at Austin Logica and Pamela Bentham, but something did.
Martin must have realized at that moment that the threat was genuine. Maggie wondered if he’d already been moving away from the ideas of his youth. Or was it the prospect of those ideas, which once shone so brightly in the academic seminar room, turning now into lethal and unpalatable reality that repelled him? She imagined the anguish of a man who’d been happy enough to discuss the notion of erasing history in theory, now appalled by the thought of it happening in practice.
And then, God alone knew how, from behind his keyboard, he must have recruited a group of people to help thwart Bentham’s plan as best they could. Not by stopping her burning down libraries – they surely had no idea how she was doing that – but at least by salvaging what, and who, they could. And doing it in a secret place he knew well.
The irony of it, and its bitterness, did not escape her. All that computer activity, as Martin Kelly had attempted to save the world’s memory, had made him look less like a saviour than the prime threat, at least in the eyes of the FBI. It had suited Bentham perfectly. She had crafted the manifesto so that it could plausibly have been Kelly’s handiwork, creating a trail of crumbs that would lead to his cabin. He, by his own frantic efforts to track down the most precious documents and witnesses, had added to that trail. And it had been Maggie that had followed it, leading a team of federal agents to his door – and to his death.
Eyes still closed, she let out a deep sigh: guilt seemed to stalk her, from one chapter of her life to the next. Now it was attached to Martin Kelly. The world owed him a great debt. Somehow Maggie would have to make that known. She would start with his loving, patient, heartbroken mother: Edith Kelly deserved to know that her son had not died a failure, but a hero.
When she next opened her eyes, the TV, muted in the corner, had sparked into life, a ‘breaking news’ logo zipping across the screen. The picture showed William Keane on the steps of the federal courthouse in Richmond, a cluster of reporters and cameras surrounding him. Beyond them were two large crowds of supporters and opponents, apparently jostling. Maggie could hear the chant: Don’t know, don’t care/Nothing happened, nothing’s there.
The camera only showed the pro-Keane group briefly, so it had gone almost as soon as it had appeared, but there, unmistakable among them, was the face of Crawford McNamara.
Maggie reached for the clicker and turned up the volume. Keane was just getting started.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I thank you. Thank you. Hush now. All right. OK.
‘With your permission, I’d like to make a short statement. I want to begin by thanking the good people of the press for your patient, not to say dogged interest in this case. I know there are those who like to deride you as the fake news media, and, Lordy, you often deserve it. But you’ve been here at this courthouse day after day, and I thank you for that courtesy.
‘As you know, twelve good people of the Commonwealth of Virginia have just ended their deliberations and communicated that fact to the judge, who has taken the unusual and gracious step of allowing this outcome to be known right away, even outside regular court hours. I offer my sincere and true thanks to those citizens. They are the foundation of this great nation of ours.
‘They listened as I tried to make a crucial argument for the life of this republic. I told them that we had been weighed down too long by a legacy that was undeserved, by a story that was written from fever dreams and hot imagination – rather than cold, hard facts – and which has cast a shadow over us for generations. I presented my case as well as my modest gifts would allow. And they did the honour of listening to me, a simple fellow Virginian by the name of William Keane, with solemn respect. I am grateful to them.
‘I am especially grateful because they did not allow themselves to be swayed by the extraordinary and dramatic events that have swirled around them these last few days. Why, fire has rained down from the skies over this land and over distant lands that speak in other tongues. It has seemed like the very end of days as great storehouses of records and documents were put to the flame.
‘Some unkind souls were uncharitable enough to suggest that your humble servant might have played some role in these apocalyptic events. You know of course that that is false. I am a historian, for gosh’s sake! I may have argued with aspects of the historical record of this nation, that is plainly beyond dispute. But I am no arsonist. Heaven forfend.
‘History matters. We need history. But we need to get it right. Which is why I am so grateful and so proud of those six fellow Virginians who sat inside that courthouse and raised their hands to say, “Aye, William Keane speaks the truth.”
‘Of course, six did not. But this result – a hung jury – is not the outcome any of the pundits or the experts or the establishment predicted. They thought I would be humiliated, laughed out of court and despatched faster than a rooster at a rodeo. No, sir. That’s what the people of Virginia have said today: No, sir’ee. Not so fast. Not so fast.
‘I thank you for that applause. Too kind. Thank you, friends. But this is a truly historic day, if you forgive a historian using that much-abused word. Today a jury was asked if so-called “slavery” really happened and they did not say yes. They said they were not sure. They had doubts. They wanted to see more and better evidence than the pile of myths and fables that has built up over two hundred years.
‘That, my friends, is a victory. It means we go on to a retrial, a second chance for me to make my case and for the world to hear this argument anew. And, though I played no part in creating the new reality I am about to describe, the plain fact is that my opponents, Miss Susan Liston and her high-powered team of clever New York lawyers, will find the coming rematch harder than our first bout. For some of the papers and texts they relied on no longer exist. They are but as ash and smoke upon the winds.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, my thanks once again. A milestone in our nation’s journey has been reached. A great burden is about to be lifted. Together, we have made history!’
Chapter Fifty-Five
Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, Bethesda, Maryland, 3.23pm
Maggie must have dozed, because when she awoke Uri was hovering over her, his bag over his shoulder, readying to leave.
‘It’s been a long day,’ he said. ‘You should get some rest.’ He bent down to kiss her softly, on the lips.
Once he’d gone, she curled herself into a position ready for sleep, trying not to think of the smug face of William Keane, McNamara at his side, and the apparently never-ending battle that stretched ahead. Whatever punishment came down on his devoted student, Pamela Bentham, Keane would be fine. Bentham had almost
anticipated as much. In that windowless interview suite, Maggie had insisted Keane would be ruined. The older woman had simply smiled. ‘Why don’t we wait and see?’
Maggie was about to drift off when she noticed a small piece of paper, folded in half, on the nightstand.
It was from Uri.
Maggie,
We haven’t had much time to talk about us. Now is not the time either, not while you’re fighting to get better. So I want to say just one thing. I know you might think all we have is what we used to have. But I think that’s a big thing. It means we have a foundation that we can build on.
Maggie, I think we have a future because we have a past.
U x
She read it again and reread that last line three times over. I think we have a future because we have a past.
And she felt herself fill up with hope that maybe this time it was the truth.
THE END
Acknowledgements
This is a book about truth, and while it is fiction much of it is rooted in fact.
When William Keane grills Professor Andrea Barker in court over Twelve Years a Slave, for example, he cites an essay she’s written: ‘The Redemption of Solomon Northup’. The text that Keane quotes is, in fact, ‘The Passion of Solomon Northup’ by Eric Herschthal, published in the New York Times on 6 November, 2013.
I owe a great debt to the work of David Rieff. The Bookburner’s manifesto draws several of its most pertinent examples from Rieff’s excellent 2016 polemic, In Praise of Forgetting. The arguments Uri makes about the virtues of amnesia are similarly in line with Rieff’s thinking.
The harrowing experience on the train from Auschwitz to Nordhausen, attributed in the novel to Judith Beaton, is not made up, but was told to me by one who endured it: Joseph Kiersz. I reported his story and that of other Holocaust survivors in ‘Safe House’, published in the Guardian on 14 May, 2011.
The Times report, found by Liz, on the computer-generated recreation of an undelivered JFK speech was published in that newspaper on 15 March, 2018. Meanwhile, Jen Goodwin’s act of penetration testing is based on the remarkable testimony of a real-life and ingenious pentester, who pseudonymously recounts her adventures under the Twitter name of Jek Hyde.
The book whose title Mac so admires – Nothing is True and Everything is Possible is very real. It is by Peter Pomerantsev and deserves its high reputation.
I am, of course, indebted to many others. Between them, Tom Cordiner, Steven Thurgood and my Guardian colleague Alex Hern were hugely generous with their expertise on all matters digital. David Menton and Lisa O’Carroll guided me on tricky questions of Irish idiom, while Richard Alman was a patient instructor on the technical aspects of fire and fire prevention. Jonathan Cummings remains an indefatigable ally, able to hunt down information that eludes lesser mortals. Steve Coombe is not just knowledgeable on questions of intelligence and security, when it comes to projects like this one, he has become something of a co-conspirator.
I’m hugely grateful to the team at Quercus whose enthusiasm for this novel has been such a source of encouragement. Jon Butler and Stefanie Bierwerth have been both supportive and insightful from the start, improving the story at every stage: I feel very lucky to be under their wing. Once again Rhian McKay proved herself to be a copy editor with a frighteningly sharp eye.
I’m glad to have another chance to thank my friend and agent, Jonny Geller, and always with good reason. There is no greater ally a writer could have.
A last word goes to my family, whose patience is tested every time I start a new novel. My wife Sarah, and our sons Jacob and Sam, ensure that our home is never quiet, but always humming with talk and laughter. That’s not a distraction, but the soundtrack of my life. I love all of them more deeply with each passing day – and that is the truth.