It sounded ridiculous to me. I told him I didn’t believe that MI5 would try to ensure his silence by framing him for a high-profile murder. He insisted, became agitated and flushed, and at one point almost tearful. I suddenly saw myself, an arrogant law student sitting in a dirty café correcting a red-faced old bloke about the narrative arc of his life.
Meehan insisted that his life made sense. He wasn’t prepared to accept that his life, like most eventful lives, was nothing but a series of comic mishaps and tragedies strung together in a meaningless pattern. Someone knew what was going on and had directed it all. In looking for a shadowy instigator, it seemed as though he was insisting that God existed.
We finished our tea and cigarettes and parted on a sour note. He blanked me for the rest of the summer. Every time I passed him at the foot of the stairs on my way up to visit my mum, he’d busy himself tidying the piles of books or look into the distance with narrowed eyes, pretending to spot an imaginary friend. I always said hello just to let him snub me.
As I’ve grown older I’ve come to realize that nothing silences an awkward truth more effectively than ridicule. His story was implausible enough to be true.
Meehan kept on telling his story. He told it to anyone he met.
He died of throat cancer in 1994.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book just couldn’t have happened without the efforts and insights of Selina Walker, and I cannot thank her enough for her patience and sharp eye. Katrina Whone, Rachel Calder, and Reagan Arthur also gave me great direction nearer the end.
Many people have helped with my research. Thanks and lunches are due to Stephen McGinty, Linda Watson-Brown, and Val McDermid, who gave me invaluable insights into the workings of a busy newsroom in the early eighties. Also to Kester Aspden for materials kindly given for no return.
Inspiration for the story was provided by the brilliant Dr. Clare McDermid’s work into the social construction of child offenders, most of which had to be cut out but will doubtless appear in another project at a later date.
Thanks also to Gerry Considine, who did his usual and gave me legal advice. Or did he this time? I can’t remember. Maybe it was Philip Considine or John Considine who gave me legal advice. If so, it’ll all be wrong because they’re not lawyers. Maybe it was Auntie Betty Considine. Is there a new European convention concerning wee cups of tea and fruit loaf?
Most of all, my undying gratitude to Steve, Monica, and Edith for their support during the scariest of wonderful times.
Denise Mina
