Carry Me Down

by M. J. Hyland

  ‘Well, I wasn’t an animal. I wasn’t a dog or a sheep, was I?’

  ‘I can hear that you are angry. Do you think my questions are unfair?’

  ‘No.’

  He stands up. ‘Would you like a glass of water? Or a fizzy drink?’

  ‘OK. Please.’

  ‘Which? The water or the fizzy drink?’

  ‘A Fanta.’

  ‘I only have Club Orange, will that do?’

  He opens the fridge (its door is behind a wood panel) and takes out a bottle of Club Orange, then he offers me a box that contains hundreds of paper straws with bendable tops.

  I choose a blue one.

  ‘Blue for a boy,’ he says.

  I frown.

  ‘While you drink your fizzy drink, I’m going to ask some questions and the most important thing is that you should answer them truthfully. Can I ask you to give me your word that you will answer truthfully?’

  ‘Yes.’ And I will.

  He sits down behind his desk, this time in a normal position, legs under the desk, pen in hand poised over a blank sheet of paper. ‘OK. Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you able to ignore physical pain?’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes.’ I think of making my head bleed and not feeling it.

  ‘Are you ever not sure whether you have done something or only thought about it?’

  He is in a hurry and doesn’t seem to care about the answer. If I wasn’t telling the truth, his lack of attention would bother me less, but since I’m telling the truth I don’t understand why he seems so uninterested.

  ‘Yes. Sometimes I’m confused like that, especially during the night.’

  ‘Do you spend time staring into space?’

  ‘A lot. But I’m thinking, not just staring. I’m always thinking when I’m staring.’

  ‘Are you ever not sure whether an event happened or was a dream?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s never happened.’ Now I have been inconsistent.

  He looks up from the desk and coughs. ‘Do you ever not remember important events in your life?’

  ‘I can’t remember being born or when I was a baby.’

  ‘What about events in the past six or seven years?’

  ‘I don’t remember my first Holy Communion. I only know what happened because there are photos and because Mammy tells me what happened.’

  Suddenly he is interested. He stands up and walks to the smaller desk near his filing cabinet and the fridge. He stands with his back to this smaller desk and puts his clasped hands in front of his belt buckle.

  ‘Could something bad have happened that day that you don’t remember?’

  ‘How would I know, if I can’t remember?’

  I stand, too, and offer him my bottle of Club Orange, but he refuses it by waving his hand.

  ‘Please, John. Sit down.’

  I sit and he sits, back behind his big, glass-topped desk.

  ‘Do you ever find notes or drawings that you must have done but don’t remember doing?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lie.

  ‘Do you hear voices inside your head?’

  Shouldn’t he want to know more about the drawings before he moves to the next question? ‘Only my own. Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Do other people and objects sometimes not seem real to you?’

  This is a good question. I need to think about this for a while; about what ‘real’ means. ‘No. Yes. Sometimes people. Like my mother. She didn’t seem real before it happened or during, but after she did. After it happened, she seemed real again.’

  I swallow and stop talking.

  ‘Do you want to say any more about this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It might help. To say more might help. This is important.’

  I lower my head and don’t speak.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you ever feel as though your body is not your own?’

  ‘That’s a bit stupid.’

  ‘What’s your answer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you ever not recognise your own reflection in the mirror?’

  ‘No.’

  He stands up and I hope it’s time for me to go home. I’m very hungry.

  ‘All right, John. You did well. You thought about your answers and you were very patient. I’m going to leave you alone now for a while. I’m going to go into another room and chat to your mother. Are you happy to sit here for a few minutes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He leaves and locks the door behind him, and then I notice the bars on the windows and my stomach turns. It seems unfair somehow; he ought to have told me he was going to lock me in and, because I know I’m locked in, I want to get out.

  When he doesn’t come back after ten minutes, I look for something to eat in his fridge. There’s a pat of butter and an apple and nothing else. I eat the butter while I sit and read some pamphlets and articles about child suicide, but none of the notes say anything about the ages of these children, and I wonder how old the youngest suicide was, and how they did it.

  I get bored. He has me waiting for half an hour. I would like to talk to somebody.

  I take off my shirt and look at my arm. There it is – Mr Roche’s phone number.

  I dial the number but I don’t expect anybody to answer.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello. It’s John Egan.’

  ‘Well now! Hello.’

  I whisper. ‘I’m back in Gorey and I still have my gift. I want to use it but they all want me to keep it a secret.’

  ‘Who wants it to be a secret?’

  ‘Everybody.’

  ‘And why must it be a secret?’

  ‘They think it’s destructive and dangerous.’

  ‘And is it?’

  I hear footsteps outside. ‘I have to go,’ I say and hang up.

  But the footsteps disappear and nobody is coming. I am alone again and, although the silence is as heavy in the room, I feel lighter.

  Dr Murphy returns with my mother. The pat of butter has made the roof of my mouth feel slippery, but otherwise I feel well.

  My mother smiles and puts her hand out for me to hold, and Dr Murphy raises his eyebrows, not in an obvious way, but I see it clearly enough and so does my mother.

  She looks at him, grins, then gives me a good long kiss on the cheek. ‘Come on, darling one. Let’s get you home.’

  It’s a sunny, warm afternoon. She takes my hand and we walk to the car.

  ‘What did he say?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘You don’t care? Why not?’

  ‘It occurred to me while he was prating away to me about dissociative disorders and borderline personalities and medications and ECG … well, it struck me that I don’t care what he thinks. He’s only met you once and he’s after giving you every disease of the mind known to mankind.’

  I spin around, and laugh. I grab both her hands and raise them up. ‘So I’m free?’

  She stops dead and lets go of my hands. ‘Don’t get too carried away.’

  She walks on and I follow her.

  37

  At half eight in the morning, I wake to hear my father talking outside to another man. And then somebody leaves by the front door. A few minutes later my mother knocks on my door.

  ‘There’s somebody here to see you,’ she says.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s your old class teacher, Mr Roche.’

  She closes the door and leans against it. She tells me that Mr Roche no longer teaches at Gorey National School and that he has work as a private tutor now.

  ‘He seems to have heard that you’re back and wanted to pay you a visit. But he doesn’t know about anything. And, as we’ve discussed, there is no need for anybody to know what happened.’

  ‘I want to see him.’

  ‘Good. Now, get dressed. And don’t forget your hat. You father has gone out for a while and when he gets back he’ll
want to see you wearing that hat. And don’t come out until you’ve made your bed.’

  ‘Can’t I make the bed later? It’s rude to keep visitors waiting.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s rude and what isn’t,’ she says. ‘Make your bed.’

  She watches while I make my bed. Then she tells me to dress (with the hat) and wash up before going out to the living room.

  * * *

  Mr Roche is sitting in my grandmother’s armchair by the fire. He’s wearing a suit and he’s holding a present; a small box wrapped in silver paper. ‘Hello, young man,’ he says, smiling.

  His shoulder-length hair has been cut short, and he looks fatter and has a melted face, especially around his mouth and chin.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ I say.

  He looks at my mother, and she leaves, but she doesn’t shut the door; she leaves it slightly ajar. Mr Roche stands up and hands me the box.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just a small gift. Open it later.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Shall we catch up on your news first?’

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ I say.

  ‘My pleasure. So, how are you?’

  I don’t like that he has come without warning and he sits too far back, and too relaxed, in my grandmother’s armchair. I sit on the edge of the settee. And, even though I am lonely, I regret that I phoned him yesterday.

  ‘I’d like to hear your news,’ he says.

  I cannot speak. I don’t know what’s wrong. There’s no way to begin. I don’t know why he’s here. I feel clumsy and ugly and don’t want to be looked at the way he looks at me.

  But he stands and comes and sits by me. He sits close and puts his hand on my sleeve. I should be happy that he’s here; after all, I wanted him to like me.

  ‘So, tell me how you are. I can see that your mind is racing.’

  Can he? Can he see that?

  ‘It looks to me like there are so many things you’d like to say that you don’t know where to start. It looks to me like that charming face of yours is trying to hide a multitude of fascinating things.’

  I look over his shoulder at the door. Surely this will make him be quiet.

  ‘Why don’t you start by telling me what it was like in Ballymun? What about your gift for lie detection?’

  I look at the door again. ‘I don’t have it any more,’ I say.

  ‘But yesterday you …’

  I put my finger over my mouth to shush him, but he goes on.

  ‘Perhaps you never did have a gift,’ he says. ‘Maybe you’re as commonplace as the next boy.’

  My heart pounds with hurt and anger. ‘But I thought you believed me?’ I say.

  Mr Roche reaches out and touches my hand. I look at it, curious.

  ‘Talk to me about the gift, then. What was it like when you could tell somebody was lying? By what means did you know it?’

  I sit up straight. And then I realise what he is trying to do. He is trying to trap me into talking about my gift by making me defend myself. I think this is clever but it also makes me angry. My anger surprises me. I feel calm and suddenly I hate the person who has tricked me so much I would like never to see them again. I want to leave the room. ‘I just knew it,’ I say.

  ‘But how, John?’

  ‘It’s not like the books say. The police know a criminal is lying about a crime “because his mouth gets dry, because his face gets flushed, and his carotid artery throbs”. But I didn’t ever see these things. I could tell from the little things. Facial expressions, and hands and voice mostly.’

  ‘But you were detecting lies within your own family and these are people you know very well. Aren’t you just reading them from your knowledge of them? Did you ever detect others lying?’

  I stand up. ‘But, anyway,’ I say, ‘I don’t have it any more.’

  He says nothing for a while and neither do I. We are silent for several minutes and the clock above the mantelpiece ticks so slowly it is as though it is trying to make my heart stop.

  I am agitated and restless. I tear at the paper around the present until I have it opened. I throw the shreds of paper onto the floor. His present is a fancy gift-set containing a razor, a bar of soap, a shaving brush and aftershave lotion. There’s a card too, which probably has money in it. I’ll open that later.

  ‘I hope these things aren’t premature,’ he says.

  ‘No. I like them. Thank you.’

  I move towards him because I think I should hug him or show some gratitude but he also gets to his feet and we are standing too close. I start to sweat. ‘So, thanks,’ I say.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  My mother comes in. She has make-up on and looks well. ‘I have to take John away now,’ she says. ‘He hasn’t had any breakfast and we’ve a thousand things to get done today.’

  ‘Right, so,’ says Mr Roche. ‘I’ll be off.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  We walk outside with him. When he gets to the front garden, he stops, puts his hands on his hips, looks down the road, and then at his watch. He doesn’t have a car. I wonder how far he will have to walk, and so does my mother, but she doesn’t offer to drive him.

  At breakfast, my mother and father both read while they eat their porridge, and my grandmother stands by the range, peeling carrots.

  Suddenly, my father puts his book down and clears his throat. ‘John? Would you like to go to the big house today? Your mammy said you’d like to go and look at the model village there.’

  ‘Really? Today?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s a nice sunny day and we think making a model village sounds like a very good project.’

  ‘I’d like to go very much. I’d love that.’

  ‘Well, then. As soon as we’ve finished breakfast.’

  ‘The people might be home from Dublin,’ says Granny. ‘You might not be allowed in.’

  She drops a potato and it rolls under the table. I pick it up and hand it to her. I stay standing by her and she says, ‘Now that I think about it, I don’t think the people are home from Dublin. I think you’ll be allowed in.’

  ‘All right,’ says my mother. ‘The four of us will go.’

  We all look at Granny. ‘No, no,’ she says. ‘You go on. I’ll stay here. You won’t be long.’

  We arrive at the gates of the house as the gardener is leaving in his van. My mother leans across my father and beeps the horn. The gardener sees her, and she waves at him. He stops and gets out of his van. She gets out of the car and runs over to him.

  My father and I stay in the car and watch. My mother stands close to the gardener and he looks at his watch. He shakes his head, but she puts her hand on his arm. She must be saying ‘please’ because her face is smiling.

  He looks at his watch again, and then he nods.

  She comes back to the car. ‘We have five minutes. That’s all. I told him John has six weeks to live.’

  ‘Did he remember us from last time?’ I ask.

  ‘It seems not.’

  My father looks at my mother.

  She nods, ‘Let’s go in, then.’

  ‘I’ll stay here and wait,’ he says. ‘You’ll only be five minutes.’

  ‘You’re coming too,’ she says. ‘And bring the camera.’

  * * *

  My father gives me the camera and we walk for a while through the downstairs rooms and then I tell them I want to go up, alone, to the room with the model village.

  ‘Why must you go alone?’

  ‘Can I tell you later? I swear I’ll tell you. You’ll be happy and pleased when I tell you.’

  ‘Be right back here in two minutes,’ says my father.

  I look at my watch. ‘I promise,’ I say.

  I go into the nursery room, and it is as it was before, only this time there are more bottles filled with sand and there is a second rocking horse between the two small beds.

  I go to the model village by the window and look a
t it. Everything is just as it was. There are trains and shops and plastic people and shrubs and dogs. And the train to Pigalle has a balcony at the back for passengers to stand on.

  And then I see it: there is a new stationmaster. And, just like the stationmaster in my hand, he has a moustache, wears a red cap with a visor, and he stands on a flat piece of green plastic.

  The stationmaster at the station for the train to Pigalle has been replaced. There he is, identical to the one in my hand, a little less dusty, but the same. And now there are two; two of the same.

  I put my stationmaster next to the substitute. They stand side by side. It’s a strange but happy sight, the twin stationmasters. But they might not be twins; they might be brothers, or friends, or just two men who look very much alike. Or, they could be the same person.

  I take a photograph of one stationmaster standing alone and then I take a second photograph of both stationmasters standing together.

  I stand back and smile.

  * * *

  I put the camera in my parka pocket and leave the nursery. I go to the landing at the top of the stairs, where I stop and look down, and I see my mother. There she is, there she is waiting.

  I walk down to greet her and, as I walk, I make loose fists of my hands and put them by my side. I shout ‘Ahoy!’ when I’m half way down, and she turns around to look up at me. When I get to the bottom, she smiles and I smile back. My father is standing by the front door, his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Are you finished?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And I got what I needed.’

  ‘What have you got there?’ she asks.

  ‘Where?’ I say.

  ‘In your hands?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It looks to me like you’ve got something in your hands.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t.’

  ‘Then open them.’

  I stand back and bump against the banister. ‘Why?’ I ask.

  My father steps forward, comes towards us.

  ‘Open your hands!’ says my mother.

  I say nothing and she puts her hands over mine and tries to open them.

  And now my father is by my left side and he is pulling at my fingers, ‘What are you hiding?’

  I keep my hands shut tight.

  My mother struggles with my right hand and my father takes hold of my left. I use all the strength I have to stop them, but both, at last, succeed, and my hands are open, and empty. Both empty.