Carry Me Down (19 page)

I go to my room so they won’t see my disappointed face.

After school the next day, I see the gang at the base of the stairs. They are huddled together, rummaging through a shopping trolley full of somebody’s groceries.

I turn back and walk around the block a few times and, when I return, they have gone.

My mother is sitting in the living room darning socks, and she is wearing one of her good dresses, the pink and black dress she wore to mass on Easter Sunday. She looks beautiful, darning and listening to the radio.

I say hello and then go to the bedroom, where I lie on my stomach. I need to think about the gang and what I’ll do next.

At teatime, she comes in to ask me what I’m doing. I tell her I’m thinking about some of the things I’ve read in
The Guinness Book of Records
.

She puts her long hair into a ponytail. ‘It’s time for tea.’

‘Can I stay here? I’m not hungry.’

‘If you want.’

She leaves and I scratch my head, the same place I always scratch. But I have gone too far again and there’s blood on my fingers. I wipe the blood away on my trousers. I go on thinking and scratching and then I close my eyes.

My mother comes back a few minutes later with a ham sandwich and sits on the end of the bed. ‘Here, you have to eat something.’

I take the plate but don’t eat the sandwich.

‘Is everything OK?’

‘Everything’s fine.’

I would like to tell her about the gang; about how I owe them a sink and about how I will need to avoid them on the way home every night.

She stands next to the bed and looks down at my head. ‘You’re bleeding!’

‘I didn’t realise.’

‘I’m going to put some Dettol on that.’

She returns with the bottle and a ball of cotton wool and sits next to me on the bed as she puts the Dettol on the hole in my scalp.

‘Are you troubled by something?’ she asks.

‘No, I’m just thinking. I’ve been thinking a lot.’

‘You’re in the amusement park again? The one you told me about?’

At least she can remember this.

‘Yes.’

Then, as we lie on the bed, looking up at the ceiling, we both hear it: an aeroplane flying low, on its way down to Dublin airport. The groan of the landing gear, the low moan of the engines.

I go to the window. ‘I can see the tip of the wing,’ I say. ‘It’s very low.’

I get quite excited when I say this, even though I’m lying. I can’t see the plane. I’m a better liar than I was in Gorey. It seems likely that I will become both a great lie detector and a gifted liar. I have no intention of lying in any bad way, and I won’t be a criminal or a cheat, but it will be a crucial second stage of my art to be able to sit through a polygraph test and win. Surely this combination of talents will bring more fame.

I keep looking up at the sky, at nothing but grey clouds. And I say, ‘I can see the plane, Mam!’

I imagine being on that plane, the dinner on my lap and a blanket to sleep under. I tell my mother about the headphones, slippers and eye-masks first-class passengers are given on aeroplanes.

‘You seem to know a lot about what happens on planes for somebody who hasn’t been in one.’

‘That’s because I know I’m going to go on one. Unlike some people, like Da, I know I’m going to do the things I really want to do and not just talk about it.’

She pulls the eiderdown up under her chin. ‘John, if you can’t say something nice then don’t say anything at all.’

‘Even if it’s the truth?’

‘You’re not being fair. I think you need to learn some tolerance. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’

The Bible! I can’t speak so I make a loud and long growling noise, like a dog shouting.

‘John? What’s got into you?’

She didn’t sound like this in Gorey. She read books and used witty and interesting words and talked about making puppets, and now she is sad and weak for no good reason.

‘How can you not realise how dumb you sound?’ I shout. ‘You’re a dummy all of a sudden! A dummy lady with the voice of an old hag at the bus stop. Why do you only talk to me with these sayings all the time? You’re a dummy!’

‘That’s not fair.’ She closes her eyes.

‘Yes, it is. It’s fair and it’s true. You’re like a zombie since we moved here.’

She opens her eyes. ‘We’re all going through a very trying and difficult time.’

I don’t know what happens to me but I am suddenly on the bed, on my knees, and I have my hand over my mother’s mouth,
like a gag, to stop her from speaking. To stop her from being a weak person. Repeating what she hears and making herself dumb.

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up! Don’t say any more.’

I can’t stop screaming at her to make her shut up. She struggles, which makes me frightened, but I am strong, and I keep my hand over her mouth while she tries to speak, while she struggles to get my hand away from her face.

‘Shut up!’ I scream. ‘Stop trying to talk!’

When, at last, she is silent, I take my hand off her mouth and sit on the bed next to her. She moves away from me, but doesn’t get up from the bed. She looks at me. There is no expression on her face, a blankness. Empty.

‘Just don’t talk to me,’ I say. ‘Just stay quiet.’

She looks at me. No tears, not afraid. Blank.

‘Don’t do that. Don’t just stare at me. I just want you to be quiet.’

‘I am quiet,’ she says.

She closes her eyes, as though waiting.

I am quiet too and my heart stops thumping, but there is a strange taste in my mouth; like dirt, like soil. I want her to open her eyes. ‘I’m going out to watch television now,’ I say.

She opens her eyes and stares at me again.

I leave the bedroom.

I don’t feel bad about what I’ve done, only surprised, as though I have been somewhere else, or asleep for a few minutes; in a film or a play.

I go out into the living room and my father isn’t there, and I’m not very interested in where he is.

I eat some biscuits and then I sit at the kitchen table with a pad and pen and compose another letter to the
Guinness Book of Records
.

At ten o’clock my mother comes into the kitchen. She stands
awkwardly in the doorway. I think she was hoping I wouldn’t be here.

‘I’m sorry about before,’ I say. ‘Could I please have a stamp?’

She is tense and nervous; her posture is stooped and her pupils are black and too big. She looks shorter and her mouth is smaller, tightly shut, not as red as it is supposed to be.

‘I’ve a good mind to smack you,’ she says, her voice pinched and small. ‘I’ve been trying for hours to calm myself down so that I wouldn’t.’

I go and stand by her. ‘Go on. Smack me now.’

She doesn’t hesitate. She brings her hand up over her head and then she smacks me hard across my face. It stings the way a football does when it hits my leg on a cold day.

She goes to the table and sits down.

I follow her and sit too.

‘Don’t you ever lay a hand on me again, John. Not ever again.’

‘I’m sorry. I won’t. I promise.’

We sit for a minute, both of us looking at the kitchen table. She goes to the fridge and takes out some corned beef. She slices it and then she boils brussels sprouts and carrots. I watch her. She offers me a sandwich. I tell her I’m not hungry.

‘Is the stamp you need for your letter to the
Guinness Book of
Records?
’

‘Yes.’

‘I think we should forget about this lie-detection business. Don’t you?’

‘That’s what you say every time we talk about it. Don’t you understand? I’ve had to tell you twice and both times you’ve said exactly the same thing. Can’t you understand anything?’

‘I’m tired,’ she says. ‘I’m very tired.’

She licks the stamp for me, and her tongue looks swollen, too fat and red.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘I’m going to sleep now. Tell your father when he gets in that his tea is in the oven.’

Two days later, it’s the weekend and the sun is out, but I can’t go outside because of the gang. They are probably still waiting for me. They might want to bash me. But I’m still more afraid of being shamed than of being hit. I don’t want to be laughed at and humiliated.

I stay inside the flat and tell my mother I feel sick. She asks me if I’d like to go to the zoo, testing perhaps, to see if I’m lying about feeling sick.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I feel sick.’

She offers to take my temperature. I tell her not to worry about it.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’m going for a ride on a bus to Stephen’s Green and then I’m going to walk for a while and get a big dose of fresh air. I might even see a film.’

‘Where’s Da?’

‘He’s working. He’s got a job with Uncle Jack today. He’ll be home for tea.’

I lie on the settee and eat poached eggs on toast. There’s a film on television that’s set in a boy’s school in England and the well-spoken voice of the actor playing the teacher makes me think of Mr Roche.

After the film, I decide to see if I can find Mr Roche’s telephone number. I remember that the headmaster said that Mr Roche was
from Dublin, so I look in the Dublin directory. There are too many people called Roche and I don’t know his first name. I find the number for Gorey National School instead. I don’t expect anybody to be at the school of a Saturday, but a woman answers the phone after two rings.

I tell her who I am, an ex-pupil of Mr Roche’s and that I’d like to speak to him.

‘You’re Helen Egan’s boy,’ she says.

‘Yes, I am.’

She gives me Mr Roche’s number in Gorey. When I thank her, she says, ‘How is your mammy?’

‘She’s grand,’ I say.

‘You’re lucky you caught me here. I was just about to lock up. Will you tell her I was asking after her?’

‘Yes, I will,’ I say. ‘I have to go now. Bye-bye.’

I hang up and take a few deep breaths before I dial the number.

When I hear his soft, slow voice, saying, ‘Hello, David Roche speaking’, I get nervous. My throat dries and my hand trembles.

I don’t intend to play a practical joke, but that’s what happens. ‘Hello,’ I say, ‘this is Mr Roche.’

He says, ‘
This
is Mr Roche.’

I say, ‘I think I am a distant relative of yours and wonder if you might invite me to your abode for a cup of tea.’

He hangs up.

I don’t understand what I have done. I call again straight away. If I wait, I’ll lose my courage. I speak in a rush. ‘Hello Mr Roche. It’s John Egan, sir. I was in your class at Gorey National School.’

There is a long pause. I hear some papers rustling and then, when he finally speaks, he seems to have food in his mouth. ‘Oh, the boy who left in the dead of night?’

‘Yes,’ I say, pleased that he remembers. Perhaps things will work out between us after all. He will help me do what I need to do to become
famous. He will help me get the attention of the
Guinness Book
. ‘We moved to Dublin. To Ballymun, sir.’

Another long pause, while my heart races.

‘Did you ring this number a few minutes ago?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I say. ‘No. I just called now. For the first time.’ This is a lie told badly.

‘Well, whoever it was sounded as if it could have been you.’

‘Well, it wasn’t, sir. It must have been somebody else. It must have been a coincidence.’

I notice the sensations caused by lying: what lying does to my temperature, my voice and my body. I notice that my left hand is in a fist but it is hard to know what my right hand might be doing if it were not occupied holding the telephone receiver. I also notice that I am speaking faster than usual.

‘You live in Ballymun now.’

I am not sure if this is a question or a statement. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s pretty good when you get used to it.’

He’s definitely eating. I wait for him to chew and swallow. ‘I’ll pray you never get used to it. I’ll pray you’ll leave the very first chance you get.’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘that’s exactly right and …’

‘Well, young John, remember to be good and, more importantly, good luck.’

He hangs up.

I have never been on the phone with somebody who didn’t bother to say goodbye. I say goodbye to the beeping tone, and then I look around the living room, embarrassed.

I pace the living room floor behind the settee for a while and then I call him again. ‘Sir,’ I say. ‘It’s me again.’

‘Yes.’

‘I forgot to tell you that I have a gift.’

‘I don’t think there’s any need to be sending me a present.’

‘Not a present, sir. A gift. I’m gifted. I have a gift.’

He breathes heavily but doesn’t speak.

I wait.

‘What kind of gift?’

He sounds bored. I’m no longer sure that I should tell him. ‘I can’t say yet. But it’s a real gift and I was wondering if you could help with a letter I need to …’

‘Why mention this gift if you can’t tell me what it is?’

Why don’t I say what I set out to say? Why can’t I control what I say and how I say it? How can I have been thrown off course so easily? I hate myself.

‘Well, sir. I’m going to be famous one day. I think I’m a human lie detector. I’m pretty sure, but I need help with …’

He clears his throat. ‘Yes? Go on.’

I tell him about my father’s and grandmother’s lies. I tell him about The Gol of Seil, and the books I have read.

‘Tell me more,’ he says. ‘Explain it to me.’

I have a chance now to prove that I have a gift and to show off some of what I have learnt. ‘I have an instinct and I know that lying stirs up emotions that are involuntary and I know these emotions can’t be completely hidden.’

I continue. He has stopped eating.

‘And I can see these emotions in people’s faces and in what they do with their bodies, how they fidget with their hands, and other things. I can even tell when a good liar is lying because “one of the most important clues to a deception is the mismatch between what the person is saying and what his face and body are doing”.’

‘That’s quite a mouthful. You’ve obviously done your homework. But how do you know these sensations of yours are not simply feelings like hurt and shame? Emotions you feel when you believe somebody close to you is lying?’

‘Because there is proof. I tested it on Brendan and I’ve made notes in my Log of Lies.

He laughs. ‘As long as this goes no further,’ he says, ‘I am happy to tell you that Brendan is one of the worst young liars I have ever encountered, both with respect to the number of lies he tells and their alarming lack of credibility.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘But …’ I’m angry and short of breath, as though I’ve been running. I make sure that I don’t sound angry.

He begins to eat again. ‘You might want to test this gift of yours on some friends who are more practised liars.’

‘Well,’ I say, ‘I met this gang. I could practise on them. Maybe next time I could …’

He coughs loudly to interrupt me. Is this a trick for getting in the way of a boring speech? Does he mean to cut me off? If I don’t do something to stop it, I’ll become too angry to speak. I take a deep breath and count to ten.

‘Well, John, I’m intrigued. If you still have this gift when you finish your Leaving, please feel free to contact me.’

‘All right, sir.’

‘I do mean that, John. I’d like you to have something that will get you out of that wretched place.’

He speaks this last sentence with a warmth that is so sudden, and so strong, I feel the urge to cry, to laugh, to clap my hands. He doesn’t hate me. ‘Me too,’ I say. ‘I hope so too.’

I go to the dresser and get the permanent black marker Mammy uses for writing my name on the labels of my new clothes. I take my jersey off and write Mr Roche’s phone number on the inside of my left arm, just under my armpit; if the number fades when I wash it, I’ll write over it again. I will keep the number with me every day.