M. Hyland - Carry Me Down

Gay Byrne and the volunteer look at each other, delighted and amazed. ‘That’s right,’ says the woman. ‘I do have three daughters and a son but I don’t live in Galway. I live in Doolin.’

When I’m finished with the daydream I read about The Great Train Robbery. On the 8th August, 1963, between 3.10 am and 3.45 am, a General Post Office mail-train from Glasgow was ambushed by a gang of thieves who escaped with 120 postbags containing more than forty-two million pounds. One of the thieves has not yet been caught and his name is Ronald Biggs.

I wonder what it felt like to steal so much money. If I felt as though my heart was trying to escape through my ears when I stole ninety pounds from my grandmother’s purse, then Ronald Biggs must have felt like his arms and legs would fall off with all the thumping of frightened blood. Even when I look under my mattress, to see if the money I stole is still there, my hands shake for as much as an hour afterwards. And how did Ronald Biggs know what to do with the money when I cannot even decide what to do with my scrawny little pile of notes?

And then my father shouts my name and I know it’s time for the Hitchcock film.

For two days my classmates have teased me. Some have made a special effort to ambush me on my way into class. Yesterday, the redhead threw water at my feet while I sat at my desk, and whenever Miss Collins turns her back to the class the girl next to me says, ‘Wee, wee, wee, all the way home.’ And, with one exception, Brendan has not spoken to me since it happened.

It is half three. I sit at my desk and wait for everybody to leave before I go out to the corridor. Brendan is walking along by the coat rack. I don’t need to ask him why he is walking up and down the corridor like this. I know that he can’t find his anorak. He can’t find it because at lunchtime I took it off the hook and have it stuffed in the bottom of my schoolbag.

I ask him why he is still here.

‘I can’t find my anorak.’

‘I’ll help you look,’ I say.

I try to sound calm, but my hands are sweating in my pockets. We look for his anorak and, when we can’t find it, I suggest that we should walk home together. I give him my anorak to wear, and he doesn’t ask why I don’t need mine, or why I have worn two jumpers today.

At last we are alone together and I can tell him the story about why I wet my pants. I lie to him in order to keep him as my friend and I don’t feel sick. I tell him it was a record-breaking attempt.

‘That’s a pretty stupid record,’ he says.

‘I nearly broke it. I held on for twenty-six hours.’

‘You held on for twenty-six hours!’

‘Twenty-five hours and fifty minutes.’

‘You should tell everybody that.’

‘Maybe,’ I say, ‘but they probably won’t believe me. The record is thirty hours. So I nearly broke it.’

He looks away.

‘Do you want me to come over on Sunday and play football or something?’ I ask.

Brendan coughs, like my father does when he’s not sure what to do. ‘I don’t know yet. I might have to go to a christening.’

‘OK,’ I say.

It’s Friday morning and, after breakfast, I wait until there is nobody in the kitchen so that I can call Brendan to tell him I want to carry out a special experiment.

‘Like the piss experiment?’

‘Completely different. Can you stay at my house tonight?’

‘I don’t think I’ll be allowed,’ he says.

‘It’s important.’

‘Maybe. I have to go now. My porridge is going cold.’

‘I’ll give you five quid,’ I say.

‘Liar.’

‘I’ll bring the money today and show you.’

‘How’d you get five quid?’

‘I saved it.’

‘Liar. That would take a hundred years.’

‘My granny won some at the races and gave me a bit. But you can’t tell anyone and if you do I’ll get the money back off you.’

‘OK.’

‘And bring your sleeping bag.’

‘Why?’

‘Because.’

I have told my mother that I am staying at Brendan’s house tonight and that I’m going there straight after school. She won’t check on me; she has no reason to.

It is half three. I tell Brendan to come to the shed. ‘Why? Aren’t we going to your house?’

‘Just follow me. You’ll see.’

We go to the shed. The caretaker is cleaning a desk with steel wool. ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Any of this graffiti yours?’

‘Nope’ I say. ‘We need to have the keys to the shed for one night.’

The caretaker looks at the floor then slowly back up at me. ‘And if you’re caught you’ll say you stole the keys from the office?’

‘Definitely,’ I say.

‘And you’ll be using my shed to get up to no good?’

I look at the floor, then slowly back up, the way the caretaker did. Confident people seem able to handle silence and are good at pausing.

I’ve been thinking about how I should behave and I think I should have a confident way about me in time for my first meeting with the Guinness Book people. I’ll work first on my hands, then on my voice, and on my walk last of all.

‘Something like that,’ I say. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘Clean the toilets. When you come back the shed will be ready.’

The caretaker hands me the keys. I take note of the way he doesn’t have to use many words to tell you what he wants.

* * *

As we walk to the toilets, Brendan grabs my arm. ‘What’s going on? I thought we were going to your house?’

‘We need the shed for the night for my experiment. But I can’t tell you what it is yet.’

‘You have to tell me. I’m not staying unless you tell me.’

I open the door to the toilets. ‘All right. It’s a lie detection test. I’m going to prove that I’m a human lie detector.’

‘That’s stupid.’

‘How do you know it’s stupid? I haven’t shown you yet. It’s like I’m a polygraph, only I don’t need a machine.’

‘What’s a polygraph?’

‘It’s a machine that’s hooked up to criminals to see if they are lying, but I’m probably a better lie detector than any machine.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The polygraph measures breathing and blood pressure and how much the suspect sweats. But some people don’t feel guilty when they lie and the needle of the polygraph doesn’t move. These people are super-liars. And some innocent suspects get so nervous that the polygraph thinks they’re guilty. But when I detect lies I see in a split-second what a machine can’t see, and I detect loads of signals and things called micro-expressions. And I feel sick and my ears burn, but not as much as in the beginning.’

His eyes are wide and his mouth is open. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I have a gift for lie detection.’

‘You’re making it up.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are.’

‘I’m not.’

‘So how did you learn how to do it? Who taught you?’

‘I didn’t learn. I found out that I could just do it. It’s just something I can do. But I’ve read all the books now and they help me know what’s going on. The books tell me what my brain is doing when I spot a lie.’

‘Can’t we do the experiment at your house?’

I tell myself to use fewer words. ‘No privacy there,’ I say.

I turn away from him and use the mop and bucket to splash already dirty water on the floor. Brendan leans against the wall and watches me clean and does not offer to help. He has the upper hand now; but I’ll get it back soon enough.

‘How do you know when somebody’s lying then?’ he asks.

‘In the beginning I used to feel sick and vomit, but now I get hot ears and I can just tell by what happens to a person’s face and hands.’