M. Hyland - Carry Me Down

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.

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.