The Truth About Lies

by Tracy Darnton

  “And we’d be making change one brick at a time, like the college mission statement,” says Keira.

  “It could be a Wall of Peace … or a pagoda … or a replica of the chapel,” says Maya with a dreamy far-off look in her eyes.

  “Or maybe a model of the Great Pyramid of Giza. With camels. That was Hanna’s favourite holiday,” I lie. I look sadly down at my shoes.

  Maya hugs me and Keira goes to see if there’s any Lego in the DT lab.

  I make my escape from Tweedle Dumb and Dumber and go back to my room. My own room. I used to share a twin with Hanna so, as I said, unintended consequences. I literally just had to burst into tears in front of Principal Barker and it was job done. New room, no roommate. I picked a modern room in C-Block, well away from the third floor, with my own en-suite. It still has that fresh-paint, new-carpets smell, which I reduce with a rosemary diffuser and by leaving the window slightly open. The walls and blinds are plain white so I’ve added a pineapple-patterned duvet cover and a cushion for the desk chair. It’s smaller than the twin rooms but I don’t have as much stuff as most people my age so that’s OK, and the view’s not the best in college but you can’t have everything.

  I hum away to myself as I sort out clothes for the vigil. Nothing too showy, nothing too plain. I smear concealer on a couple of spots. I bet Maya’s never had a blemish in her life. My hair looks smartest up so I loosely plait it and clip it at the back. I check myself in the mirror: every inch the devastated best friend. But I also look more like my mother, without the lipstick. Mum wore lip liner and red lipstick, even in her pyjamas over breakfast. She called it her warpaint, always ready to do battle with the world. She was what’s technically called ‘a pain in the arse’ but she revelled in it. She taught me everything I know.

  When Mum first took me, aged eleven, to our GP about my ‘problem’ she was typically itching for a fight. He was an impatient, grey-haired Scot with a large mole on his cheek, who enjoyed patronizing his patients. “Have I got this straight, Mrs Walsh? You’ve brought your daughter to see me because you think she’s too clever?” he said.

  I was sitting there, swinging my legs, silently memorizing all the titles on his bookshelf.

  “She knows things she shouldn’t be able to know yet,” repeated my mother slowly. “A huge volume of facts.”

  “Children are sponges at this age,” he said. “My own son was obsessed with dinosaurs.”

  “But she remembers everything. Not just what she’s read. What she’s seen. She can remember a particular day – what was on the TV, what we were wearing, the weather. Everything. Tell him,” she said, tugging at my arm. “Tell the doctor what you did a year ago today, for instance.”

  Too easy. It was a Wednesday. I was at school. It rained all morning. We read pages 45 to 60 of Matilda in class and talked about being nice to people. I ate a cheese sandwich and a banana for lunch. Boring. I didn’t think the doctor would be interested in any of that so I kept quiet.

  “Tell him!” Mum was working herself up.

  “You’ve updated your edition of Emergency Drugs in General Practice since I came with tonsillitis fifty-eight days ago,” I said. “And the cleaner still hasn’t removed the dead ladybird in the corner of the window.”

  “See! It’s weird, that’s what it is,” said Mum, and the doctor made a note. As usual with my mother and any interaction with authority, it ended with a row and her threatening to contact the Daily Mail over how he’d spoken to her. But it was also the beginning of the referral chain that led me to Professor Coleman and the Programme.

  I shrug off the memories, carefully refile the metaphorical book and put it back on the shelf in my mind-library. I grab my lip balm from my bag. The black-edged envelope addressed to Hanna is still in there. I’m impressed by its sense of occasion – like it’s been written by a fan of Tim Burton movies. I carefully rip it open with the edge of my thumb. Inside, written on black-edged card in sprawling cursive handwriting is one line:

  I know you didn’t jump

  4

  We do honestly repent and are sorry for our misdoings. The remembrance of them is grievous unto us; the burden is intolerable.

  The Book of Common Prayer, 1662

  I have to admit, the chapel looks beautiful. The choir stalls have the long candles lit and all around are flickering pillar candles and wall sconces. The statue of St Petroc is glowing, surrounded by tiny tea lights. By the aisle, there’s a framed photo of Hanna and a vase of lilies on a table. I hate the sickly sweet smell of lilies and Hanna was allergic to them, but never mind because this whole charade has nothing to do with the real Hanna. The mourners-in-chief Maya and Keira are by the door like a reception line at a wedding, holding it all together. They’re handing out red ribbons and forcing baskets of Lego on the congregation. A poor attempt at a multicoloured pyramid has its own table at the back. The ‘Hanna Carlsen collaborative peace model’. Please!

  “Hey, you came after all!” Dan’s by my elbow as I add a few red bricks and a policeman mini-figure to the display.

  “I’m here for Hanna,” I whisper. Slightly true, but mainly I didn’t want to stay in my room dwelling on the black-edged card.

  The chaplain clears her throat and we quickly take a seat as she welcomes us all. She’s Welsh with a gentle lilt and the perfect solemn voice for this occasion. Principal Barker, on the other hand, has a voice like fingernails on a blackboard and delivers a mercifully short reading of a Christina Rossetti poem. Her long grey hair is wound tightly into a bun and she’s changed out of her usual hand-woven-by-deserving-orphans outfit to dress smartly in black.

  After the choir sob their way through Hallelujah, and we recite a brief excerpt from the Book of Common Prayer, we come to the awkward ‘vigil’ when candles are handed out and we light our own from our neighbour’s. Principal Barker talks about the Dartmeet community pulling together and supporting each other, one metaphorical brick at a time. We have some time for silent prayer or reflections when I think through my biology homework, but then we all have to sit there with our candles slowly dripping hot wax while Mr Humphries massacres Rachmaninov on the piano. This being a vigil rather than a service means we have to hang around for ages, holding candles, drinking hot chocolate provided by the kitchens. Occasionally a tearful member of staff or a student will share a special memory or read a poem and then we all go back to the waiting. Waiting for midnight so we can go. I guess it’s as good a way as any for a bunch of sixteen-to-eighteen-year-olds stuck out on Dartmoor to pass a damp October evening.

  My candle needs replacing and I get up to stretch my legs. I check out the Book of Condolence to see if anyone has thought of anything original to say. And then I spot it, in the middle of the penultimate page:

  ‘And if thou wilt, remember

  And if thou wilt, forget.’

  Two lines from the Rossetti poem read by the Principal. But signed HCC. Hanna Camilla Carlsen. I scan faces to see who wrote in the book. Somebody in the chapel surely. I’m one messed-up bunny but even I don’t think you should pretend to be Hanna at her own memorial vigil.

  I take a new seat at the back, in sight of the Book of Condolence. As the clock strikes midnight, there’s a spontaneous round of applause, like we accomplished something. A truly wonderful occasion which afterwards everyone hails as a great success and so very moving. There’s an after-vigil party going down in B-Block with vodka and marshmallows but I pass. Maya and Keira decide to go but they completely understand if I’m ‘too upset’. I’m a difficult person to be pity-friends with and they look as relieved as I am when I decline.

  I kick around the cloisters for a bit, taking in the fresh air and the clear skies and the stars. When I first arrived here in January after what happened with Mum, I found it hard to adjust. It was so quiet after the noise of London. I missed the orange glow of the city and the rumble of traffic and intermittent sirens. But now I appreciate the quiet and darkness. I think it helps my unusual brain to keep on an even ke
el. Maybe that’s what Mum saw in the place. The owls can be loud sometimes, shrieking like there’s been a murder. And there are occasional night-time antics along the corridors between Lena, whose father is a Russian gas billionaire, and Makoto who’s a gentle guy from Japan who hadn’t met girls like Lena before. But mostly it’s incredibly peaceful.

  As soon as I get to my room, I know. I can picture in my head exactly how I left it earlier this evening. I know where the clothes were on the bed, the extent to which the drawers were left open and the arrangement of the items on the desk. Someone has been in here. Someone has opened drawers and cupboards, moved my papers, laid the jumper back on the bed instead of the chair. Nobody but me would know. It’s basically Kim’s game from that Kipling book. You’ve probably played an easier version at kids’ parties. Items are put on a tray for you to memorize and then one is removed and you have to spot what’s missing.

  I’m good at Kim’s game and all its variations. I mean really good at it. Professor Coleman trained me up. At the beginning, I enjoyed the tests and puzzles and attention. I guess it was flattering. I could be myself. I could show off. Everything I said and did was obsessed over, complimented. It was a whole new experience to have a group of people hanging on my every word and telling me how extraordinary I was.

  Before Mum had pulled me out of school after a series of stand-up rows with the Head, I’d spent a lot of time sitting by myself working my way through the school library. I didn’t really have friends there. I couldn’t forget when they were mean to me or excluded me or didn’t pick me for the rounders team. I couldn’t understand how they all managed to get along, how friendships were broken one minute and fixed the next, how they moved on so easily.

  But as the visits to the Programme increased, soon I was a freak show or circus act. I was a clever puppy made to jump through ever-increasing hoops. Take Kim’s game: first we did it with objects like the party game but increasing by fifty each time, then we did it with data – reams of data, names and addresses where one detail would be changed slightly, then satellite topographical pictures, and on and on. My latest trick was never enough – they always wanted me to do more.

  And overseeing it all, like a queen bee, was Professor Coleman.

  5

  Does everyone have an untapped store of vivid images and memories? Do we all have the capacity for the perfect memory, if only we had the key to retrieval?

  Principles of Memory – Professor A.E. Coleman

  I wake and lie staring at the ceiling as the daylight slowly creeps around the blinds. I wonder who’s been poking around my room and leaving black-edged notes and tasteless messages in condolence books for their entertainment.

  I read once how the Stasi in East Germany used to break into people’s apartments and move things around, or take worthless items away. They were messing with the heads of potential enemies of the state, to make them doubt their own state of mind. Simple but effective, though requiring a supremely callous disregard for your own citizens. But that technique would never have worked on me. I have the certainty that my recollection is one hundred per cent correct. When I was first diagnosed by Professor Coleman, she made it sound like it was a superpower but I was disappointed that it wasn’t as cool as flying or X-ray vision. It took me a while to see it had potential.

  Mum, on the other hand, was sure it wasn’t a good thing from the start. “Finally someone gets it,” she said to Coleman, pursing her perfect lips, outlined with her usual red lipstick. “Now what are you going to do about it?”

  “Observe her. Conduct research,” said Coleman. “There have been so few people across history with your daughter’s level of memory, Mrs Walsh. The photographic nature of her memory is exceptional enough but my interest lies in the autobiographical memory – the hyperthymesia.” She sounded out the six syllables. Coleman had a way of rubbing Mum up the wrong way by talking to her like she was a complete fool.

  “I meant, what are you going to do about making her better?” said Mum, fixing the professor with her hard stare reserved for obstructive council officials.

  Coleman had laughed. “This is a supreme talent, Mrs Walsh, not an illness.”

  But looking back, I’ve often thought Mum had it right.

  *

  I skip breakfast but I’m still late for my lesson – Theory of Knowledge, TOK for short. I sneak in at the back of the classroom with the other latecomers. The post-vigil party must have been a success as there are some bleary-eyed students here. Ms Macfarlan’s TOK class is usually the ideal opportunity for a gentle snooze. But there’s a different feel about the class today and it doesn’t need my brain to notice that Ms Mac has been replaced by a new, younger teacher. He’s wearing a tweed jacket and cords as though he’s come straight from a shooting party on the moor, or the Oxford debating society. He says he’s standing in for Ms Macfarlan and writes ‘Ramesh Desai’ on the board. He makes us all introduce ourselves like we’re at junior school and then says, “Good morning,” and repeats our names back.

  “Theory of Knowledge: how do we know what we know?” he says. “I understand you’ve been looking at perception and language so far. We’ll be exploring objective and subjective knowledge and what we choose to hang on to.” He’s clearly able to rely on his good looks for popularity as he breaks the rule for new teachers and hands out a test paper straight away. “But our first focus is memory as a way of knowing. Names on papers please, but I shan’t be giving grades for this – it’s purely for discussion.”

  A few people titter as they work their way through the questions. They range from giving your best friend’s phone number to the capital of Bolivia. I write down Hanna’s number before thinking about it. I wonder if I’d get her ‘please leave a message’ voice or if her parents have cancelled the phone contract and wiped out the last echo left of her. Obviously I could get full marks on Mr Desai’s general knowledge questions but I choose not to. I’ve learned it’s never a good idea to be exceptional, to be extraordinary.

  It always amazes me how little ordinary people know. Even with deliberately flunking some questions, I do better than nearly everyone.

  Mr Desai sits on the edge of his desk and thumbs through the test papers. “These are not impressive. Your brains are doing so many different things at once but the secret to good retention and retrieval is concentration. You need to let your brain focus on the facts you want it to absorb. Otherwise it will discard information immediately and that info has no chance of making it into your long-term memory.”

  He points at each of us in turn and repeats our names. “An easy trick. I merely paid attention when you told me your names, repeating them to myself, adding a visual image. So Felix I imagine holding his cartoon cat namesake, Dan in a karate suit as dan is a ranking system in martial arts, and so on.”

  Impressive for a normal person. Maya’s staring at him with her mouth open like he’s a wizard.

  “If you make your brain work at it, your retention will be better, in all your subjects,” says Mr Desai. “Your homework, folks: a thousand words on ‘We are delegating our memory. Discuss.’”

  Maya’s already got her hand up to say she doesn’t understand.

  Mr Desai takes a breath. “Your generation is content to delegate retention of facts to your phone, Wikipedia, Siri, Cortana, Alexa, anyone.” He holds up one of the papers. “And most of you can’t even remember an eleven-digit phone number. You merely tap the name of the person you’re calling on your handset. It’s no wonder you don’t know the dates for the Civil War or South American capitals. Most people find it difficult to retain more than seven items in short-term memory. Some research suggests the figure is closer to four.”

  He pauses and looks around at us. He’s way more intense than Ms Mac, who preferred to talk about patriarchal views of knowledge and women lost to history.

  “You, my little tech-freaks, have deskilled, contracted out, given up your own memory, your autonomy. And you’re too busy checking your Faceboo
k page to even care about it. Discuss.”

  He has my attention at least. I’ve never understood the love my contemporaries have for their technology but then I’m not reliant on it in the same way. I actually prefer the written page, flicking through real books in the college library, to browsing online; I’m old-fashioned like that. I can absorb a whole shelf in an evening if the mood takes me. Flash-click. Whereas all those Internet links online can be overwhelming for my type of brain, straining to take on every fact it sees, going down endless alleys of information. I have to pace myself.

  Mr Desai picks up Keira’s phone and waves it at us like it’s infected. “At the current rate of technological progress, and as our brains adapt, what will happen to our memory systems? Or am I wrong and you actually know your top-dialled numbers? What about a poem? Anything beyond the first two lines?”

  He’s speaking with an unnerving intensity now, leaning forward, his brown eyes sparkling. “Is it happening?” asks Mr Desai, slamming the phone back on the desk. “You bet it is! Does it matter? That’s what I want to see your thoughts on.”

  The bell goes for the end of the lesson, chairs shoot backwards. Mr Desai raises his voice over the din. “One thousand words by next session. And don’t forget.” He places the test papers in his briefcase. Maya laughs coquettishly at his terrible joke.

  *

  The chat all day is about Ramesh Desai. Where’s he from, is that an East Coast American accent, is he married, how old is he? Is he living on-site? Is it legal to perv over a supply teacher and vice versa? How does he keep his skin so smooth? Does he work out, to be so buff? The consensus is everyone hopes Ms Mac has a long absence.

  I’ve soon had enough of the noise and mindless gossip. After supper, I retrieve my bag from the pile at the entrance to the dining hall and retreat to the college library. I always pick the small table with two chairs (one for me, one for my bag to discourage company) tucked out of sight by the ‘W to Z’ in the fiction section. I can see the courtyard below, the comings and goings at Mandela Lodge and the librarian on a fag break. Here I can read my way through the books, transferring them from the Dartmeet musty shelves to my own mind-library of loveliness, one volume at a time. It limits me dwelling on the past.