Carry Me Down

by M. J. Hyland

  I check in the Guinness Book and see that, on the 14th October, 1967, a man recited 6666 verses of the Koran from memory, in six hours. This man, Mehmed Ali Halici, has an eidetic memory and he can remember everything he has read.

  By the time the lunch bell rings, I have spent several hours without feeling nervous, and I have discovered a new way to think. I get my lunch and meet Brendan at his desk. ‘Let’s go,’ I say.

  ‘I want to stay inside,’ he says.

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘We’ll stay in.’

  He looks at his desk. ‘I want to stay in by myself, I mean.’

  ‘Come on. Let’s go to the shed,’ I say.

  On cold days – and this is a cold enough day – Brendan and I usually sit by the stove in the caretaker’s shed and read all the annuals and my favourite Beano comics. The caretaker likes Brendan and me, and we talk to him and he is happy for us to be in his shed, and he comes and goes, and works around us.

  ‘It’s too cold for the shed,’ says Brendan.

  ‘So?’ I say. ‘We can sit by the stove and then it won’t be cold.’

  ‘I’m sick of sitting in the caretaker’s shed,’ says Brendan. ‘It stinks.’

  ‘It doesn’t stink,’ I say.

  ‘It does.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I just don’t want to go in today,’ he says. ‘I want to stay inside the classroom today.’

  ‘Fine.’ My anger makes me nervous and I don’t know what I’ll do, so I leave Brendan without looking at him.

  During class, I wait for him to look around at me, but he doesn’t. I stare at the back of his head sometimes, but mostly I read and memorise things, or look out the window to stop my anger from hurting my teeth.

  On the way home, I recite the things I have memorised during the day and, when I can’t remember, I stop walking and close my eyes until I do. When I reach the tree with the doll stuck in it, I stop and look up at her.

  Her hair has gone. I thought she had blonde hair. This was the one thing about her that hadn’t changed or decayed. But she has no hair. There is only black scalp. Maybe the person who put her in the tree has come to take her hair. Maybe it fell out gradually and I didn’t notice. I feel angry with people and I run home.

  When I get to the last field before the cottage, I stop and look across at the lighted window in the kitchen. I can see the dark outline of my mother, father and grandmother. They stand by the table, my father nearest the range, their dark shapes moving slightly, and my father’s hand goes up, then down, and then my mother’s hand takes hold of her long hair and she lifts it away from her shoulder. I want to know what they are saying, I want to know what is happening, but even if I dart across the road and through the gate and down the gravel path and get through the front door as fast as I can, I’ll never know what they have said. This part of what has happened will always be missing. And they will stop talking and change the subject as soon as they see me.

  But I am happy to see the light on, to know they are there and it is warm and there’s a place for me at the table.

  ‘You’re late,’ says my father. ‘It’s after five.’

  ‘I walked the long way,’ I say.

  He goes to the cooker and takes out a plate. ‘Here. Eat these,’ he says. ‘They’re jumbo fish fingers.’

  I sit at the table and my mother sits too. Granny stays by the stove, stirring a pot of custard.

  ‘How was school?’ asks my mother, and I notice that her eyes are bloodshot and her hair is messy. ‘Good,’ I say.

  ‘Do you want me to fry an egg to go with your fish fingers?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Why is your hair all messy?’

  My father stands up from the table so abruptly that his chair falls backwards. Nobody speaks. We wait to see what he will do. He leaves the kitchen and when he comes back he stands behind my mother and brushes her hair.

  ‘There’ll be hair in the baked beans,’ she laughs.

  I watch my father brush my mother’s hair and can see that the knots are catching and she must be hurting.

  I say, ‘With the hair in the beans we can say, “Whose bean hair?”’

  She reaches under the table and strokes my knee. ‘Want some more food?’

  ‘No,’ I say as I push the beans around the jumbo fish fingers.

  ‘Eat your fingers,’ says my father.

  After tea, my father brings out a large box of Cadbury Roses and we sit together on the settee in front of the television and take them one by one out of the foil and paper wrapping and eat them. He has agreed to let me stay up late to watch an Alfred Hitchcock film, Strangers on a Train.

  ‘If you can spot Alfred’s appearance, I’ll give you a quid,’ he says.

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘Consider yourself one pound poorer.’

  ‘Want to know one of the reasons chocolate is addictive?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because it melts at blood temperature.’

  ‘Maybe before the film you and Mammy could teach me how to do cryptic crosswords.’

  ‘We need a good afternoon to do that. Remind me on Saturday.’

  ‘Did you remember my present?’ I ask.

  ‘What present?’

  ‘The one you promised.’

  ‘These chocolates are your present and I’ll get an even bigger one for you later.’

  The book from the Wexford library, The Truth About Lie Detection, is the best book so far and I have copied thirty-five pages of it into The Gol of Seil.

  I will memorise as much of this book as I can. Already I can recite several passages, such as this one, which I say out loud on the way to school.

  ‘Many people mistakenly believe that if somebody lies they will not make eye contact and will rub under their nose. Neither lack of eye contact nor nose rubbing is a sure sign of lying. It is vital to look for a cluster of signals. It is also important to compare the way a person is behaving with the way they usually behave.

  When a person is lying he needs to concentrate on keeping his story straight and will often slow his speech or become more hesitant. Some people try to control their facial expressions, but most people are not able to keep their feelings from showing, because some of the muscles of the face involved in expressions are not under conscious control, especially when people feel strong emotions.’

  The author of The Truth About Lie Detection also says that these strong emotions are called primary emotions and that they show, for a fraction of a second only, as micro expressions.

  I also know from reading this book that only a small group of people are exceptional at spotting lies and these people are sometimes called wizards. Such a person can pick up behavioural signals that most people miss, most of the time.

  I copy four more pages from The Truth About Lie Detection into my book and then I write a letter to the Guinness Book of Records:

  Dear Guinness Book of Records,

  My name is John Egan and I have a rare gift. I think you will be interested in this gift of mine and you should let me prove it to you.

  I can tell when somebody is lying with nearly 100% accuracy.

  I hope you will write back to me soon and let me do a demonstration for you.

  Yours Sincerely,

  John Egan.

  When I’ve finished the letter, I daydream about being on television. I am being interviewed by Gay Byrne who hosts The Late, Late Show. In the daydream I am already famous and I am touring the world to talk about my gift. I tell him about the work I have been doing for the FBI, helping to catch spies in Russia. Gay Byrne shakes his head as he says, ‘Astonishing. Really very astonishing. Can we test your gift on a few members of the audience? May we conduct a live test? An experiment?’

  I sit forward in my leather swivel chair and say, ‘Yes, of course.’

  Gay Byrne calls for four volunteers and he asks each of them to tell me something. The first says, ‘My name is Bernadette and I have three daughters and a son and I live in
Galway.’

  I rub the side of my face before I answer. ‘That’s a lie,’ I say. ‘But not all of it. You were telling the truth until you said you live in Galway.’ In the daydream I don’t feel sick, not even a little bit queasy, when I detect the lie.

  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.

  11

  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.’

  ‘That’s stupid.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Wait and see.’

  ‘Give me the money and then I’ll do it.’

  I give him the five quid and he holds it up to the light, as though to check whether it’s counterfeit.

  I laugh then because he laughs, even though I am having to pay him to do something he should want to do because he’s my friend.

  On the way back to the shed we stop by the classroom and collect our sleeping bags, and the food I took this morning from the pantry at home: two pieces of chocolate cake, a chunk of ham and a loaf of bread. I have brought a spare blanket and pillows too.

  It’s a foggy night and, as we walk to the shed, it covers our coats and makes them wet. When we get inside the shed, we lay our sleeping bags on the floor. I’m cold and have no idea how to light the stove. ‘We’re going to freeze to death,’ I say just for something to say.

  ‘Don’t be a molly,’ says Brendan. ‘I’ll get some wood and get the fire going.’

  ‘Good,’ I say.

  The stove is lit and piled high with wood. The room is a little warmer now, and we are comfortable as we eat cake inside our sleeping bags. But I’m worried that if we don’t begin the experiment soon we might not start at all.

  ‘The caretaker’s left us a note,’ says Brendan.

  Dear Boys,

  I hope you have a good night. There are some new comics on the bookshelf!

  The Caretaker

  Brendan looks for the new comics and my stomach drops; he is more interested in comics than my experiment.