Carry Me Down (25 page)

‘Crito’s purring is really loud,’ I say. ‘She must be happy to see us.’

‘She must be,’ says my grandmother.

‘Are you, too? Are you happy to have us back?’

‘Of course I am,’ she says without smiling. ‘It’s good to have you home.’

‘And it’s lovely to be here,’ says my mother. ‘I so missed being here.’

My mother’s cup shakes in her hand and I wish it wouldn’t. I do something I haven’t done since before Christmas, since before my father lied about the kittens. I take a Digestive biscuit from the packet and dip it into my tea. And I count aloud, to test how long it takes for the biscuit to dissolve and fall into the tea. I take another one, and remove the biscuit the moment before it breaks.

‘Five seconds,’ I say. ‘A record.’

I laugh, and they watch this thing I used to do at the table after meals, before Ballymun, and I do it now because I think it is something they will remember; a bit of how I used to be. I will show them I’m the same boy.

My grandmother seems pleased and holds her cup up over her head. ‘
Slàinte
,’ she says. ‘Here’s to being home.’

‘
Slàinte
,’ I say, standing up. ‘And Hip! Hip! Hooray!’

I wake in the night. My arm is numb, as though all of the bones have been removed. When I lift my arm, it is limp and dead, like a chicken’s neck after it has been broken. I’m scared that it may be paralysed as punishment. I get out of bed and turn on the light and keep moving my arm, hoping it will come back to life. And I chant the Our Father.

My mother comes in. ‘Why are you up?’ she asks.

‘My arm was paralysed or something. I couldn’t feel it.’

‘And now?’

‘It’s still numb. I don’t understand.’

She smiles. ‘It’s asleep,’ she says. ‘That’s all. Your arm has gone to sleep.’

‘But it feels like it’s gone.’

‘Don’t worry. It’ll come back.’

I sit on the bed, rubbing my arm. She stays by the open door.

‘Da doesn’t say much,’ I say. ‘He’s gone all quiet.’

She takes a deep breath and looks down at a spot in the carpet somewhere between her feet and the end of my bed. ‘He’ll talk again. Just leave him be.’

‘But he was reading last night. That’s good, isn’t it? And you’re happy again. That’s good too, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

She looks at me for a long time, and I look back. I’ve stared
at her eyes before but this time is different. She stares at me as though she has never seen me before, as though she is nervously meeting a stranger. I want her to come closer but she steps away.

‘We have to see your new doctor tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Go back to sleep.’

As I stand up, she leaves.

When I get up and go to the kitchen, my father is already at the table. ‘Morning,’ I say.

‘Morning,’ he says. ‘Do you want some sausages?’

‘Yes, please.’

He smiles and his fringe falls down over his eyes. He looks handsome and young. I want to talk to him. ‘Are you glad we’re back?’ I ask.

‘Yes. Are you?’

‘Yes. Very much.’

‘That’s good, then,’ he says.

‘Why are you happy to be back?’ I ask, hoping for more.

He turns around and folds his arms across his chest. ‘There are too many reasons to name.’

‘Just name one.’

He looks at the window. ‘Well, it’s nice here.’

‘What do you mean by nice?’ I ask.

He turns back to the frying pan and turns the sausages over. ‘You wanted to be back, and we’re back. You should be happy enough with that.’

He’s not lying because he’s not saying anything; he’s not talking to me, not giving me a good reason. Does he have a plan against me? Is he hiding something? Does he mean to get rid of me? What does he suspect me of? I’m nervous and my stomach churns. I leave the table and when I’m in the doorway
I turn to him and say, ‘I am glad. Thanks for bringing me back.’

‘The hat looks well on you,’ he says, smiling, his voice breaking.

I go straight to my room. Does he know that I stole the stationmaster from the big house? And if he knows that, what else does he know? I check under my mattress, and everything is where I left it.

I look at the stationmaster’s face, his moustache, and his red cap with a visor, then I put him in my pocket. I take the money I took from Granny’s purse and put it under the torn lining of my suitcase. I will find a way to return it to her. I’ll do this soon, maybe bit by bit; she won’t notice. Or perhaps I’ll wait until after her next visit to the races, when she’s not sure how much money she has.

I take The Gol of Seil and put it in my schoolbag. I won’t destroy it, after all. I’ll put it in a plastic bag and dig a hole under the tree where the doll is, and bury it there, so I can dig it up and read it, if I ever want to, on the way to and from school.

I’ll leave no evidence that he might use against me; nothing he can use to get rid of me. I’ll put things back. Everything where it belongs.

I go up the stairs. My mother is sitting on the end of the bed, elbows on her knees, her face in her hands.

‘Oh, John,’ she says. ‘I was just catching my breath.’

‘From what?’

‘I’ve been up and down those stairs four times this morning.’

‘Why?’

‘I think I’ve got a tummy bug.’

‘Is that why your hands have been shaking a bit lately?’

She looks at me and she looks beautiful and calm and as
though she loves me. I close the door and stand with my back against it.

She sits up. ‘John, please keep the door open.’

‘No. I want to talk to you privately. Please?’

She looks at me for a moment, not sure what to do and I go to her and sit next to her on the bed. But she doesn’t talk. Not one word. I don’t talk either. Suddenly she falls back and I fall back too and we lie together on our backs looking up at the low ceiling. I hold her hand and she doesn’t mind.

‘Are you happy we’re back?’ I ask.

‘Of course I am.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s good to be together again. This is where we belong.’

‘That’s good, because I’ve been thinking about making a model village. Like the one in the big house.’

‘What model village?’

‘In the nursery upstairs. I think I told you about it. Anyway, I want to make my own. It’ll take a long time, but I really want to do it.’

She sits up and I sit up with her; our legs over the side of the bed.

‘And I’d like to make my model village even bigger and better than the one in the big house. I’ll have schools and churches and even a hospital and a cemetery.’

She smiles.

‘So, can we go there again soon so I can take a photo of it? Then I could work from the photo.’

‘Can we talk about it more later?’

‘Can’t we decide now?’

She stands up and puts her hand on her stomach. ‘Oh dear, I need to go again.’

I follow her down the narrow stairs and watch the way her silky hair slides across her back.

She goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. I wait outside, but she is taking a long time. I’m worried.

‘Are you all right, Mammy?’

‘Yes, yes. Go and wait for me in the kitchen.’

I wait in the kitchen, and at half eleven, she drives me to Gorey, for my appointment with Dr Murphy, the child psychologist. In the car, she tells me I must see him for at least six months. I don’t mind. That guarantees six months in Gorey.

She speaks in the bored, flat way she did all the way home from Dublin. She drives at forty miles per hour on the winding roads, as though she thinks she can get rid of thoughts by going too fast for them.

We arrive at the car park of the shopping centre and Dr Ryan’s surgery.

‘Isn’t this the same building as Dr Ryan?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘But I don’t want Dr Ryan to see me here.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’ll think I’m crazy.’

‘Well, you are.’

She opens her mouth and throws her head back. She wants me to think she’s joking, but she’s lying about how she feels; faking a laugh.

I get out of the car. ‘Don’t come with me, then,’ I say as I slam the door. ‘You might get killed or something.’

Dr Murphy sits behind a big, glass-topped desk. His long face is reflected in the glass and so is a bit of the blue sky from the window behind him.

He introduces himself and I look at the paintings on the wall;
two of them are of peasants in the snow. The dentist in Dublin had the same kind of paintings.

Dr Murphy tries to get my attention by moving suddenly. But I keep looking at the paintings.

‘Do you like them?’

‘I like Bruegel,’ I say, hoping like mad I’m right.

‘Well, well. Nobody mentioned that you were an art expert.’

‘I am,’ I say. ‘I’m very interested in art.’

Lying like this makes me want to laugh. I pick the big stapler off his desk and move it around on my knee to stop myself from grinning.

‘Perhaps we can return to that later. First I’m going to ask you some questions and when we’ve done what needs to be done we should have a much better picture of … a much better idea of your state of mind. Is that all right with you?’

He seems nervous; maybe he thinks I’ll throw the stapler at him. Maybe I should make him smile by telling him about the world’s fastest psychiatrist, Dr Albert L. Weiner, who treated more than forty patients in a day in his rooms and used electroshock and muscle relaxants. But the needles he used were not properly sterilised and in 1961 he was imprisoned on twelve counts of manslaughter.

I put the stapler back on the table.

‘First of all, how do you feel today? Are you a little better than you were in Dublin? At the time of the incident?’

‘I feel good,’ I say.

I don’t know how I feel, except that I feel very awake, as though I’d have no trouble recalling anything I’ve ever read. And I feel better than I did when my mother left my room in the middle of the night. I feel good about the fact that I lied about being an art lover and that Dr Murphy cannot control me even though he thinks he can.

‘How do you feel now about what happened with your mother?’

A few thin hairs stick out of the balding pink circle at the top of his head, and I can hear his breathing, raspy and wet. ‘I think I feel like … I feel like it wasn’t real. I feel like somebody else did it. I feel like I was in a film. I feel like she wasn’t my mammy and she was somebody I didn’t know.’

Dr Murphy sits up and moves into a position so different from the first that it shocks me. He leans back in his chair, as far back as the chair will allow, his arms behind his long, narrow head, and I am woken by this sudden change as though the curtains have been opened in a dark room. And I see him as though for the first time. This must be a technique of some kind.

‘Are you aware that you tried to kill your mother? Were you conscious of your actions then and are you conscious of them now?’

I don’t move.

He moves forward again.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I just said. None of it felt real. I felt like I wasn’t me. I felt like I was somebody else.’

‘Who were you, then, if you weren’t you?’

‘Somebody else. I didn’t know who, just not me.’

‘But you felt you were human nevertheless. You were a human boy.’

‘Well, I wasn’t an animal. I wasn’t a dog or a sheep, was I?’

‘I can hear that you are angry. Do you think my questions are unfair?’

‘No.’

He stands up. ‘Would you like a glass of water? Or a fizzy drink?’

‘OK. Please.’

‘Which? The water or the fizzy drink?’

‘A Fanta.’

‘I only have Club Orange, will that do?’

He opens the fridge (its door is behind a wood panel) and
takes out a bottle of Club Orange, then he offers me a box that contains hundreds of paper straws with bendable tops.

I choose a blue one.

‘Blue for a boy,’ he says.

I frown.

‘While you drink your fizzy drink, I’m going to ask some questions and the most important thing is that you should answer them truthfully. Can I ask you to give me your word that you will answer truthfully?’

‘Yes.’ And I will.

He sits down behind his desk, this time in a normal position, legs under the desk, pen in hand poised over a blank sheet of paper. ‘OK. Are you ready?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you able to ignore physical pain?’

‘Yes. Sometimes.’ I think of making my head bleed and not feeling it.

‘Are you ever not sure whether you have done something or only thought about it?’

He is in a hurry and doesn’t seem to care about the answer. If I wasn’t telling the truth, his lack of attention would bother me less, but since I’m telling the truth I don’t understand why he seems so uninterested.

‘Yes. Sometimes I’m confused like that, especially during the night.’

‘Do you spend time staring into space?’

‘A lot. But I’m thinking, not just staring. I’m always thinking when I’m staring.’

‘Are you ever not sure whether an event happened or was a dream?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s never happened.’ Now I have been inconsistent.

He looks up from the desk and coughs. ‘Do you ever not remember important events in your life?’

‘I can’t remember being born or when I was a baby.’

‘What about events in the past six or seven years?’

‘I don’t remember my first Holy Communion. I only know what happened because there are photos and because Mammy tells me what happened.’

Suddenly he is interested. He stands up and walks to the smaller desk near his filing cabinet and the fridge. He stands with his back to this smaller desk and puts his clasped hands in front of his belt buckle.

‘Could something bad have happened that day that you don’t remember?’

‘How would I know, if I can’t remember?’

I stand, too, and offer him my bottle of Club Orange, but he refuses it by waving his hand.

‘Please, John. Sit down.’

I sit and he sits, back behind his big, glass-topped desk.

‘Do you ever find notes or drawings that you must have done but don’t remember doing?’

‘Yes,’ I lie.

‘Do you hear voices inside your head?’

Shouldn’t he want to know more about the drawings before he moves to the next question? ‘Only my own. Is that what you mean?’

‘Do other people and objects sometimes not seem real to you?’

This is a good question. I need to think about this for a while; about what ‘real’ means. ‘No. Yes. Sometimes people. Like my mother. She didn’t seem real before it happened or during, but after she did. After it happened, she seemed real again.’

I swallow and stop talking.

‘Do you want to say any more about this?’

‘No.’

‘It might help. To say more might help. This is important.’

I lower my head and don’t speak.

‘Well?’

‘No.’

‘Do you ever feel as though your body is not your own?’

‘That’s a bit stupid.’

‘What’s your answer?’

‘No.’

‘Do you ever not recognise your own reflection in the mirror?’

‘No.’

He stands up and I hope it’s time for me to go home. I’m very hungry.

‘All right, John. You did well. You thought about your answers and you were very patient. I’m going to leave you alone now for a while. I’m going to go into another room and chat to your mother. Are you happy to sit here for a few minutes?’

‘Yes.’