The Book of Lies

by Mary Horlock

  Pop shook his head and hugged me close once more.

  ‘It’s the guilty who run away, and we aren’t guilty.’

  And he was right, eh? He was ever right.

  Our father was a man of few words and never was one wasted. It took us an hour to walk home and I counted every minute. He talked to me honestly, like never before. He told me about the best friends who’d died alongside of him in the trenches and the chaps he’d met in the prison camp. He told me about good Germans and bad Germans, about the prison chaplain who’d died for his men, about the young lads screaming for their mothers. He told me what it was like to live in mud and fear.

  ‘You’ve got to believe in God,’ he said. ‘The world is too wretched for there not to be something beyond this. Believe there will be justice in the next life. We should fear no evil, eh? “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”’

  As I tell you this, Emile, I feel so choked. I wish this were all a dream. I wish I would wake up. Not’ poure père, he was a dead man before I did this to him. But that’s no comfort, there is no comfort. What a curse I had brought on this family. La Duchesse couldn’t look me in the eye. They’d arrested her, too, but she’d been released without charge. When we got home she was clutching you tightly in her arms, staring at the fire. I expected her to shout at me but she couldn’t even speak. She was in shock and it was more than I could bear.

  As soon as I had the chance I couldn’t help myself: I ran over to Chardine’s place. My brain was on fire and I didn’t know what I’d find. I prepared myself for the worst but it was still a mighty blow – an empty boatshed! Bran d’te, Ray Le Poidevoin! (is what I thought). I turned on my heel and headed straight for Mess. Falla’s garage to find J-P and sort him out. I don’t know where I got all that energy from, but I was running faster than the Germans in their motor cars, and I was stomping hard on the ground like I owned it.

  Reg Falla shook his head when he saw me, and his long face almost tripped me up.

  ‘Ossa, the dog comes back to its vomit. I thought they had got you.’

  ‘They did, they have.’ I looked about. ‘Where’s J-P?

  Have they got him, too?’

  Reg Falla was rough around the edges but butter underneath. He had no sons of his own and he’d taken J-P right under his wing a few years back. He had tears in his eye when he told me what had happened.

  ‘Eh me, ch’est énne terrible chaose, Jean-Pierre is dead. He was killed by a landmine in the fields by La Fontenelle.’

  This, I didn’t expect. I felt like I’d been punched hard in the stomach.

  I asked when it had happened.

  ‘Two nights back. He had a bag of supplies with him, the Germans reckoned he’d been planning something.’

  My ears were ringing! I asked Mess. Falla what time the body was found but he wasn’t too inclined to talk more.

  ‘What’s it to you? What were you hatching? If you’ve been stirring up trouble for the rest of us you won’t make any friends. People round here just want to live as best we can. They’ll have us all shipped to some camp in France because of this. What were you thinking?’

  You see how it was going, Emile? It’s a lot easier for folk to put all the sin of the world onto one pair of shoulders. They did it then and they do it now. I must have the Devil on my back, or else it was Ray. And where was he? I thought about going back to Paradis but didn’t know where that would get me. The officer in charge had sent his mother packing, calling her a madwoman. I went to Ray’s home to check, and then I went to Le Brun’s farm where he used to work, and then I went to the Salerie Inn, and then I went down to Petit Bôt, and Bon Repos and Pleinheume and all around Fort Doyle and the Vale. I think I walked all around the island looking for Ray, and then I went back into Town and asked at the police station and the prison. Nothing. Ray had gone.

  The next day was the night of our supposed exodus. It was raining non-stop and I stayed indoors. I could never forgive Ray for deserting me, and that’s what I knew he’d done. But had he managed it, or had the boat sunk? Had him and J-P been plotting secretly behind my back all this time or had Ray done the dirty on J-P, as well? Pop told me to pray for my so-called friends, but I couldn’t pray. I hated God as much as myself. The miserable wretched sinner that I am! Don’t waste your prayers on me, Emile, pray for our father instead.

  On our last night together I begged and pleaded with him to go and see the doctor. Everyone knew the Germans were terrified of TB and that cough was a right bone-rattler. They’d never send him to the camps if we could get a diagnosis. Pop finally agreed and I went easier to my bed, knowing he might be saved. I didn’t see him walk out into the night, but in my head I see him now. He never does go to the doctor. Instead, he’s making his way slowly down to Belle Grève. I don’t know how he climbs over the wire but he does and then he’s staggering quickly down over the shingle. He probably never expected to make it through the mines, but on he goes, drawing closer to the water’s edge.

  Our dear father couldn’t take his own life because he knew what a sin that was. He carried on walking even when he heard the shouts behind him. Perhaps he quickened his pace. He was a broken man but he didn’t turn back, and there was no begging for mercy. It was just him and the waves as the bullets drilled into his back.

  That was how it ended, Emile, there on that north beach. The Germans won the War and I lost everything, every ounce of love, hope and faith, I lost a father and a mother and a baby brother. That was when I died and there’s but one reason I hang on so. Whilst I still live and breathe I can think of our father, and I can love and I can miss him. Once I’m gone he’s gone.

  Emile, you will see our father in Heaven, and you tell him that I learned my lesson, tell him he was always in my thoughts. You two shall be together one day and I’m sorry I won’t join you. I will miss our talks. I’ve tried to tell you what I can and I hope to God it helped some. I love you, dear Emile . . . and I hope, I hope I was a better brother than I ever was a son.

  21ST DECEMBER 1985, 12.18 a.m.

  [In bed]

  Michael doesn’t believe in Heaven or Hell. He’s got closer to death than most living people and he tells me there was no tunnel of light or dancing angels. I’m a bit disappointed, to be honest. It means I won’t see Dad again and be able to say sorry in person. It’s good I’ve got Michael to talk to, though. I’ve just got off the phone to him. I know it’s a bit late to be making deep-sea intellectual phone calls but he picked up straight away, like he was telepathically waiting for me.

  I told him I’d been thinking a lot about Life-and-Death.

  He wasn’t too sympathetic.

  ‘Thinking about topping yourself, eh? That’d be good. I told my dad that Nic jumped off the Batterie and other kids were bound to copy her. He’s had his head in the fridge ever since.’

  ‘The poor man is comfort-eating.’

  ‘Nah. He feels guilty. Guilt is the only reason anyone does anything.’

  I said most probably and suggested we meet tomorrow night for further discussions at the Fermain Tavern. Unfortunately Michael doesn’t want to be seen with me in public – presumably because I’m under-age. He therefore proposed that we meet on Monday night at Donnie’s.

  ‘We can’t!’ I insisted. ‘It would be breaking and entering.’

  I heard Michael snort and cackle. ‘Come on, how about it?’

  I wasn’t sure at all. ‘But if it’s all been packed up, what on earth do you want to do?’

  ‘I dunno. Snoop about. I’ll bring some matches and you bring the drink. We can have a séance if you want. Bring your little friend Vicky Senner and we’ll try and contact the dead.’

  ‘No!’ I said (to the séance and to Vicky). ‘I’ll come alone, we’ve got important things to discuss, just us two.’

  I’ve got to tell him about Nic, about how I killed her, etc. I must! I’m off first thing in the morning to buy a bra
nd new bottle of whisky (to replace the one I’ve almost finished). I know for a fact Michael’s been banned from all Island Wides courtesy of Deputy-Dad, so he’ll be dead impressed if I supply the booze. It’d be good to get it off my chest. The more I think about it, the more I realise that I couldn’t have done anything differently. I only ever wanted Nic to be my friend, and I never meant to kill her. I loved her so much. I didn’t love her the way I love Michael, but love comes in all shapes and (plus) sizes, and it involves great dollops of pain and suffering. I’ve suffered plenty for Nic.

  All last summer I was counting down the days to September. It was like I was serving a prison sentence, without even looking forward to my date of release. Before then I’d always got excited about the start of the new school year: the shiny new textbooks, the baggy cardigans, the comedy fringes and home perms. This time, though, it was different. Mum couldn’t understand why I wasn’t going hyper about being in the Fifth Form. I’d always thought fifth-year girls were so grownup. But when she dropped me at the school gates that first day back I wanted to run away. I remember walking down the corridor to Assembly and wishing I was somewhere else, and when I first saw Nic it was like I’d been punched. She had a lovely tan and bleached-blonde highlights from the sun. People were swarming round her as per bees and a honey pot. Then she saw me and there was this strange magnetic tug-of-war with eyes.

  She put her hand to her mouth and whispered something over her shoulder. Lisa laughed and Shelley turned to look at me.

  So Nic wasn’t exactly ignoring me anymore, but I wouldn’t call it an improvement.

  ‘I’m amazed they could find a uniform to fit her.’

  ‘Christ! The embarrassment!’

  Yes, yes. I should’ve expected it. Why would I think things could be any different? There was Nic and Lisa and Shelley and the way they shut me out reminded me of how I’d always felt shut out of things. For the longest time it hadn’t mattered. But now it did matter, because I knew what I was missing. I was like one of those people who’d been famous for all of ten minutes, and then had my dreams cruelly crushed or snatched from me. There’d be no more glittering invites to VIP parties, and my usual table in Le Swanky Restaurant du Choix had been taken by somebody else.

  Lisa was now with Pagey. What a joke. And Shelley was with Jason. Oh-the-Horror. They thought they were so special – they’d sit round the back of the music block and talk about all the exciting things they were doing after school. They’d link arms and giggle and flick their glossy hair. Of course I did my best to avoid them. I’d sit in the cloakroom or work in the library, and inside I was dying.

  Nobody knows this, but by the middle of that first week I’d locked myself in the science-lab loos for the whole of the lunch hour, clutching a bottle of bleach. I 100% wanted to drink it. The next day I stole a scalpel from Biology so as to gouge out my wrists. I actually managed one good-ish cut before I chickened out. I felt guilty for wanting to kill myself and guilty for not trying harder. I imagined my next school report. ‘Catherine should apply herself more. We all know what she is capable of.’

  The whole thing was Epic and Titanic. I wanted to show Nic that she was wrong to drop me, but I had no idea how.

  Let’s be clear about this next bit. It wasn’t something I planned. I didn’t sit in my bedroom and plot ways to get Nic back. Maybe it looks like that now, but remember looks aren’t everything. I was getting more and more depressed and I just needed a friend. I needed someone to give me a bit of perspective. And History just happened to be the last lesson on Friday. I’d been back at school all of two weeks and was in the worst state ever. I was dreading the weekend. I kept it together for the whole of the Poor Laws and then the bell went and the classroom emptied. Nic and Lisa were chatting about another big party at André Duquemin’s that Saturday night. They’d always talk so loudly just to rub my nose in it.

  ‘It’s going to be wicked!’ said Lisa. ‘Everyone’s going.’ Then she looked back at me and smirked.

  Nic flicked her ponytail. ‘Careful. We don’t want gatecrashers.’

  I sat quietly and watched them leave.

  A minute passed and I wondered whether to try to cycle home. Then I heard a sigh. Mr McCracken was still in the classroom, tidying up his books. When I saw him standing there it felt like a sign. He was The Only Person In The World (or Guernsey) who didn’t laugh at me. The Only Person Who Liked Me (even a bit). He wasn’t my form teacher anymore and I missed him. I missed how he always smoothed out old book jackets and lost pages from his Filofax. I didn’t have anywhere to go to and I was pretty sure he didn’t either. We had nowhere and nothing, the two of us. I hated it and I wondered if he felt the same. He certainly didn’t look great. His eyes were tired and his hair was unwashed and his new beard didn’t suit him. I was already crying but I tried to do it quietly. He was about to pull on his tweed jacket when he noticed me.

  ‘Come on, Cathy, home time.’

  I looked up into those friendly hazel eyes.

  ‘I can’t go home,’ I told them.

  Mr Mac arched one eyebrow as per James Bond. ‘Whyever not?’

  The tears came more quickly. ‘I’ve got nothing and no one to go home to.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Yes, it is. I may as well be dead and in fact I wish I was.’

  Mr Mac looked shocked.

  ‘Don’t say such things.’

  I got the feeling he wasn’t too thrilled about me crying on him again. He’d started fiddling with his papers, as if they were in need of his Instamatic attention. I was a bit put out and shoved my books into my satchel as noisily as possible. Then I shuffled to the front, head hung low.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘nothing’s that bad. You’ve had a rough time, but—’ ‘But nothing! Nothing ever goes right for me. It is unbelievably bad and crap and shit always. Everyone hates me. They think I’m a freak no matter what I do.

  It’s like everything has already been decided. My life is set on this crap course of crapness.’

  Mad Mac’s lovely face set into a frown. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know! Nobody likes me, so what else can I do? I should do what they want me to do, which is just go away and die. Maybe then they’ll be sorry.’

  Mr Mac had put his hands on his hips and seemed to be genuinely concerned. I was getting quite hysterical. I think I was somewhere near his desk but I really can’t remember.

  ‘I try my best, I work hard and try to do the right thing, but I’ll always look like this and therefore be a reject.’

  ‘Oh, Cathy. You’re putting too much stock on how things look.’

  ‘It’s how it is,’ I replied, ‘it’s the truth. I hate myself.’

  The McFrown reached Olympic-sized proportions.

  ‘Where’s this coming from?’

  ‘From me.’ I jabbed my finger to my heart. ‘Me! I can’t be me any longer. I’m hideous. I have to stop it, I have to stop everything!’

  There was an awkward silence as Mr McCracken tried to think of what to say. He stared down at his desk like he might find some good words there. (I did like how he paused before he said things, it made him seem more intellectual.)

  ‘You’re in a right old state.’ He steered himself towards me and laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘Have you talked to anyone about this?’

  I drew myself up. ‘I’m talking to you.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ ‘I want to talk to you, I want you to help me.’

  Mr McCracken lifted his head and dropped it again.

  ‘Cathy,’ he pushed out his bottom lip a micro-inch, ‘how can I help you? What do you want me to do?’

  I glared red-hot at him. ‘Tell me you care. Tell me I’m not nothing.’

  I remember how he smiled very especially.

  ‘Of course you’re not. You’re very special.’

  I nodded and gulped down my tears.

  Bollocks. I’m trying to write this down as accurately as I remember but I’ve also tried
hard to block it out. What happened next? I think I sort of took Mr McCracken’s hand and maybe pressed it. Then I pulled myself up onto tippy-toe and leaned forward. Yes, that’s it. I knew Mr Mac wouldn’t like me leaning in so close but I couldn’t help it. I was sort of carried away in the emotion and I didn’t care how it looked, I just wanted a bit more contact. Did I plan to kiss him? No, not him. I was just sort of imagining anyone with a head and hair. I pressed the palm of my hand flat on the McChest so as to feel his heartbeat. I suppose it was the sort of thing I’d seen before on TV. Then I tried to put my other arm around his neck and tilt my chin towards him.

  I may as well have prodded him with a poker.

  ‘Cathy!’

  He stepped back and I lost my balance – talk about destroying the moment! – I had to grab him so as to steady myself. Then he took me by the shoulders and tried to hold me up. For a split second the eye-to-eye contact was intensely smouldering, but not in a good way. We were close enough to kiss and I tried wrapping both arms around his neck this time. Then his hands were on my waist.

  He said something like ‘Stop! Huuuh!’

  It was over in a flash, and all I can now picture is the terror on his face. I could’ve slapped him when I saw it.

  Instead I slammed him back with my hand.

  ‘You’re lying. You don’t care at all. Slimeball!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t know anything about what I’m going through. Keep away from me!’

  I had really screamed those last words out and this is actually important. I don’t think I have ever-ever-ever screamed like that, right into someone’s face, and seen the effect it had. It felt fantastic. I ran out of the classroom and straight into Mrs Carey and Mrs Le Sauvage, who were standing, arms crossed, a little way down the corridor.

  You can probably guess what happened next. No, I bet you can’t. It was like one of those rubbish plays they put on at Beau Sejour, where everyone shouts and throws their hands about. I jumped on the mountainous Mrs Le Sauvage, sobbing hysterically. She wobbled all of her chins at Mr McCracken, who, of course, had come running into the corridor. She asked him what-on-God’s-green-earth-was-happening, and he said he didn’t know himself. That made my sobbing tidal. Looking back, I was crying for lots of reasons, but I blamed Mr McCracken completely.