The Book of Lies

by Mary Horlock

  Fortunately Dr Senner found her in time and rushed her to Casualty and she’s currently having her stomach pumped, which actually sounds like fun. I feel a bit jealous of all the fuss and excitement. After all, I was the one who was meant to kill myself, that’s what Nic said everyone wanted. I should’ve beaten Vicky to it, but instead I’m left here sorting through boxes of Town Church jumble while Mum rushes off to feed the Senners’ cats.

  I’d feel more sorry for Vicky if we hadn’t had that massive row after Bonfire Night. I accused her of setting me up. She called me a Nutcase but I called her Worse, so she said I couldn’t come to her birthday party (not that I was surprised). She then spent the next three weeks going on and on about disco lights and party invites and what to wear. The Little Cow.

  Things only changed between us when I saw her at Nic’s funeral. She looked awful. She was sobbing so much I thought we’d all drown. I don’t want her to feel guilty and she doesn’t deserve to die. That would be wrong, and also a bit pathetic. Plus, it’s not like she was the one calling me up in the middle of the night or flushing my homework down the loo. That was all down to Nic. She just wouldn’t leave me alone. Sometimes she was on her own and sometimes she was with Lisa. Either way, it went on right through November.

  It was the Thursday before Vicky’s party and I was looking for my gym kit in the toilets when Nic came in and cornered me.

  ‘Are you OK? Only you’re looking a little pale. Been on the booze again, like your dad?’

  I told her I was fine. She flicked her hair and peered over the basin at her own reflection.

  ‘You’ve only got yourself to blame for your problems, Cat. You’ve got no friends left.’

  I swallowed. ‘I should’ve known right from the start not to be friends with a scumbag Prevost, you’re all the same, the lowest of the low.’

  Nic pulled a stupid face and pretended to look insulted. ‘Oooh! That really hurts! Like I care what you think. You with your shabby little house and your cheap, nasty calendars. Don’t talk to me about my family – look at yours! I felt sorry for you. I couldn’t understand how you could come top of the class but still be such a loser.’

  I stared at the flecks of mascara on her eyelashes. ‘Why didn’t you just leave me alone?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘It was just a bit of fun, really, but now my mum and dad are splitting up because of you. If you hadn’t told those lies about Mr McCracken he’d never have resigned, and Mum would’ve lost interest soon enough.’

  It was a relief she had finally admitted it.

  ‘But you started this,’ I said, ‘I just did what I thought you wanted me to do.’

  In a split-nano-second she grabbed me and pushed me back against the wall. A few inches to the left and I would’ve cracked my head on the towel dispenser. I was surprised by the massive force of it. She was holding on to my collar and glaring at me.

  ‘I did nothing!’ she hissed through her teeth. ‘You’re the one who fucked up and I want you to pay.’

  ‘OK. OK.’ I stretched out my hands. ‘How?’

  She narrowed her eyes and pushed me away. ‘I’ll think of something.’

  And she did. The next day I found two packets of Paracetamol on my desk, with a little note that read: ‘Dare You.’

  It’s shocking, isn’t it? But not as shocking as this next bit. I’m off to meet Michael at Donnie’s.

  23RD DECEMBER 1985, 9.30 p.m.

  [Bedroom floor, hugging pillow]

  Things never turn out quite the way you think they will. Michael wasn’t at the White House like he promised, which was most annoying. I stood in the pouring rain for 45 minutes and then went round to his house.

  Mr and Mrs Priaulx live in one of the two matching bungalows at the far end of the Village. I’ve only ever been there once before, for a barbecue when I was seven. This was humiliating because I accidentally squirted tomato ketchup on my new lilac Clothkits dungarees, which Michael called an improvement. (The Priaulx kitchen is the colour of baby sick, so he’s hardly one to talk.)

  Michael was surprised to see me because he’d completely forgotten about our secret rendez-nous. I told him he was useless but he didn’t look useless. He was wearing a ripped-T-shirt-and-jeans combo and had had his head shaved like a convict. All in all, I thought he looked très manly, especially since he was drinking Pony Ale64 out of the can.

  ‘Thought you’d be up at the hospital,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you hear about little Vicky Senner? My epidemic idea is catching on.’

  I followed him into the hallway and wiped the wet hair from my eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  He tipped up the can and emptied the last of the Pony Ale into his mouth. ‘You know, it’s like with sheep, follow the flock, eh? If one does it, they all do it.’

  I nodded without understanding and he swung his delicious upper body towards me. ‘Who’ll be next?’

  Then he staggered backwards, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was seeing things and/or had a headache.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  He smiled again. ‘Get your coat off. You’re dripping on the carpet.’

  We went to his bedroom (!!!!). It’s at the back of the house in a badly made extension and it smells of burnt leaves and is painted black and red and purple (but you can’t see the purple because of all the posters of soldiers/skulls/mutilated bodies). I have to confess I thought his room would be a whole lot nicer, but then, he is a boy. He sat next to me on his bed, which wasn’t really a bed but more a mattress on the floor. And it was a single mattress so we sat very close. We had a long and meaningful chat about death and Vicky.

  ‘Too right she should feel guilty. That mind-bending homebrew was probably what made Nicolette jump and I told her so, eh. I told her she should let us all know how bad she feels.’

  I stared at Michael in rocky-horror. ‘What? You saw Vicky? When?’

  He lolled his head seductively. ‘I was down at the Batterie yesterday evening. D’you know I managed to force the lock on the tunnel entrance? It fuuuu-cking stinks down there, but I was poking about when I heard someone. I snuck and took a look outside and realised it was little Vicky with a bunch of flowers. She was obviously going to throw the flowers off the cliff . . . very poetic. I just thought I could have a bit of fun.’

  I was mentally running to catch up.

  ‘So you talked to her?’

  Michael nodded and sniggered. ‘I told her flowers wouldn’t do much for Nic and why didn’t she do something more serious. The face on her! I suppose I was the last person she expected to see jumping out of that doorway. It was like she’d seen a ghost. I asked her if she felt guilty and all that.’

  I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for Vicky – Michael doesn’t know about her deep fear of Nazi Zombies hiding in tunnels. I asked him if he knew what she’d overdosed on, and he made some comment about Dr Senner’s medicine cabinet being like a Pick ’n’ Mix, then he reached across me and produced a packet of pills off his bedside table. He said they were anti-depressants. I was shocked and then not shocked, and then a little jealous. I asked him if they worked. He opened another can.

  ‘Try them if you want.’

  He offered me some beer and I took a long gulp. I then explained how there was no depression during the War because no one had the time or energy to be depressed.

  He lay back on the mattress and I admired his thick, long lashes for all of a minute.

  ‘Yeah, but that’s because they didn’t know what was really going on, eh?’ He rested his hands under his head and showed off his manly armpits. ‘No one knew about the concentration camps and the hundreds of thousands of people being gassed and killed, they were told what the government wanted. They were fed propaganda.’

  I thought that was a stroke-of-genius point and I told him he was cleverer than he looked. Then I said looks weren’t important. I was jiggling my knee without even knowing it – I do that sometimes when I’m nervous.

  He reached o
ut and pressed my thigh.

  ‘Relax. Lie down next to me if that’ll stop you fidgeting.’ I lay down beside him and breathed in Eau de B.O.

  ‘Must’ve been a fucking good party that I missed. Did you enjoy yourself?’

  My eyes blinked open. ‘Oh, I wasn’t invited.’

  Michael turned his head and his chin pressed against my ear. ‘She didn’t invite you? But you two are mates.’

  I quickly explained that Vicky and I had had a big row because she’d sided with Nic on everything and was indeed a sheep following the flock, perhaps also in a ship of fools that was also full of rats and sinking. I explained how I was the only one who saw through Nic and for that reason I wanted nothing to do with Vicky’s birthday party and was very glad not to be invited. (So there.)

  Michael nodded. ‘You must’ve been the only one on the island who didn’t go. How come so many people turned up?’

  ‘Nic invited them.’

  I then explained that it wasn’t really Vicky’s fault things got out-of-hand, since Nic did most of the organising, and she was the one telling everyone to come. I also pointed out that Dr Senner shouldn’t have been so stupid and gullible, since no properly developed adult would’ve gone out and left a bunch of teenagers alone with his year’s supply of booze. Dr S. should’ve known what would happen, just like he should have known better than to allow Vicky near his stock of medicine. As I see it, if a person is feeling depressed and/or vulnerable they should never be left in charge of any medication, even if that medication is for them.

  I must’ve gone on for quite a while because Michael yawned.

  ‘I get it, I get it. Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything stupid.’

  I remembered his pills. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean you!’

  He rested his hand over mine. ‘Shhhh.’

  We lay very still. Our breathing was totally synchronised. Our clothes touched.

  It was incredible.

  We were like that for ages, in fact, and I thought I heard him snoring. Then he rolled onto his side towards me. His eyes were still closed. I felt his fingers touch my arm so I turned to look at him. I stared at every bit of his face and tried to memorise it. He has nine large-ish freckles on his right cheek and one on the left which is more like a mole. He has a single vertical crease between his eyebrows and a little diagonal scar just above the right one. His lower lip is a third thicker than his upper lip. He has blackheads on his nose but so does everyone. I imagined myself squeezing them when he suddenly opened his eyes.

  ‘If you had a choice, how would you die?’

  I wanted to tell him I’d be happy to die right there and then with him, but instead I said I’d like to die in my sleep.

  ‘B-o-r-i-n-g!’

  ‘OK.’ I held my breath. ‘We-ell . . . I think the way Nic died is cool. I mean, you think she jumped but everyone else thinks she fell, and she might’ve been pushed.’

  Michael sat up a little. ‘You think she could’ve been pushed?’

  I didn’t know how to reply to that. I hadn’t intended to confess to killing Nic there and then but I was quite keen to shock Michael, so he might think of me differently and therefore maybe fancy me. Only I got so flustered! Michael always does this to me. When I used to see him in Town I was always too embarrassed to say ‘hi’ so I’d pretend to rummage in my bag and then drop everything and all the time I’d be thinking about what I’d say if he came over and I’d be wondering if he’d noticed me. Of course, by the time I turned back around he’d gone.

  ‘It’s easy enough to kill someone and make it look like suicide.’

  Michael nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s like what I said about the Germans pushing slave workers off the cliffs. I bet people do that all the time. Wives kill husbands or vice-versa because they wished they’d never married them, and divorces can cost so much. But then, a lot of people cover up a suicide and prefer to call it an accident because they believe suicide is wrong or shameful and they don’t want to admit that any friend or relation was that unhinged or depressed . . . or . . .’

  Michael was staring at me in his bestest psycho-killer way.

  ‘Or?’ he said.

  ‘Or they want the money.’

  He was gripped. ‘What money?’

  ‘Well,’ I smiled, ‘if your life’s insured for lots of money but you kill yourself, then the insurance people won’t pay up. You have to make your death look accidental, or, at least, natural. Then your loved ones would be able to pay off your horrendous debts and even take a foreign holiday.’

  Michael leaned back, nodding slowly.

  I took another swig of beer. It was so exciting to have his full attention I forgot how bad Pony Ale tasted.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘most people who kill themselves leave a note, which is a give-away.’

  ‘But Nic didn’t, and neither did I. I didn’t even plan it – it just happened, like there was this other force inside of me or outside of me.’

  We looked into each other’s eyes and it was like we almost understood each other. Michael relaxed, propping his head under his hands.

  ‘Heavy-duty, eh?’

  I tried to nestle into his armpit and pretend we were a couple.

  ‘I read your dad’s book – the one about the tunnels.’

  I had to sit up again. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah. If what he says is right they run for miles right under us and they’re as good as a mass grave. No wonder bad shit keeps happening. There’s probably weird gases leaking out of the Batterie and nobody even knows it.’

  I stared at Michael in shock-awe-lust. Talk about a proper connection! As I have already said, GUERNSEY GAS CHAMBERS AND OTHER MYTHS is a really excellent read and tells you all about the German tunnels and ‘Underground Hospital’,65 and how it was never meant to be a hospital at all. Michael grabbed it off his cardboard box and as he did so I saw the papers underneath. He had a copy of the timetable for Sealink ferries to Portsmouth and Southampton and Calais.

  My stomach did a back-flip. ‘Are you going somewhere?’ He looked at me, then his dark eyes danced over to the wardrobe. There was a beaten-up barrel bag beside it, with clothes hanging out of it. He’d been packing!

  ‘You can’t tell anyone.’

  My stomach was now in my mouth and my heart was being ripped out somewhere else. ‘You can’t go! You can’t! You’ve only just got back and you’re not better. You’re crazy.’

  Michael smiled his cock-eyed smile. ‘Think we’ve already established that.’

  I stared and stared and stared (at him). ‘Don’t leave me.’

  ‘Oh come on, you’ll be OK. You’re clever, you can go to university and do whatever you want. Me? I’ve not got much and I know if I stay here then . . . I don’t know what I’ll do.’

  It was truly impossible to resist him when he said that. I sat up on the bed, hands clenched into fists.

  ‘Take me with you.’

  He blinked. ‘What?’

  I didn’t stop to think about what I was saying. ‘If you’re going then I’m going. I’ve got to get away, as well. You don’t know what I’ve done but I can’t stay here any more than you can.’

  Michael looked me up and down and inside out.

  ‘What have you done?’

  I had to give in. I had to.

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  Michael looked melt-in-the-mouth gorgeous.

  ‘What?’

  There was another pin-drop moment.

  ‘I’ll only tell you if you agree to take me with you.’

  He hesitated. ‘You got any money? There’s a ferry at 9.30 tomorrow night. Last one before Christmas.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at the entrance to Fort George at 8. We’ll take the cliff path down to Town.’

  Michael was staring intently. ‘Why the cliff path?’

  ‘We should stay off the main road,’ I said, standing up, ‘and if you want me to tell you what I’ve done I may as well show you while
I’m at it.’

  I don’t know if he understood, but the way he looked at me made me turn to jelly so I had to leg it out of there. And now I’m just so excited. I feel amazing. I’ll take him to where I killed Nic and tell him the truth, and then I’ll never have to tell anyone ever-ever again. It’s going to be my big confession for one night only. I’ll have to write it down, just so I don’t miss anything out. Yes, that’s it. I’ll prepare a speech.

  Property of Emile Philippe Rozier

  Handwritten notes, presumably intended for E.P.R.’s speech at Occupation Memorial unveiling ceremony [Transcribed by Catherine Rozier, 20/11/85]

  Ladies and Gentlemen, Bailiff,

  My name is Emile Rozier and I have a confession. I have built up something of a reputation as an expert on our German Occupation, but today, standing before you, I am a man who knows nothing.

  I was only a child during the War, so I personally remember very little about it, yet I have spent my life trying to compensate for that fact. I, like many of you here today, have been told every kind of Occupation story, stories that show the resilience of islanders in the face of the enemy, stories that tell of heartbreak and hardship, and still other stories that tell of betrayal, wrongful accusations and even death. We hear so many different stories that it is hard to believe they were once based on single, simple fact.

  The German Occupation was not marked by bloody conflict, but its History has been quite another matter. For many years there was silence, when people preferred not to share their troubled memories of that time. More recently our States Tourist Board has done an excellent job of packaging it into a kind of light entertainment for outsiders.

  My hope has always been that the names on this memorial will prove more solid and immovable than popular opinion and marketing campaigns.