by Mary Horlock
Then I decided Nic wasn’t dead at all. I looked over my shoulder to check she wasn’t about to jump out at me. I called for her to stop mucking about. I even laughed. After about ten minutes I went and rattled the padlocks on the tunnel entrance.
‘Come on!’ I screamed. ‘I’ve had enough!’
You can’t blame me for thinking it was all some stupid stunt. I half-imagined Jason and Pete or even Pagey would come out of the bushes, going ‘Ha-ha, Fatso!’ Nic could’ve faked all of it, she could’ve done! So I told myself it was a joke. I sat, huddled next to the tunnel entrance, and I waited for someone to deliver the punchline.
I waited and waited. I didn’t know what to do so I didn’t do anything. The world went blank. I was numb with cold and shock. The only thing I remember was thinking about Mum and Dad and how easy it was to die. I was crying, most definitely, when I finally headed back along the path. I still didn’t understand how it had happened, so how could I explain it to anyone else? People would think I’d hurt Nic on purpose because she’d bullied me – no one would believe it was self-defence. I wasn’t even sure if it had been. What had I done? Had I done it? I was probably hysterical. I was terrified. I went home.
I did think about waking up Mum when I got in, but it was long past midnight and I couldn’t think what to tell her. She’d said things were getting back to normal and look what I’d gone and done! I sat on the landing and listened to the rain, and the longer I waited the worse I felt. I thought I was going to be sick. Then I tried to pretend nothing had happened. Perhaps I’d got things muddled and dreamed it all. I wondered if I was going demented like Grandma.
It was early morning when I crept into the bathroom. That’s when I saw that I’d gashed my elbow badly, plus there were marks on my ribs and my tummy. I knew I’d be bruised because I bruise so easily, and those bruises were the proof. I had fought Nic. I had been there. But when I looked at my face it was no different. I had the same small eyes and podgy face. No scratches or cuts. I could cover up my elbow as easily as Dad had covered up his hand. No one need know.
I looked at my face in the mirror for a long time that night and I managed to convince myself that everything would be OK. I went into my bedroom and got undressed. As I pulled on my nightie I pretended it was any other winter’s night, with the wind howling outside and me all warm and cosy. I lay back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling. It was self-defence. I’d never wanted a fight and I’d begged Nic to stop. She’d thrown herself at me. There was nothing else I could’ve done.
There didn’t seem much point in telling people after that. They didn’t need to know the whole grisly truth, which would surely just cause a lot more pain. It’s the worst thing in the world to watch someone die in front of you, knowing you can’t help them. It’s the sort of thing you want to deny for as long as possible, maybe for ever. Right, Mum?
Therese and Mr Prevost didn’t even worry when Nic stayed out all of Saturday night – it was only on Sunday evening that they called around Nic’s friends, although they can’t have been that desperate because they never called me. When Nic didn’t show up at school on Monday morning Mrs Perrot made A Special Announcement. Everyone thought Nic had run away.
‘If any of you know anything,’ she said, ‘will you please come and tell me?’
Lisa was looking worried and Vick was looking sick. There was an electric buzz of chatter at lunchtime, but I steered clear of it. Then I saw the police car outside the staff offices and some of the girls from Vicky’s party were called in by Mrs Perrot.
Nic’s body was washed off the rocks and a fisherman had picked her up with his lobster pots that very afternoon. They couldn’t work out what had happened, but everyone said Nic was drunk and then a blood test proved how much. Fortunately alcohol hangs around in the blood for ages, unlike Insulin, which is absorbed by the body after only eight hours. (Yes. I’ve done my research.)
There are plenty of things I can never be sure of, but I do know Nic was drunk when she attacked me, and she was a mean drunk and therefore capable of murder. Maybe she’d have fallen anyway, on account of her reckless nature. Maybe it was Karma. Donnie had always talked about Karma – i.e. you reap what you sow. Dad thought Karma was rubbish and that you couldn’t choose your Fate because History had already dictated it. Either way, I never wanted Nic to die and sometimes I wish I’d died with her, and I still don’t know why I didn’t.
Maybe that was Karma. But if it was, doesn’t that mean something bad will need to happen to me? Isn’t that inevitable? Isn’t that my Fate?
24TH DECEMBER 1985, 7 p.m.
[Dad’s study]
So now you know everything. This is it. The End. You probably think I’m mad or really horrible, but the truth is I’m neither. I’m ordinary. I’m not pretty or special or good at sports and I’m not even clever, I just work very hard. Nic and I should never have been friends. What I did was very wrong, I know. But do you remember what Michael said about that other force around or outside of him? I swear it was like that. I did what I did because there was no other way.
And now it’s my turn to say goodbye and the funny thing is, I’ve never felt more alive. I’m excited and I’m scared, but I’m also very calm. So calm, in fact, I went and made my peace with Vicky. I knew it wasn’t right to leave things as they were – with her feeling guilty for what happened to Nic. I wanted to bury the hatchet (and no, not in her head).
She got back from hospital after lunch and I went round the minute I heard. I must say the Senners’ house was looking very Jingle Bells. For a second I wanted to stay another day. They’ve got a huge Christmas tree propped up with presents and spray-on snow around every window. Vicky was sitting on the sofa, wrapped up in her duvet and looking so snug, and Mrs Senner plied me with sugary tea and excellent shop-bought mince pies. Then Dr S. appeared and was freakishly nice to me. He went on about starting a youth club and ‘making-sure-Young-People-know-they-matter’. He sat next to Vicky and gave her a cuddle and said he was counting his blessings. I tell you, it was cheesier than quiche.
I had to wait for ages before Vicky and I were alone, then I asked if she was really all right. She fingered the poppers on her Garfield duvet.
‘It’s all my fault.’
I told her that was rubbish and a watched a big tear plop onto Garfield’s droopy eyelid.
‘It is. Michael Priaulx said so. He gave me such a hard time, Cat. He said I was to blame for what happened to Nic, he said I should be dead instead of her.’
I sighed and fidgeted and felt guilty as per ever.
‘Yes. I know, he told me, but I also know he didn’t mean it and he’s very sorry.’
Vicky looked up. ‘Really?’
‘Don’t worry about Michael. As of tonight you won’t ever have to see him again.’
Vicky asked me what I meant and my mind raced ahead of my mouth and fell over.
‘Me and Michael, we’re running away together,’ I said.
Vicky looked impressively morbidified. ‘You what?’
‘We’re going to England first and then we’ll work our way round the world and hopefully, eventually, end up in Australia. He’s got an uncle there I want to meet.’
Vick shook her head. ‘You’ve lost it. You are totally off your head.’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘You’re the one who’s off her head if you think you’re to blame for what happened to Nic. You have to put it behind you. She got what she deserved. I’m going tonight and I don’t like to think that you’ll be left sitting here feeling guilty plus miserable over something you can’t change. I’m sorry I was a bad friend and I went off with Nic and I’m sorry I got stuff wrong. I hope you can forgive me. Blame me if you have to blame anyone.’
Vicky wiped her nose. ‘Why should I blame you?’
I would have maybe answered but Mrs S. came in with a big box of jumble.
‘It’s for your darling mother,’ she smiled. ‘She asked me to have a clear-out and we seem to have an awful lot
of rather useless things. Be an angel and take it back with you.’
I smiled politely and said something very deep about how you can’t hold onto the past for ever.
When I looked across at Vicky I knew she wanted to ask me more, but I said I had to go.
I’ve got no idea what Vicky’s going to do. She might tell her mum and dad what I’ve got planned, and then they’ll ring Mum in a panic. Is that what I secretly want? But then it’s just as likely that Vicky will keep quiet. She knows I tend to exaggerate and she probably thinks I’m bluffing. I’m not, though. I might not make it as far as Australia but I swear I’ll get on that boat and I won’t look back. I’ll ignore the nagging feeling that is telling me to wait. It’s stupid! I hate this miserable rock, so why do I suddenly not want to leave? It’s what I should do. Actually, I’m in a bit of a hurry so I’d better just get a move on. I’m all packed up and ready – I’ve packed spare socks and trousers, my sleeping bag and two cans of Impulse Vitality. There’s no room for any books, in fact, not even ones by Dad. And maybe that’s a good thing. I won’t need them where I’m going, and I think I’ve told you what you need to know.
So. Mum, now you have the full History I know you’ll be upset. It can’t be nice – to find out that your daughter’s killed someone. The fact that I killed a Prevost might make it seem less awful. I don’t especially like the name Prevost now I know what it means. That’s not a good enough reason to do what I did, though. I’m probably crazy to think if I get away from here it’ll finally make everything right, but at least now I’m sure about Michael, and I want us to leave together. We’ll be in Southampton for Christmas. How cool is that?
Mum, I’ll miss you and I’m sorry for putting you in this horrible situation. Now you know what I’ve done you’ll want to do the right thing and tell Constable Priaulx. As a good Christian you should have me stopped and arrested, so that I can face a proper punishment. If it’s not murder, it’s manslaughter – right? Taking away any life is wrong as per the Bible and I must be punished. Justice must be served.
But if you are going to the police then you’d better be careful what you tell them, and you certainly won’t want to show them this. You should come and talk to me first. I’m sure you must realise that there are quite a few secrets that I’ve kept for you. It’s here in black-and-white if you read between the lines. Dad’s heart stopped working for a very particular reason and I know that you lied. Did he leave a note? Did you get rid of it? How long did you have to wait before calling Dr Senner? Did you lie for the money or was there another reason? I’ve read every book in this house, every letter, every file, and every scrap of paper left, but there are still some questions I can’t answer. I think it’s time you answered them, otherwise I’ll imagine all sorts. And, Mum, I do imagine all sorts.
It’s easy to kill someone and make it look like a suicide, and it’s easy to make a suicide look like something else. I now understand why people prefer lies. The truth isn’t easy. Still, here it is: Nic’s dead and I’m to blame. I might not have meant to kill her but I saw it happen and I didn’t stop it. Does that sound familiar? If you turn a blind eye to something, if you sit back and watch, you are still guilty. You’re as guilty as anyone else.
I’m sorry, Mum, I’m très-mega-sorry, but I hope I’ve finally got your attention. Now it’s just you and me and what we know, and you have to decide the next step. Are you going to keep my secret and let me get away from here, or are we going to face our lies together? I used to think that I was so much smarter than everyone else but I’m still a kid and I’m asking you, my mother, to show me what to do. I can’t make these decisions on my own. I’m in your hands. If you come now, to Clarence Batterie, you might just catch me. I promise I’ll listen to what you’ve got to say. One of us might still get on that boat, but at least we’d both be free.
Oh Mum, look what I’ve done. Look at me and look at this. You always had your nose in a book, so I went and wrote one just for you. I hope it has been more than entertaining. In fact, this should be just about the best book you’ve ever read, what with its gripping conclusion. It’s got all the things you like best.
It even has a proper twist at the end.
The twist is that you get to choose it.
Acknowledgements
There are many people I’d like to thank, and top of the list is Georgia Byng, who gave me such good advice just when I needed it. Thank you also to my brilliant agent, Natasha Fairweather, for her unstinting support and critical insights, and to Marie Darrieussecq, for her love and constant encouragement. Writing is a lonely business, but I count myself extremely fortunate to have had the support of Devorah Baum, Claire Bishop, Susie Boyt, Sarah Ghai, Anouchka Grose, Vicken Parsons and Louise Wilson, who reminded me why I wanted to do this, as did Vincent Dachy. I’m also very grateful to Patricia Whitford, for reading various drafts and never taking offence.
The title of this book is deceptive – there is plenty of fact within the fiction. I owe a great deal to the parents and grandparents of my schoolfriends who first shared their memories of the Occupation with me and fired my interest in the subject. I am also indebted to the islanders who recorded and published their own remarkable accounts. Silent War by Frank Falla, Isolated Island by V. V. Cortreviend and Never To Be Forgotten by Joe Mière are all extraordinary memoirs. Histories of the German Occupation are considerable in number, ranging from Islands in Danger, by Mary and Alan Woods, first published in 1955, and the important and controversial Model Occupation by Madeleine Bunting. More recently, Paul Sanders has produced The British Channel Islands Under Occupation 1940–1945, the most comprehensive, detailed and objective study to date.
I read widely, but it was the personal narratives that stayed in my head. Books such as Miriam Mahy’s There is an Occupation remain on my bedside table, and it was Miriam and her cousin Cynthia Lenormand who helped me with the Guernsey patois translations. Their patience and good humour was greatly appreciated. I’m also very grateful to Gregory Stevens-Cox, an inspiring teacher, whose many publications on Guernsey history have always been enjoyed and appreciated by my family, and whose recent book on Victor Hugo in the Channel Islands makes fascinating reading. A special thank you also to the real-life Kez Le Pelley and André Duquemin, for letting me use their names in this fictional context, and to Victoria Kinnersly for her wonderful map.
When I first started writing The Book of Lies I never imagined anyone else would read it, but I’m so glad the right people did read it. Thank you to Jamie Byng for believing in the book, and to Andrea Joyce, Norah Perkins, Anya Serota and everyone at Canongate for their patience, support and enthusiasm. But above all, a massive thank-you to Ailah Ahmed, an excellent editor who reigned in my crazier ramblings and guided me so carefully to this point. She was the perfect other person to talk to besides the characters in my head.
End Notes
1 ‘Schoolgirl Killed in Cliff Fall at Clarence Batterie’, Guernsey Evening Press, 3rd December 1985.
2 Emile Philippe Rozier (1938–84), late of Sans Soucis, Village de Courtils, St Peter Port; Guernsey’s most famous/only Local/Modern Historian and the founder/editor of The Patois Press and author of its many historical guides to Guernsey and the other, less important Channel Islands.
3 To be more exact: Guernsey is part of the Bailiwick of Guernsey, which is part of the Channel Islands, which is only vaguely part of the United Kingdom and does not want to be part of Europe, and on maps of the World we don’t even exist, so the World can bugger off.
4 Aka Fortress Guernsey, so-named by the Nazis after they occupied the island in 1940. FESTUNG denotes (excellent word) the vast amounts of building work ordered by Hitler to fortify/destroy Guernsey’s natural beauty (see E.P. Rozier, THE CONCRETE TRUTH, The Patois Press, 1970).
5 Guernsey has a lot of these modern estates now, and the houses are very elaborate because they are funded by Swiss bankers whose vast/immoral earnings fiddle the local tax laws. Not that there are any tax laws
, and not that the bankers are Swiss.
6 Victor Hugo (1802–85) is the most famous person to have ever lived in Guernsey (apart from Oliver Reed, who is an excellent drunkard and actor). He (Victor Hugo, not Oliver Reed) lived at Hauteville House in St Peter Port, which is now a museum, which is never open (see E.P. Rozier, VICTOR HUGO’S HOUSE – AN INVENTORY, The Patois Press, 1978).
7 The French only ever shrug and say ‘n’est-ce pas?’ They also add on an extra ‘me’ and ‘te’ just for effect and sadly Guernsey people do the same (e.g. ‘Where are you going, you?’ or ‘I’ve got three heads, me’). It’s just embarrassing.
8 Between 1941 and 1944 about 16,000 foreign slave workers were brought over to the islands to build new defences. A lot were starved, beaten and worked to death. Dad had tracked down some survivors and recorded interviews with islanders telling him what they’d seen. It was properly gory and I can’t believe people let it happen. (But they did.)
9 ‘The Costa Brava Costa Nothing’ according to the Guernsey Evening Press. (Tourism is in a slump due to cheaper flights to/cheaper cocktails in places of guaranteed sunshine.)
10 Only ye olde people (and Dad) can speak Guernsey Patois. It was spoken a lot during the German Occupation, because most Germans couldn’t understand it. Now it’s dying out, as per everything. It’s Medieval Norman French mixed with Latin, Welsh, Scotch and Brandy (kidding!). It sounds a lot like someone speaking French badly without their front teeth (see above ref. old people).
11 E.g. the one about the Underground Hospital as a gas chamber, or the one about Guernsey as a breeding ground for the Aryan race, or the testimonies of ex-prisoners from the Alderney Death Camps (see E.P. Rozier, GUERNSEY GAS CHAMBER AND OTHER MYTHS, The Patois Press, 1968/9).
12 The sea in Fermain is the coldest in Europe. This is the fault of the Gulf Stream but I do not know why.