The Book of Lies (14 page)

I was on my feet already. ‘
Alaons!

' This was what I'd waited all these months for, eh! My heart beat faster. I imagined that Ray and me were commandoes flown into the island on a secret mission. I was the wingman or whatever you want to call it. It didn't matter that we were breaking the law and I didn't spare a thought for what would happen if we were caught. This is what I'd always wanted. So we headed off quickly down the narrow back streets, winding our way into Town. The night was crisp and starry, and Ray moved quick, like a fox. He'd already sniffed out the hot spots and knew how best to avoid the patrols. Old Jerry was rigid in his habits, I suppose. Still, I was expecting to hear a ‘Halt!' at any minute, or feel the sharpness of a bayonet prodding into my back.

When we reached the waterfront the booze was wearing off, though. I was suddenly all a-jitter, and worried what was coming. I could see the trucks, but I could also see a German guard nearby, at the entrance to La Valette. His glowing cigarette end was hovering in the night air. Ray nodded to me and we crept up slowly, quietly, hunched over. Then he gave me the signal to stay still, and I was rooted to the spot. I watched as he lifted himself up onto the back of the first truck. I didn't hear a sound. Ma fé, he was a hefty bloke but he was nimble. I hardly dared breathe as I crouched and waited.

Minutes passed, then I heard the clip-clop sound of German jackboots, still some way off. I now know that sound better than anything on this earth. I skipped lightly round the truck and tugged at the tarpaulin so as to get Ray's attention. Then I tucked myself under it. The footsteps came closer and there was a rasping sound, like a cough. A new soldier was arriving to keep watch. I crouched low, holding my heart in my stomach, and I imagined Ray was doing the same. The guard walked past us and headed on towards the tunnel entrance. Moments later I heard him talking to his mate. I took a breath, pulled myself around and upright again and wondered if I should take a chance and run.

One minute I was standing there alone, the next Ray was aside of me. I didn't hear or see him slide out from under the tarpaulin. He handed me a can that stank of fuel whilst reaching into his trouser pocket. He pulled out a knife, bent down and cut the front tyre of the truck. Then he grinned.

‘Slowly,' he whispered.

We began walking quietly, almost on tippy-toe, sharing the weight of the petrol. I felt scared as hell but for a long time the soldiers couldn't see us because the trucks still blocked their view. We were lucky, damned lucky.

The can was heavy but Ray bore most of the weight. We were halfway up Hauteville when I heard more jackboots.

‘Quick! Down here!' said Ray, and we ducked down a side alley.

There was a commotion on George Street. We didn't see anything, just listened out for the smack of fists, the slipping and sliding of feet. I didn't dare look and I didn't dare move, but I'll bet it was a couple of drunk soldiers venting their anger on some poor soul. I was expecting Ray to signal to me that we should join the fray, but instead he crouched next to me, quiet as a mouse.

After a few minutes it was over. Ray and I remained.

‘That was close.' He straightened up. ‘I've had enough excitement for one night, eh?'

It was heady stuff. With my pulse racing and my heart jumping, we reached the Gables.

‘Not bad for a night's work!'

Ray offered me one of his cigarettes and I took it gladly. He called me his second lieutenant and I was choked up with pride. I didn't think to ask what the petrol was for, and after a few drags I was too giddy to care. Ray was laughing, smiling his old smile and saying we should do it again.

I don't know how long it took before he told me what he wanted. I think we were sitting in the garden when it all came out.

‘Now then,
man amie
,' he goes, ‘these are the worst of times. We've got to do something. Surely you must feel it.'

I looked across at him, not yet understanding.

He lowered his eyes. ‘What was it you meant when you told me you had a boat?'

I swallowed hard. ‘What?'

‘The boat. Were you serious?'

I didn't answer. I was like Zacharias in the Bible, struck dumb through doubt.

‘I need to get away,' Ray says. ‘They'll have me sent to France the next time I'm arrested. We'll escape together, you and me, what do you reckon?'

I didn't reckon anything.

His rough face crumpled and he threw his cigarette on the ground.

‘There's no boat. You were lying and I am a damned fool to think you could help me.'

It was like a game of poker when you never know who's bluffing.

‘Ch'est pas vère.' I jumped up. ‘I'll show you if you want.'

Tchi qu'il pense que j'sis fou? Je ne sais pas. It didn't take much, did it? It makes my blood boil to remember how I played into his hands. I get into such a rage and I curse myself for taking a man like Ray Le Poidevoin at his word. If there is a pool somewhere down there that burneth with fire and brimstone, I hope he drowns in it. He was seventeen, don't forget, and I was barely fifteen year. Cor damme, je m'en fou! A stupid kid who didn't know better.

I should never have opened my door to that scum. When I walked out to meet him on that night I sealed my fate and that of our family. I wonder now if anything he told me was true, and if those bruises were as bad as he made out. He probably fell over drunk. He wasn't on no black list. He was no hero.

Knock and the door will be opened, seek and ye shall find. But I bolt my door now in case he comes back. One day I know he will. He'll be wanting to fool me into trusting him again, wanting to take my boat off me. The scoundrel! I see him everywhere with his laughing eyes and broken nose. Au yous, Emile, the only time now I'll open my door to Ray Le Poidevoin is when I'm in Hell. I'll open the doors of Hell all right, when I hear him banging to get in.

17TH DECEMBER 1985
,
5
.
30
p.m.

[
2
nd landing, on window ledge but not about to jump.]

Oh my God. You won't believe who just came knocking at my door! He didn't give up for ages, either. At first I didn't hear because the TV was on so loudly. (Yes, I know I said Dad threw the TV out but Mum went and bought a new one, which is bigger and better and even gets French channels (which are all quite filthy).

I was right in the middle of an episode of
Columbo
when I heard the banging and realised I had a visitor. I hate interruptions so I ignored it. Then Columbo got caught in a shoot-out and I was worried that whoever was banging would come and peer through the sitting-room window and see me. So I went and hid behind the curtains. I stood there perfectly still like a Buddhist. But the banging sounded urgent and destroyed my sense of Zen. I wondered if it was the police, and they'd come to drag me off to prison, then I imagined it was Nic and she'd come to drag me off to Hell.

That's when I tiptoed into the hall to see what was happening.

‘Come on!' I heard someone growl.

Our front door has a little window of frosted glass so I can usually tell who it is. I saw a big head, lusciously broad shoulders, a bit of a slouch. I stood very still and stared in wonder.

It was Michael.

MICHAEL PRIAULX!

Aaagh! (I thought).

It was as if he knew I was there, because he pressed his hand and face into the glass.

‘Cathy? Are you home?'

SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! (I thought again).

I couldn't believe it! Michael. Michael! He's back.

But I wasn't going to let him in. I couldn't have him seeing me in such a state. I haven't had a shower for as long as I can remember and there's this spot on my chin that I've had to squeeze and squeeze. Peter Falk might be able to get away with looking like he's slept in a hedge but I'm not a famous TV detective (wearing what is surely a wig). A girl must have some self-respect/control/ soap. Thus and therefore I pinned myself to the wall and tried not to breathe and hoped Michael would go away. He bent down and pushed the letterbox open and stuck his nose right through it. I nearly had a heart attack and jumped behind our new pine bookshelf. Michael and I stayed like that for about three minutes, which is actually a very long time. Then I heard him straighten up. I knew the front door was unlocked (because nobody ever locks their doors on Guernsey) but I was
99
% sure he wouldn't come in. I took my chance and darted up the stairs. It was definitely anxiety-making, because I wanted to see him but also didn't.

Then, when I heard him walk round the side of the house, I realised he was limping. It shocked me but it shouldn't have. After all, he's lucky to be walking at all. The accident nearly killed him and when he finally regained consciousness he couldn't turn his head or say his name.

I lifted the net curtains an inch and there was Michael, inspecting the hydrangeas. He's still as good-looking although his hair's a lot shorter (they must've had to shave it to stitch his brain back in). He walked around the patio, examining the ornamental weeds and looking out to sea. Our house is at the bottom of the Village, which is also the top of a cliff. The garden runs down to meet scrubland, which borders the cliff path that runs to Fermain Bay. The whole of the Village is sort of toppling into the sea, but then, if you live on an island the sea is always near.
³⁷

I wonder if Michael remembers the last time he was here. He might not because it was just before his accident and he's apparently lost some of his memory glands. Perhaps he needs my help. Or maybe he wants to talk about Nic. He's been in England for half the year, so he wasn't here when Nic went off the cliff. He wasn't here when everything went wrong. He was lucky, really, being in a coma.

A coma is a deep sleep before you die. I was often amazed at how deeply Dad could sleep, even in the middle of the day. I used to want to prod him just to check he was still breathing. As it happens, he was in a real and proper coma when his heart stopped working. Dr Senner told me that. Some people stay in a coma for a very long time, but this is not good for you (or for the people around you). I'm not sure if that means you are better-off dead. Look at Michael. He's back from the dead in time for Christmas.

The last time I saw him was about a fortnight after his fight with Pete. By then I was definitely in love with him, and I'd also managed to convince him that Mum needed help with the garden. Mum didn't need help with anything, but she was out with her new best friends the Christian-Aid-Tin-Rattlers, so I had Michael all to myself. I poured him a big glass of Dad's remaining whiskies and we sat on sun loungers, watching the powerboat races. At first I felt quite awkward and couldn't think what to say to him. I know everything about Michael so it's not like I need to ask questions. I know what bands he likes (Jesus and Mary Chain and The Cure), and where he bought his jacket from (Easy Rider in the Market Place), and what football team he supports (Arsenal Rovers). In the end I told him how impressed I was with how he'd handled Pete.

He sighed and stared at his hands.

‘Pete Mauger thinks he's some fucking big shot. He walks into a room, expecting everyone to lick his arse. Fucking morons thinking they're special.'

I nodded sympathetically but felt a bit scared.

‘This piss-pot island does it to you. It's the same old crap, over and over. It's like a fucking net closing in. These people, I feel like fucking squeezing the life out of them just to prove they're real.'

He then had a demi-rant about Guernsey in general, which I found très worrying. He told me everyone wants to be a big fish in a little pond, and Guernsey's not even a pond, more a puddle. He said ‘Bollocks to it' a lot. He also told me I couldn't trust anyone and I especially couldn't trust my friends. He said they'd fuck me over in a second, since that's what people did.

I wanted to tell him he was wrong, but couldn't. After all, during the Occupation lots of Guernsey people earned good money informing on their neighbours and friends.
³⁸
The Guernsey Post Office had dozens of letters every month and Dad quoted cases all the time.

I watched Michael light up one of his red-packet-quick-death Marlboro cigarettes. He took a big drag and blew smoke in my face. I got completely side-tracked when I looked at his lips. He offered me the packet but I shook my head. He took another hungry gulp of whisky and I was convinced something huge was about to happen. I wanted to kiss him so much I thought I'd explode. I didn't know what to say or do. Michael rubbed his bottom lip.

‘It's like with Donnie, yeah, he knows about the world and he's made all this money, but people hate him for it. They think he's dodgy. Of course he doesn't care, he's got nothing to prove. I respect that. He's the only person around here who knows about
living
, but people have to go and shit-stir. Take your mate Nicolette – she turned up last Saturday out of the blue, pretended she was looking for you. She was
spying
on us. Then she was asking Donnie all these questions and calling me his
pool boy
.'

I found it annoying that Nic had never mentioned this. I wondered what she was up to, but I had to pretend that I already knew. (I didn't want Michael thinking I didn't ‘know shit' as per usual.)

I told him Nic had a stupid sense of humour.

‘Yeah, well, if she comes round Donnie's again I'll give her something to talk about. Tell her that if you want. Tell her, I'll give her a private show.'

‘OK,' I replied, not quite understanding.

Michael nodded and knocked back more whisky.

‘She'll be stuck here, the one growing old and fat, and I'll be away, I'll be
gone
.'

The words ‘away' and ‘gone' cut straight through me.