The Book of Lies (23 page)

I thought about calling her a Loony but knew there was no point.

‘Thanks for telling me.'

Lisa sniffed and walked down the slipway onto the beach, and I watched her go, waiting for her to be a teeny-tiny speck and not matter anymore. Then I stopped smiling. I closed my book and stared at the horizon, hugging my knees and folding up my belly. I should've been happy that Michael was OK, but instead I felt weirdly disappointed. I suppose I'd already got used to the idea of him being dead, as per Shakespeare's Romeo. I was looking for a chance to weep and wail, and pull my hair out. If he'd died then I could've wished that I'd done everything differently and told him I loved him before it was too late. It would've given me the best-ever reason to cry. I could've even made up for not crying over Dad.

Perhaps I also prefer it when people are dead because that's when they become History, and what I like most about History is how you can change it. Yes, that's right. Don't think it's set in stone. Just look at what happened with the Occupation. Once it was over, most islanders decided that it hadn't been that bad, and even called it character-building. Dad used to get so cross about how people chopped and changed their views, and forget about all the atrocious things that happened. Of course, I'm now doing the exact same thing to him. I like Dad so much more and I've even started wishing he'd come back.

Dad, for the record, I'm finally very sorry. I never understood you and I didn't even try. If it's any consolation, when I'm walking on the cliffs I pretend I'm talking to you (although, of course, you're not walking with me, you're walking ahead of me because you always walked too fast and never made allowances for my short legs).

Anyway, now I'm a bit older I think sailing would've been fun. I'm also sorry for all the times I left doors open and didn't do the washing up and thumped up and down the stairs. If I could do it all again I'd do it differently and be quieter. I'm sorry I didn't look or sound more like you, as per a shadow or an echo. I'm also sorry we weren't total opposites, like the pieces of a puzzle that could be put together to fit. It's really annoying that I think I love you now you're gone. Even your weird habits have become quite special (although I still don't understand why cucumbers should be peeled). I tell everyone you were a champion swimmer and a hero and a genius, even if you weren't.

And at least I know why I'm doing it.

It's called Revisionism, isn't it?

20
th December
1965

Tape:
4
(A side) ‘The testimony of C.A. Rozier'
[Transcribed by E.P. Rozier]

‘History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.' That's what Winston Churchill said. The pompous fool! Well, Emile, you don't need to be kind to me. I know I don't deserve it.

You'd think, by now, I'd have told our father everything, but there was still this deafening silence between us. We took the path back down towards Town. I kicked at the stones under my feet and thought about Ray Le Poidevoin and what I'd do to him if I caught hold of him. The Germans swore blind they didn't have him but the minute I saw his mother it was as clear as day. Ray was the cause of my undoing. He had set me up.

I was too vexed to spare a thought for Pop, and I was striding on ahead and leaving him far behind. It was only when he called to me that I turned, and looking back I saw this frail figure who barely cast a shadow. I hurried to his side, holding out my hand. I knew then in that instant I had to talk to him about everything, confess my sins and beg to be forgiven, but still I was wondering when I'd be able to get over to check on the boatshed. It was all a jumble in my head and I didn't know what to think first. But I knew one thing for sure, I wasn't going to sit around and wait to be tried without judge or jury. And neither was Pop.

Hubert looked up at me and his dark expression was like a mirror to my own. Then he ducked his head and coughed painfully. I swear I felt it, like a hammer against my chest. We'd both aged about twenty years within a night and day. Enough was enough. I opened my mouth to speak.

‘Don't.' Pop raised a hand to stop me. ‘No need for you to tell me. I know what you've been up to – all of it – and I won't judge you neither. But let's stick to the story.'

‘You know I can't do that,' I told him.

The old man grabbed me and hugged me tightly to him. He was not the kind of man who ever did such things, and it scared me half to Hell already.

‘I love you, son, and I'm sorry you got mixed up in this.'

I pulled away and suddenly the tears were springing from my eyes. ‘Eh me! J'sis guerre de fou!' I said. ‘T'chi qu j'ai fait?'

Pop sighed. ‘It's not just you. We've all done things we regret. I should've acted sooner. It's my time, though, son, and I am ready.'

I swear those were his very words.

My mouth was hanging open, I clung to him and wept like the child I still was. I'd called him a coward, my own father, but he was ready to lay down his life for me.
Quaï haomme
, Emile!

I reckon that's what gave me strength, in fact, because not long after I was gripping him by the shoulders, telling him we still had a chance. ‘Si nous ne peut pas s'ecappaïr, nous moura a éprouvaïr!'

Of all my daft ideas.

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 brand 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.