The Book of Lies (7 page)

C.P. nodded and harrumphed back to the buffet.

‘What's he got against the English?' laughed Donnie.

‘Well,' I said, ‘for starters you're a tax exile, so you're basically just taking advantage. But more importantly, at the beginning of the Second World War you abandoned us and were entirely to blame for us being bombed and then occupied by the Germans for five years.'

Donnie pulled a face of what I would call mocky-horror. ‘Oh, come on, the Occupation was a picnic. Didn't everyone learn German?'

He winked at Mr McCracken, who smiled and waved his hands. ‘I'm staying out of this.'

‘Actually,' said Nic, ‘half Cat's family were killed by the Nazis so it's no laughing matter. She could show you where the Germans buried the dead bodies of ex-prisoners, too. It's pretty much at the bottom of your garden.'

Donnie froze. ‘What?'

I pinched Nic hard.

‘Ow!'

Mr McCracken shook his head.

‘Ignore them. There are a lot of stories and it's mostly built on gossip and hearsay. She's referring to an incident that was before my time, but I'm pretty sure it was a skeleton dating from the nineteenth century, and it was much further down the cliffs.'

Nic gave me a nasty look, like I had somehow misled her, so I jumped in and explained how some of the poor people who'd been imprisoned on Alderney
²¹
had described watching Nazi guards herd fellow inmates off the cliffs. The men were often very weak and dying, so the Germans called it ‘suicide'. They also shot some and claimed they were killed ‘trying to escape'. I said it was highly likely that the same thing had happened in Guernsey.

I'd forgotten that Michael was still in the room, but suddenly he was standing right next to me.

‘It's illegal to kill yourself on Guernsey.' He raised an already-empty beer bottle. ‘But my dad couldn't even arrest a corpse. Ha-ha!'

Donnie was glaring hard at Michael (who scowled deliciously back). I pointed out that suicide was in fact the perfect murder since you couldn't catch the killer. Everyone was meant to marvel at my intelligence but didn't.

Donnie waved his hands nervously and asked if we had to pursue this most morbid of topics.

Nic jumped off the sideboard, flashing all of her thigh.

‘Sir . . . I was going to ask . . . did you get a card?'

Mr McCracken's eyes scrunched into raisins.

‘What?'

‘For Valentine's, sir! Don't tell me you didn't get one, a dish like you. I bet you get all the mums excited at our parents' evenings, and that's saying nothing about the pupils.'

Before Mr McCracken could answer Nic turned, cocking her head to one side.

‘And what about you, Donnie, is there no Mrs Golden locked in the basement?'

Donnie smiled his best TV smile and explained how he'd spent the last ten years nursing his mother, who'd only just died and was not locked anywhere.

‘Between work and Mother I didn't have much fun these last few years. After she was gone I knew I needed a change. I've never settled anywhere in England for long and liked the idea of living on an island. Personally, I think it's good to be a little bit cut off from things.'

Nic yawned. ‘Dead from the neck down, you mean.'

Mr McCracken ignored her and asked Donnie more about his work and Donnie gave a quick version of his life story, standing straight and keeping eye contact, so as to make a good impression. He knew some of his neighbours thought him suspect (and not just because he dyed his hair). Maybe that's why Michael liked him.

Michael Priaulx is a god, by the way. He was brilliant at football before his accident, and I'd often see his name in the sports pages of the
Press
. He's three years older than me but age is irrelevant. I'd watch him roar around Town on his motorbike and flick ‘V' signs at everyone and feel my heart beat faster. It didn't even matter when he started to wear eyeliner.

Donnie said I didn't need make-up. That night, he took me around his garden and talked more about his mother's slow and painful death, and how he'd brought her ashes to Guernsey and scattered them in his flowerbeds, so they'd still be close. He asked me if I thought it was weird, and I assured him that it was, but that everyone had different ways of dealing with death. I then explained how Mum hadn't cried at all after Dad died, and how instead she'd acted like she was relieved.

‘Well, it is a burden,' Donnie sighed, ‘caring for someone who's unwell.'

I assured Donnie that Dad hadn't been unwell.

‘Oh? Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm new here, remember.'

I then explained how Dad had an accident when diving off the Moorings and had cut his hand quite deeply, and how the cut became infected. I said Dad hadn't noticed because he was completely focused on his (Un)Official Occupation Memorial, and unfortunately the infection spread quicker than malicious island gossip. It was the infection that most probably caused the heart attack. I also swore that it was true about the bodies buried on the cliffs and told him to be careful in his garden. Donnie just laughed and said Michael did all the gardening.

So I chatted more about Mum, and how she'd put all her energies into saving the family business, and how it was good for her to be busy and not have time to think. Donnie looking genuinely disturbed, which I enjoyed. I'm such a champion story-teller! He listened carefully as I wittered on about how Dad sacrificed his health for the sake of the truth and how Mum just did as he said, and how I never realised because I was at school.

I tried to remember all the facts just like Mum told me, and I think I gave an impressive performance. It's weird how I can learn things off by heart and recite them like a parrot but still not understand them. Dad didn't make it to my last prize-giving on account of him dying and I did start to wonder why I'd worked so hard. There's no escaping death, not for any of us. With Nic it was over in a flash but at least when she was falling she didn't know that she was dying. Dad maybe did know, and Mum did, too.

My conversation with Donnie went on for hours and I felt very special to have all his attention. He told me he loved the company of young people and that if I ever wanted to talk I could come and find him. I said that'd be great since Mum didn't understand me and I wasn't sure I could trust her. That was the first time I'd said it out loud, to anyone.

And then she was tapping me on the shoulder.

‘We should be getting home. Can you go and fetch Nicolette?'

I felt so ashamed and ran back into the house as quick as I could, grabbed Nic and dragged her outside. I was thinking I'd find Mum looking cross and apologising to Donnie on my behalf. But instead she was chatting to him about the joys of the Guille-Aillez Library. We said our goodbyes and drove Nic back to Les Paradis and I wanted to tell Mum I was sorry and that I honestly didn't mean it. But she never said anything, so neither did I.

I suppose we were both trying to hide what we were feeling inside, although I don't know for sure if Mum was feeling anything. She was always as cool as a cucumber, never complaining about how hard she had to work, or her useless daughter. Perhaps nothing was as grim as the thrillers she read, and they helped her cope.

And perhaps that explains what happened between me and Nic, sorry, Nic and I.

I did what I did because, like Mum, I knew I could hide it.

And, like Mum, I knew I'd get away with it, too.

15
th December
1965

Tape:
1
(B side) ‘The testimony of C.A. Rozier'
[Edits from transcript compiled and corrected by E.P. Rozier]

There is plenty our mother won't talk about, Emile. According to La Duchesse it does us all no good, this dredging up of what's been said and done. She says if it is an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, then we shall all be blind with bleeding gums. She has a point, truly I see it well, but how can she forgive me?

She is a rare one, a rare and special case. You know what she did in the days before the Germans came? She put the whole of our house in order like never before. She cleaned the place from top to bottom and back again, she beat the carpets and darned our socks. Everything was washed and swept, scrubbed and pressed, and then she curled her hair.

‘We are going to show these Jerries that we are clean-living and respectable people,' she said, holding her chin up high. ‘I'll not let standards slip because of this.'

She was a force to be reckoned with, that one!

She still wanted me out the way, but the only boats bound for England now were to be loaded with tomatoes. That's right, when we heard that our crops could be shipped out again we took it as a good sign. Of course, others weren't so sure. I remember it was
28
th June, a Friday, and I'd come with Pop into Town to hear the Bailiff give another address. La Duchesse was at home with you, and I felt bad that she was missing the excitement: the High Street and Smith Street were packed solid with bodies and everyone was talking with their hands, the way only Guernsey folk can. The Bailiff was big with his ‘no need to panic' but the questions kept on coming.

‘The English sent us troops and arms, and then they took them back, and now they're saying what? That we're too small to matter?'

‘But they still want our tomato crops. What does it mean?'

That very evening folk were gathering at the harbour to watch the tomato baskets get loaded up onto boats.

‘It is
poltroonery
,' Ray said. ‘Whitehall should be sending guns. We fought for the British before, so surely they owe us something.'

‘There's no point in getting angry,' someone replied.

‘They have bigger problems than this little island.'

‘And they might be on their way now,' I piped up.

‘A commando force to help us.'

I thought I was being wise beyond my years and you know, Emile, there were commando raids before too long so it's not like I was wrong. Even so, they laughed me down.

‘
Quai bavin
!' Ray barked, ‘Are you the expert? Maybe you should be up there with the Bailiff. Come on everyone, let's have another tall tale from our champion storyteller!'

A few people were turning their heads and I shrank into my jacket, hoping the ground would swallow me up.

‘But—' I started.

‘But nothing. Do me a favour and keep your big mouth shut. At least until you're shaving.'

There was a murmur of laughter, and the talking continued right over my head. Why did everyone treat me like a kid? Ray was looking down his snout at me, his hazel eyes twinkling. It made me so angry I had to do something.

And I did.

‘Ow!'

Ha-ha! I'd kicked Ray hard, square on the shin. Not big or clever, I know, but I didn't half feel better as I burst through the crowds.

‘Here, you!' I heard him shout.

Even if I was just a kid I mattered enough for old Ray to give chase. But I hadn't done much damage since he was hot on my heels and closing in. I didn't stand a chance against those long legs. Still, you should've seen me, Emile, going hell for leather down the Esplanade, sending other folk flying, and just as I reckoned I was done for a great big shadow swooped over. I threw my hands up and spun around, fists at the ready. Ray had lunged at me and was grappling me down, and I fell on my back, hitting the ground hard with a thud. That's when I saw it high above me. The swastika on a German plane, and a gunner standing at its open door, firing a machine gun.

‘Rat-tat-tat' it went, like a child running a twig along some railings. ‘Rat-tat-tat!'

Next thing I knew Ray was on the pavement, too. I heard him cursing so I knew he was alive. We had both rolled onto our stomachs. Then came a deafening bang. Then another. I thought we must've been killed or bombed, but I didn't understand why I was still breathing. There was this buzzing in my brain and my ears felt like they was bleeding. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my face into the paving stones. Ray had turned around and was against the granite harbour wall.

Neither of us had counted on a fleet of German bombers interrupting our scuffle, and we weren't the only ones caught unawares. Mais nen-nin. The harbour was their target. They circled maybe three times in all. How many minutes I couldn't tell you.
Voomf! Bang!
Crack!
I swear the whole island shuddered but I clung tight to it still. I smelled the smoke, I heard sirens wailing. Then I felt Ray tug at my collar.

We helped each other up, taking a minute to get our balance. It was like my ears were blocked but I could see the fear in Ray's eyes. So he's human after all, I thought. Then I turned my head and saw the blaze on White Rock. Hé bian, Emile, it was a terrible thing. People have forgotten about a lot of things the Germans did, but they've never forgotten White Rock. Nothing much had ever happened on our little island until that day. Lots of places got hit and lots of people, too. The tobacco factory near the bus terminal was up in flames, but it was the docks that got it the worst. They'd flattened the tomato trucks that had lined up along the Weighbridge and machine-gunned their petrol tanks so everything was in flames. There were thirty dead, if I'm right, but you should check that.
²²
Without saying a word to each other Ray and I headed straight for the smoke and the flames. Of course, everyone else was running in the opposite direction, crying out in shock and pain. I remember a woman clinging to an older man who was holding a bloody handkerchief to his eyes. Lots of people were cut from broken glass or had been peppered with shrapnel, and an ambulance had been blown to bits. The heat and the smell is what I remember the most, and the blood on the road. Well, I thought it was blood but p'têt it was toms. Dozens of crates were smashed open. The boats were on fire as well. What a scene of dereliction! One man had had his toes blown off and was staring down at his feet with this puddle of red spreading outward. I went towards him, then I realised Ray had left my side and was heading down the harbour steps.