The Book of Lies Page 10

  Dad wouldn’t have liked Pete – he was definitely a bad egg and not one for drinking. I suspected Nic was with him just for show, since the other lads looked up to him and she loved the attention. He did weight-training in his garage and he’d scoop her over his shoulder or twirl her around like a rag doll. He once offered to do the same to me but I promised him I’d crush him, and when I saw him fight with Michael I realised I could’ve done.

  It was at André Duquemin’s house one Saturday night. Everyone was there. Michael was sitting by himself in a corner, looking delectable/deranged, and I was drinking everything as per usual and trying to be hilariously funny. Eventually I gave up and went to sit by Michael. I remember he smelt of petrol and had a spot on his chin, but that really didn’t matter. He was in a Joy Division T-shirt. I told him they were my favourite band and was keen to discuss their name, but he said they weren’t a band anymore, not since their lead singer had killed himself. That didn’t sound too joyous. I asked Michael if he’d enjoyed reading the choice selection of Dad’s books that I’d dropped round at his house, but all he did was grunt. So I changed tack and complimented him on his careful tending of Donnie’s flowerbeds.

  Michael’s furtive scowl deepened and he sucked on his Marlboro-Red-specially-designed-to-kill-you cigarette.

  ‘You like Donnie, eh?’

  I nodded and said that Donnie and I had become friends on account of our communal love of books. I then described Donnie’s large-ish library of Catholic good-taste. I went on and on about Donnie’s books, actually, and insisted that they were why I kept visiting him. But that’s not strictly true. The real reason I went round to Donnie’s was to stand by his kitchen window and watch Michael in the garden. Donnie joked that he could charge me by the hour. I don’t know why I liked watching Michael so much. I liked the fact that he was so quiet and careful when he was weeding, and his face became angelic as he pruned. And occasionally he was topless.

  Michael blew out a perfect smoke ring and asked what I was reading now and I told him I was working my way through the oeuvre of Stephen King.

  He laughed.

  ‘You’re into real classics, then.’

  I bristled because I had read all the classics, actually. Dad had bought them by mail order from a Daily Telegraph magazine supplement, and I finished them before I turned 12.

  But Michael found that hilarious, too.

  ‘D’you know Donnie dropped out of university? He reckons they turn you into robots. He’s got properties all over the world, timeshares and stuff. He’s well rich.’

  Nic suddenly broke in. ‘Who’s this you’re talking about?’

  I reminded Nic about Donnie’s party and she hunched up her shoulders like she was cold (and she might’ve been, since as per usual she was barely dressed).

  ‘That man is a total creep, living in that big house on the cliff. He’s probably a serial killer with, like, weird perversions and a basement full of porn.’

  Michael told Nic not to talk shit, but she replied that talking shit was better than smelling of it.

  He sneered brilliantly. ‘You just can’t help yourself, can you?’

  Nic laughed. ‘No, Michael, and neither can you from what I’ve seen.’

  She ran a finger down his arm, which I didn’t like one bit. Then I noticed her bare knee pressing against his thigh. Nic always leaned in too close to people when she talked to them, like she was telling them a secret.

  With a flick of her hair she turned back to me.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be with Pagey? He’s getting the idea you’re avoiding him.’ Her eyes jumped to Michael. ‘Don’t you hate that, Michael, when girls flirt with you just to make their boyfriends jealous? It’s not nice to feel used.’

  Michael smiled, but not with his eyes. ‘Those girls are slags, if you ask me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask you, though,’ Nic shook out her hair. ‘You don’t know much about it from what I’ve seen. And if you’re going to let Cat down, at least do it gently.’

  Michael told Nic to fuck off and die.

  She shrugged. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing. Cat’s already a hit with the older man so you two have something in common.’

  Michael curled his lip gorgeously. ‘You are such a fucking bitch.’ And with that, he walked away.

  I pretended that I needed the loo but I was really going after Michael. I didn’t entirely understand what had just gone on. But then I got lost down a dark corridor, and realised that I did need the loo after all. I was standing by the back door that led into the garden. I’d drunk too much Curaçao plus Baileys plus Cider and they were doing the ‘okey-kokey’ in my stomach. So I stumbled outside, hoping the fresh air would do me good and there might also be a flowerbed to vomit in. I wandered down a little gravel path and lay down on the grass. I looked up at the stars and did my best yogic breathing. Then, after twenty-or-so breaths, I realised I wasn’t alone. Jason was standing over me. Jason is quite worrying, by the way. He has big fishy eyes and pubic-curly hair, and the story is he bit off his own finger when he was nine.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I told him nothing and that I wanted to be alone.

  He crouched down next to me. ‘But you’re crying.’

  I told him I was allergic to daffodils (which was a lie).

  ‘Girls always cry when they’re drunk. I reckon they only get drunk so’s they can cry.’

  I told Jason he was ridiculous, although I wonder if he’s right.

  He sat down next to me.

  ‘Want a smoke?’

  I shook my head. He carried on sitting there, whilst I did yogic breathing. I’d counted to sixty before he asked:

  ‘Is it true you’re shagging a teacher?’

  Of course I denied it, and Jason looked more fishy/creepy.

  ‘It’s just what I heard. You know what this island’s like, stuff gets around, girls, too.’

  ‘Well, it’s rubbish,’ I replied.

  I looked at Jason and he looked at me. He obviously misunderstood what that look meant because he tried to kiss me and stick his hand up my skirt. (Boys are just disgusting.) Unfortunately I was more drunk than I thought, so it took a few minutes for me to work out what was happening. I pushed him off and called him a Pig.

  ‘Je-sus! Pagey was right. You are all talk. What the fuck is wrong with you?’

  A lot of things are wrong with me (that should be obvious by now), but I wasn’t going to explain everything to Jason Guille. I also didn’t need to, since at that precise moment Michael and Pete had come stumbling out into the garden.

  With the splitting of a nano-second Michael saw me on the grass and said ‘What the—’ He couldn’t say anything else because Pete grabbed him from behind and got him in a headlock.

  ‘You say that again. Say what you said back there and tell me how much you like this!’

  I knew Michael needed my help.

  ‘Get off him!’ I yelled, jumping up.

  I think, in retrospect, girls shouldn’t get involved in boys’ fights. I’d also like to point out that when you see fights on TV or have them described in novels, they’re nothing like the real-life version. Just by trying to describe a fight you slow it down with words, and string it out to make it more dramatic. And if it’s on TV there’s lots of different camera angles plus music. That makes it exciting. Real-life fights are very brutal. I tried to kick Pete and then Jason grabbed me round the waist so I elbowed him in the teeth. The next minute I was on my knees and I saw Michael flip Pete over. There was a cracking sound and I thought Pete’s spine had snapped in two. Michael kicked him once and he yelped, curling over and calling out the ‘C’ word. People were spilling out into the garden to watch but Michael staggered back, his breath and spit suddenly lit up by the house lights.

  I suppose that’s one good thing about boys: they get their fights over and done with quickly. With girls it’s always longer because they fight dirty, and use their nails and teeth. My last fight with Nic was
like that. I didn’t have any secret manoeuvres like Michael, and I hadn’t done any weight-training like Pete, but I still managed to fight Nic to the Death. I never did bludgeon her, though. I only said that because I wanted to sound like Stephen King.

  Dad had always warned me about this, of course. He used to say that if I was exposed to the language of sex and violence then I’d suck it up like a sponge. That’s why he vetted my library books and threw the TV out and banned me from visiting Beau Sejour after dark. It’s like he knew all along I’d eventually turn evil. It was only a matter of time. At least I’ve proved him right, and he did so like to be right.

  16th December 1965

  Tape: 2 (B side) ‘The testimony of C.A. Rozier’ [Transcribed by E.P. Rozier]

  Was I born rotten or did something make me bad? I never will know, and now it’s my body that’s rotten through and through. My kidneys are gone and my heart will be next. There’s a weight pushing down on my chest so hard I cannot breathe. I can’t even see right because of cataracts. Still, I’ve seen enough things that I can’t forget. Men being beaten like animals, their legs twisted round and their skulls smashed open. Every day I watched men dragged off at roll call never to return, and then I dug their graves. Emile, tchi que je vis te baillerais de mauvais saonges. Once violence enters the mind it never leaves.

  The blood stains on my shirt were a warning to our mother.

  ‘You have been fighting!’ she cried. ‘Is this how I brought you up? Why don’t you listen?’

  My eyes were red-rimmed from crying and I hung my head as she bandaged up my arm. I promised her I’d be a better son and behave myself in future. I honestly thought I meant it, too.

  ‘If you get hurt again there won’t be no fixing you,’ she replied. ‘It’s enough with one invalid amongst us.’

  It was the first time she’d mentioned Hubert’s health, and now the cat was out of the bag. I watched as she sucked in her lips.

  ‘He won’t go to the doctor,’ she told me. ‘He seems to think that what medicine there is he does not deserve.’

  The winter months had taken a toll on all of us, it’s the truth, but Pop had a terrible rattle in his throat and it wasn’t getting better. When I watched him shuffle round the house I should’ve felt bad for him, but instead I felt the old resentments stir anew.

  La Duchesse put on her armour plating and told me I was man enough for both of us. I tried to be, I really did. After that I pushed all thoughts of Ray out of my head and got up at seven each morning, so as to be in the office early, setting the inks. I resolved never again to go out at night or get into any fights. I even stopped giving lip to Vern and learned a little German. That stopped La Duchesse from quacking like a duck, and we all got a bit of peace.

  The summer came and went, and then we faced another autumn. More and more slave workers poured onto the island so there was less of everything to go round. You cannot imagine how bad it got, Emile. I didn’t feel like I was getting much reward for being good, as I sat in that office day in and day out. Vern was always watching me, whilst Pop hid away in the spare room, a shadow of the man he was. I hated Vern for taking Pop’s place and I’d dream of killing him with his own gun, but he was just a sap, not built to be a soldier and, like I said, I’d learned my lesson.

  All this time I was a good lad, no trouble to anyone. People forget that. It was Ray who was stirring and stealing and causing trouble. ‘Y’a les impudents qui vivent’35 is what they say, and Ray was as impudent as any I knew. He’d carried on with what he called his ‘Sab Squad’, getting up to all sorts. When I heard talk of water being poured in German fuel tanks, or food being stolen from their canteens, I knew it was down to Ray and his thugs. I wondered how long they’d last, though, since the Hun was now offering good money for information. Hunger loosed all our tongues, you understand, and as a new year dawned two of Ray’s lads got themselves arrested.36

  1942 was the hardest year yet. We was all a bit closer to animals. By then everyone was stealing from everyone else and blaming them poor bloody slave workers. Emile, j’en sis pas à djotche! Your neighbour would have the shirt off your back and the soles off your shoes if you didn’t keep an eye on them, and the black market was big business – there was a thriving racket, courtesy of certain persons I could name.

  And Ray was at it, too. Ah, yes, I’ve come back to that old rascal, or rather he came back to me. I was lying on my bed one Friday night when I heard some noises outside. I wondered what it was all about, but not enough to shift my bony backside. I rested my ink-stained fingers on my ribs and counted slowly to ten. It was an old trick – I just wanted to empty my head and get a bit of sleep. But then I heard a little tap at my window. I thought I was dreaming. Then came another tap, followed by more. Someone was throwing gravel at the pane.

  I got myself up and went to the window, pulling back the curtains only a little way. I looked out onto the dark street and I couldn’t see a thing. I leaned forward, peering left to right again, and then steadied my eyes on the shadows in the yard. That’s when I saw something move. As I pressed my face against the glass he stood up straight, his outline lit up by the lemon slice of moon. I’d recognise them jug ears anywhere! It was Ray.

  He gestured to me and without another thought I was pulling on my trousers and dashing down the stairs. I had no idea what it was he wanted, and a part of me wondered if it wasn’t still a dream. War plays funny tricks on you, that’s for sure. I opened the front door with a great big smile, like I was greeting an old friend. Only he wasn’t the chap I remembered. His lip was cut and one eye was swollen shut.

  ‘Mon Dju! What in hell happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Them Slugs fight dirty.’ He was dancing from foot to foot. ‘There’s a do at the Gables, you coming?’

  The Gables was a private house used for all-night parties by some of Guernsey’s wayward and not-so-wayward youth. It was popular with the nurses from the hospital. Of course I’d never been before. Of course I went! Who wouldn’t?

  I can’t name all the folk there but I was proud to be in their number, and prouder still to walk in with old Ray. I reckon I grew a good ten inches in as many minutes and I felt more alive than I’d felt in a year. It was a merry scene with lots of drinking and laughing and dancing. You could’ve almost made yourself believe the War was over, if it weren’t for that foul-tasting stuff they called homebrew.

  I drank it quickly to stop myself from asking what I was doing. It was strange to have Ray slapping me on the back and calling me ‘copain’, but I guessed he was up to something. After a little while he took me off to a corner of the kitchen, checking all around that no one was in earshot.

  ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘the time has come for us to put the past behind us. We’re all a bit older and wiser. I’ve lost some good men and I’m sick of silly rivalries. We must make a firm alliance and stick to it. But I need to know I can trust you.’

  ‘You have my word,’ I nodded back.

  Ray stared at me. ‘I’ve been watching you. You’ve been keeping out of trouble. Me? I’m on the German black list. I’ve managed to convince them I’m a bit touched in the head, but there’s only so many times I can pull that trick.’

  ‘What are you planning?’ I asked of him.

  Ray winked. ‘First things first: I’ve got a tip-off that there’ll be two lorries near La Valette. Both have fuel on board and it’s ours for the taking. You ready to prove you’re more than all that talk?’

  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.