The Book of Lies Page 11

  ‘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.

  [2nd 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 de
finitely 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.

  ‘Are you going soon?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Michael lowered his eyes and shrugged, ‘I’ve got it sorted. My ticket out of here.’

  I sat very still and told him that I’d really, really miss him. Then I told him he couldn’t and shouldn’t go anywhere, and that Guernsey wasn’t actually so bad.

  He laughed. ‘Wait a few years and you’ll see what I mean. You’ll get so desperate you’ll do anything to get away.’

  I asked Michael to explain but he was too busy finishing my whisky. Then he said he didn’t want to talk anymore, so we just sat and watched the clouds move. I imagined us flying away together through them, but now I wish I’d made more of an effort to talk to him about his problems. I should’ve made him tell me what was bothering him so much. I feel a bit guilty about it all, and you’ll understand why if I skip forward to the next morning.

  I walked into my form room at ten to nine and found a crowd of girls gathering in the corner. For the first time in her life Lisa Collenette had an audience, but it was obvious why. Her face had turned purple and her eyes were swollen, and as she blew her spectacular nose Nic gently rubbed her shoulder. I don’t like Lisa much and it’s not because she can eat whatever she wants and stay skinny, or because she looks like a ferret, or because she beat me in Geography. I just don’t like her. Furthermore I never understood how someone so genetically handicapped could be related to Michael. (Does third cousin twice-removed39 count?)

  I asked what was wrong.

  Nic shook her head grimly.

  ‘You’ll never guess! Michael Priaulx went off the top of Pleinmont Tower last night. They’ve had to airlift him to Southampton because his condition was so bad no one could help him here.’

  I was so shocked I nearly fainted there and then.

  ‘I only saw him yesterday and he was OK.’

  Nic’s neat little eyebrows jumped.

  ‘What? You saw Michael? Where?’

  ‘My house. He came round for a chat.’

  Lisa glared at me. ‘What about?’

  ‘This and that,’ I shrugged, ‘We had a few drinks.’

  Lisa’s eyes got big and scary. ‘Drinks?’

  I thought everyone would be impressed but instead they were appalled.

  Nic shook her head. ‘Christ, Cat, that’s why he fell. He was pissed out of his brains.’

  I was standing there, feeling a lot like I was in court on trial, when in walked Mr McCracken and told us to sit down.

  ‘But we can’t have a lesson, sir,’ Nic said quickly. ‘Lisa’s cousin had a really bad fall and he might die and Cat’s just told us why!’

  ‘What? No, I didn’t! I just said I saw him. You’re getting ahead of yourself.’

  Nic stroked my arm like she cared, but the tone of her voice was all wrong.

  ‘It’s OK, Cat. We know you’ve had a hard time, what with your dad and everything, and I know you really liked Michael . . . only you shouldn’t have given him alcohol.’

  The whole class seemed to hold their breath and stare at me. Mr McCracken slapped his books down on the desk.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Nic spun around to face him. ‘Well, sir,’ she looked back at me, ‘we don’t know the full story, but Constable Priaulx found his son at the bottom of the Pleinmont Tower early this morning and apparently he’d been drinking heavily and had fallen from the top.’

  She then went on to itemise Michael’s injuries, with lots of excellent gesturing. Apparently Michael’s head had swelled up like a Giant Jersey Cabbage40 and he’d nearly lost an eye. He’d also broken both his arms and legs, cracked several ribs and blown a puncture in his lung. There was the suggestion he might be paralysed.

  ‘And was he alone?’ asked Mr McCracken.

  Nic swung back to look at me. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’ (I must’ve been purple by now.) ‘I wasn’t with him. I don’t know anything. I don’t, sir!’

  I felt guilty for no reason at all, and was angry with everyone for staring.

  Mr McCracken gave me a curt nod. ‘Right, well, be sure to tell the police if you think you can help, Cathy. As for the rest of you, this isn’t some kind of kangaroo court so I suggest you all sit down and let that be the end of it.’

  But it wasn’t. The minute class was over Nic grabbed my arm and hauled me off to the loos.

  ‘What the fuck!’ She was shaking her head as she steered me over to the basins. She then checked her mascara in the mirror. ‘Shit, Cat. What were you playing at in there? You really lost it!’

  ‘What was I playing at? What were you playing at?’
>
  Nic smiled at her reflection and dabbed under her eyes.

  ‘Excuse me, but I wasn’t the last person to see Michael Priaulx in one piece.’ She turned to look at me. ‘And if Mr McCracken thinks you were getting all cosy with Michael what’s the harm? He might get jealous. Don’t you get it? It’s a ploy.’

  I laughed nervously. ‘Right. But I wasn’t having any kind of secret thing with Michael and I don’t like you implying that I was. We should get our facts straight, and find out what happened. And on that note,’ I took a breath, ‘where was Pete last night?’

  Nic blinked. ‘What? Oh, you’re kidding me. Fuck off! You don’t seriously think Pete was involved. He was with me, of course.’

  I’ll admit I was disappointed that Pete had an instant alibi.

  Nic laughed. ‘And you were just telling me not to jump to any conclusions.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ I replied. ‘Michael said you were bothering him at Donnie’s the other weekend. Maybe Pete got jealous.’

  Nic shook her head.

  ‘You and your imagination.’

  It’s true I have a brilliant imagination (which explains my high grades in Creative Writing) and I’m embarrassed to admit I did imagine all sorts vis-à-vis Michael and his death-plunge-drama. Thank God he’s come back. He can explain things for himself. I think I’ve waited long enough – that’s probably why he came round. He’s been away all these months and now he’s ready to set the record straight and tell me everything. And I can tell him everything, too. He’s the only person who’ll understand what I did and why. I hope he won’t judge me. He might even be glad Nic’s dead and thank me for killing her. Maybe he’ll promise to keep my secret and maybe we’ll get married.

  He’s obviously desperate to talk to me because he left me a note saying so:

  Do you need a gardener?

  If so, please call M. Priaulx on 237678.

  How amazing is that? If I need a reason to keep living it’s definitely Michael Priaulx. I love him, I think. Nic said I didn’t know anything about feelings but now I do. I definitely understand what all those words mean. You fall for someone because you lose your balance. You have a crush on them because you’ve been squished. I love Michael Priaulx, for sure. He can honestly smash me to bits.