The Book of Lies Page 4

  Mon Dju, I thought, it’s not my boat but if I don’t take it someone else will. I ran down to the jetty to check her over. What did I imagine, eh? That I’d hide her away like a nest egg, or use her for spy missions? Who knows what was in my donkey brain. Now, after all these years have passed, I’d happily sail anywhere to be free of these memories. Perhaps I should go to Australia and look up all those Guernsey folk who emigrated after the War. There’s quite a number who uprooted themselves, Emile. You cannot blame them for wanting to wipe the slate clean and go where the past can’t catch them up. But it’s funny that they chose a land of convicts.

  If you’re interested, the last I heard Ray Le Poidevoin had settled in Adelaide. Ray, man amie, j t rencontrai dêns l’enfer. J’sis arrêtaïr pour té!

  But even if I hunted him down I cannot change what’s already happened. I’m not that boy in the photograph . . . I don’t know where that boy went. He didn’t get away on his boat, more’s the pity, he never got away at all. Would that we could turn back the clock and do it over, and do it different. I’d have kept my nose clean, like I’d promised our father and our mother.

  And I would’ve burned that bloody boat before the Germans even came. I would’ve burned it and be done.

  14TH DECEMBER 1985, 9 a.m.

  [Sitting-room floor, watching the rain]

  Did I mention we had a boat? I’ve got a photo of her here. She was called La Duchesse and Dad built her from scratch in our front garden. It took two-ish years and destroyed all the rose bushes, which upset Mum très much. But Mum only had herself to blame because she was the one who suggested Dad take up a hobby. She said he worked too hard and needed an escape.

  La Duchesse was very demanding, and we had to go out sailing most weekends, to Sark and Herm and even France. Mum didn’t enjoy it like she was meant to, and I got terrible windburn. In spite/because of this, Dad started threatening to sail around the world. I know for a fact that he’d mapped out a route to Australia. A lot of Guernsey people settled there after the War, so I wondered if Dad was planning a new life without us. Then I had a dream that the boat was caught in a storm and hit a rock, and he was drowned. This made me quite afraid and not want to go sailing at all. I would’ve preferred roller-skating at Beau Sejour or playing Atari games with Vicky.

  Now Mum’s sold the boat to Kez Le Pelley and I sort of (almost) miss it. I miss being bored and getting shouted at, and having to pee in what is really just a bucket. I feel especially bad because I found this old photo in amongst Dad’s files. It was obviously taken years ago, because it’s black-and-white and very crumpled. It’s of a boy, and he’s grinning cheekily and sitting on a sailboat. He’s got my fair hair and dimples, plus those God-awful crooked teeth. For the record, I look a lot like Uncle Charlie, which is (I think) important. It is also damning proof that I still look like a boy.

  I took a lot of photos last year but now I’ve sort of stopped, and I’m not sure why that is. Oh well. Mum never really approved of it. She thought it was a ruse to impress Mr McCracken. Of course if she’d done her research properly she’d have realised that it started after Dad died, when I couldn’t find one good photo of him.

  It was all quite upsetting. I searched and searched and in the end I had to make do with one of the press photos from the unveiling of his (Un)Official Occupation Memorial. That was from May last year and it’s obvious Dad’s not well.

  Dad was the most handsomest of men, I can’t say it often enough. He had the face of an old-fashioned Hollywood star or Greek god, with a proud, jutting nose and masses of dark hair that swept back from his forehead like a wave. He had a few frown lines but they just made him look clever, and the grey hairs were I think quite flattering. But I’ve got no proof of this. That’s why I started taking photos of our house, our neighbours, their pets, Mum gardening, Fermain, the Pepper Pot, Bluebell Woods, etc. I was scared I’d miss something, plus I needed evidence. And that’s why I took so many photos of Nic. I must’ve known she was another thing that wouldn’t last.

  There aren’t many of the two of us together, although there’s one from last autumn that I love. Nic’s kicking up her legs like she’s trying to do the Can-Can, and I’m falling backwards and laughing at the sky. My face is pink and round as the moon, and I’m hiding something under my blazer so I look deformed as well as fat. But anyone would look fat next to Nic. She had a tiny waist and the buttons on her shirt are mostly undone so you can almost see her belly button. Her hair’s pulled over to the left and she’s got gold hoop earrings in. She’s the only person I knew who could make our uniform look cool. I still don’t know how she did it.

  The photo was taken in Town. Guernsey is so small it only has one town which is called Town (to avoid any confusion), but it’s not much of a town, it’s really just a High Street.16 This High Street has the same shops it’s always had, which includes a Boots the Chemist, Ogier’s Shoe Shop and Creasey’s the (not-really) Department Store. There was mass hysteria when Etam arrived. Kentucky Fried Chicken came but didn’t stay.17

  I know exactly why Nic and I are laughing in that photo. I’d just stolen a big bottle of Gordon’s Gin off the shelves of Les Riches Food Stores. That’s what’s hidden under my blazer. I was feeling quite proud of myself before Nic snatched the camera from my pocket and demanded we take a picture.

  But I shouldn’t have worried since there’s a good tradition of thieving on this island. After the evacuations in 1940 everyone stole from everyone else, and the police didn’t know how to stop it so they didn’t do anything at all. Then the Germans arrived and stole everything back for themselves. Then everyone decided to steal stuff from the Germans.

  It is therefore no surprise that our local law enforcers still do nothing, preferring to sit on the Esplanade eating Mars Bar toasties. And no wonder Les Riches just gives the booze away, lining it up at the till by the exit. It only took a minute for Nic to distract the cashier into frozen foods and I was reaching over and grabbing what I could. Talk about an electric buzz! Seconds later I was running down the street, my rubber soles slapping on the cobbles. I don’t know why I thought I was being chased, but I only stopped when Nic was by my side.

  ‘For a Lard-Arse you can’t half run,’ she laughed.

  Then she grabbed my Instamatic out of my pocket.

  ‘This is a historic moment – your first criminal act! Say: “Screwdriver! ”’

  Perhaps I’m not that happy in the picture after all. I remember wondering if the photo was evidence. But there wasn’t much time for thinking. Nic was running ahead as per always, and I was trying to catch up. A couple of cars beeped their horns as we zig-zagged across the Esplanade. Nic flashed her knickers in reply. We skirted round the harbour and I looked down along the jetties to where our boat used to be moored.

  Nic followed my eyes. ‘What you looking for?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I replied, tripping over my feet.

  We were halfway to the breakwater when Nic climbed over the railings and smiled back at me. I warned her she might fall. The wind was whipping up her hair so it looked like she was underwater already.

  ‘Hold my hand,’ she said, reaching out.

  I took it and held on as tightly as I could, and she swung away and carried on walking, still on the wrong side of the railings with the water right under her feet.

  I used all my weight to keep her upright.

  Nic was always doing things like that. Silly little things to catch everyone’s eye. I don’t know why she was such an attention-seeker, but she hated me telling her off.

  ‘What do you know? You’ve lived your whole life in your fucking bedroom,’ she’d say. ‘What’s the point in playing it safe?!’

  Maybe that’s why people weren’t surprised when she ended up dead. They also knew she’d been drinking. We both drank too much, but being with Nic was like being drunk already. It made everything blurry and therefore good.

  I felt guilty after I stole that bottle of gin, but it’s nothing compared
to how I feel now. Nic’s dead and I killed her, and who can I tell? Not Constable Priaulx, that’s for sure. He came round here two days after they found Nic’s lovely corpse. It was still blowing a gale outside and I was huddled close to the fire, hoping my polyester fleece would spontaneously combust. I was still in shock and I honestly thought he’d arrest me there and then, but he called it a Routine Inquiry. Of course, that’s all anything ever is for Constable Piggy, since he’s far more interested in eating than solving possible murders. He thinks that Guernsey is the safest place on the planet. He thinks Nic’s death was an accident. I was all ready with my big confession. I was going to tell him the-truth-the-whole-truth-and-nothing-but-the-truth. But I never got the chance.

  ‘We’ve heard the news and it’s just awful,’ said Mum, ushering him into the sitting room. ‘The poor, poor parents, my heart goes out to them. Who would think that something like that could happen? I really don’t know what to say, and there’s probably not much we can tell you, since we only just found out ourselves.’

  Constable Priaulx rearranged his tummy folds and sank into our sofa.

  ‘It’s terrible, I know. I was wondering if Cathy had seen Nicolette on the Saturday.’

  ‘We both did.’ Mum wouldn’t look at me. ‘Nicolette came here at about 5 p.m., she was keen for Cathy to go to the party over at Vicky’s, but Cathy said she wasn’t up to it. We’ve both been under the weather.’

  I sat there, waiting for the handcuffs, for Constable Priaulx to see the guilt all over my face.

  ‘I’ve had a cold myself,’ he shook his head and sighed. ‘Who’d want to go out on such a wild night? There’ll have to be an inquiry as to whether there should be barriers up around the cliff edge at the Batterie.’

  Mum shook her head.

  ‘And nobody saw a thing?’

  ‘No, no,’ sighed Constable Fathead. ‘After Dr Senner closed the party down a group of them went to Bluebell Woods with what was left of the alcohol. Nicolette must’ve wandered off. It’s unclear what she was up to.’

  I remembered how Nic ran at me from the shadows and tried to grab me round the neck.

  Mum was saying ‘I let Cathy walk on the cliffs all the time and I never think about the safety issues’, and Constable Fattie ate his fourth biscuit and poured himself more tea.

  ‘But it’s different at night. You can’t see in front of your own hand.’

  I wondered if they’d forgotten I was there.

  ‘She could’ve jumped,’ I said quickly.

  C.F.P. cleared his throat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Surely not,’ Mum whispered. ‘Not Nicolette.’

  Constable Priaulx asked me for the names of the lads Nic hung around with but I pretended not to know. I stared at his Ormer18 nose and wondered how many times it had been broken. He must’ve been called ‘Lard-Arse’ when he was a kid, or maybe something worse. I wanted to tell him that Nic had been a vicious bully. I wanted to show him the bruises on my arm. But then what?

  Constable Priaulx may be Guernsey’s Fattest Policeman© but his brain is not pure lard. If I had told him that I’d been with Nic on the cliffs, he’d automatically assume the worst. I’d never get a chance to explain myself properly or tell my side of the story. It’s not like I’m used to confessing to murder, and I was afraid I’d get muddled and mess it up. So instead I let Mum witter on.

  ‘Cathy and Nicolette used to be a lot closer but they were very different. Just recently they’d drifted apart and I was relieved. I did find Nicolette a bit of a handful.’

  I stared at Mum but she’d lowered her eyes to the table in front of us. She was reaching for my photo album.

  ‘That’s not to say they weren’t still friends. Just look at all these snaps.’

  Mum handed Constable Priaulx the album and he opened it casually, glancing at the pages.

  ‘It looks like you two had some fun,’ he smiled.

  Mum nodded. ‘They were inseparable.’

  I envy Mum her selective remembering. She’s obviously deleted the unexplained cuts and bruises, the strange phone calls in the middle of the night, the missing homework, and the hours I spent locked in my bedroom.

  ‘Of course, Nicolette was a wild one. I wonder if she wasn’t already drunk when she called round here the other night. She was in such high spirits. But she was often like that. I find it so hard to tell.’

  Constable Priaulx nodded and said ‘Oh, I know.

  Young people today!’

  Contemptible Piggy left a few crumbs on a photo of Nic leaning over the railings on the Albert Pier.

  ‘I expected better of little Vicky Senner,’ he sighed.

  ‘That party should never have got so out-of-hand.’

  ‘But Vicky’s always been easily led,’ Mum added.

  I glared at her. ‘That’s not fair. You’ve always liked Vicky, and it wasn’t her fault.’

  Mum pursed her lips. ‘I’m not trying to blame her.’

  ‘Well, it sounded like you were. Vicky didn’t do anything. It’s not like she told them all to go to the woods, is it?’

  Constable Priaulx coughed up the last of the Viennese Whirls and pushed my album back towards me. Then he said he should be going and heaved himself up off the sofa. I must’ve been staring because he asked me what was wrong.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I was just remembering the last time you were here.’

  I hugged my little album and wanted to make him blush. We both knew it didn’t seem so long since his last Routine Inquiry, when he’d come round to talk to Mum about Dad. They’d sat in the kitchen with the door closed, and I’d stayed in my bedroom. I suppose I should mention that a lot of people found Dad’s death shocking and unexpected and other good words. But whatever their opinions, well, they were just opinions. It’s wrong to gossip.

  Constable Priaulx was still hovering in the doorway.

  ‘You all right, sweetheart? Is there anything else?’

  There was plenty as per always, but I shook my head and went back to the sitting room. I was staring at my photos when Mum came in and found me.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  I said I thought it was obvious.

  ‘I don’t mean about Nicolette. Why did you have to mention the last time he was here?’

  I examined her more closely whilst sucking out the blood from a newly torn fingernail (a disgusting habit, I know).

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to say anything then, either.’

  Mum sat down beside me. ‘I was trying to help, and please don’t do that.’

  I took my finger out of my mouth and stared at her silently, hoping I looked like a psychopath from one of her crime thrillers stacked up in the hall.

  ‘I didn’t mean to talk over you,’ she said. ‘Come on, I thought we were over all this. I thought this was a clean slate.’

  ‘It is,’ I replied. ‘It’s fine.’

  She pulled herself up and headed for the door, then suddenly turned back around. ‘You’d tell me, though, if there was anything, wouldn’t you?’

  I smiled faintly (but still psychopathically).

  ‘Of course.’

  Did she know I was lying? I can’t be sure. It’s funny how things have changed between us, and are changing still. Before Dad died I had her full attention and I was always pouring out my worries to her. I’d wait until it was officially bedtime and then insist we discuss The Meaning of Life or The End of The World, and she’d listen carefully and pretend to be bothered even if she wasn’t. But after Dad died she stopped coming into my bedroom and I was afraid to ask her anything. I still had loads of questions, though, and they kept multiplying. Why is it that the most important questions are the ones you ask too late?

  Property of Emile Philippe Rozier

  The Editor

  Guernsey Evening Press

  23 South Esplanade

  St Peter Port

  Guernsey

  [undated draft]

  Sir –

&n
bsp; I am writing to you with regard to the article ‘The Unanswered Questions of the Nazi Occupation’, which appeared in last week’s Saturday supplement. As the owner and editor of The Patois Press, a publishing house dedicated to the documentation of recent island History, I have written to your newspaper innumerable times, calling for an inquiry into the ‘closed’ Occupation files. I was surprised last week’s article made no mention of my work. Perhaps your reporter was the victim of Selective Memory Loss, a condition widely noted in the wake of the Occupation?

  Let me remind you, Sir, my own attempts to compile a definitive and detailed history of the German Occupation have floundered due to pressure from the UK government and our local States deputies. I come under criticism from these same quarters because my books are apparently too reliant on informal and ‘idiosyncratic’ sources, but given all the red tape what choice do I have? I readily accept that one person’s point of view can differ wildly from another’s, but this only makes it more vital that the official files relating to the Geheimfeld polizei are made public.

  The official line is that the release of ‘highly sensitive’ archival materials would cause embarrassment to certain families in the Channel Islands, but surely it is time for the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth to replace the gossip and hearsay. Once we know all the facts we will be better equipped to counter the many allegations that have been brought against us, and I am speaking from personal experience, as someone whose own family name has been dragged through the mud on more than one occasion. My father, Hubert Wilfred Rozier, was shot dead by the Germans whilst allegedly ‘trying to escape’, my brother, Charles André Rozier, was then arrested and tortured by the Nazis at the notorious prison of Paradis before being deported to a German concentration camp, where he remained for the rest of the War.