The Book of Lies: A Novel
By Mary Horlock
3.5/5
()
About this ebook
Mary Horlock
MARY HORLOCK was born in Australia but grew up on Guernsey in the Channel Islands, moving to England at the age of eighteen. She studied at Cambridge and went on to work as a curator at Tate Britain and Tate Liverpool. She is a former curator of the Turner Prize. Mary lives in London with her partner and their children and is currently writing a book on art and camouflage in the Second World War. Although she has written widely on contemporary art, this is her first novel.
Related to The Book of Lies
Related ebooks
Keurium Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Mr Kato Plays Family: A Novel Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5And Then She Fell Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsGrace: A Novel Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Based Upon Availability: A Novel Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Heavy Bear Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Illustrated Version of Things Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Portrait of a Lady Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Place Will Comfort You: Stories Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Natashas Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Land of Love and Ruins Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Shapeshifting Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Sign for Drowning Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Sweet Undoings Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsMotti Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWe and Me Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHotel of the Saints Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Prosopagnosia Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Heatwave and Crazy Birds Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsFarthest South & Other Stories Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Awakening Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The House of Gazes Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Blue Girl: A Novel Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Tumble Inn Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Veins of the Ocean: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Where Is My Teddy Bear? Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsI Know What the Small Girl Knew Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Don't Touch Garden Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Anna Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Bear Whispers to Me: The Story of a Bear and a Boy Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
General Fiction For You
The Covenant of Water (Oprah's Book Club) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Man Called Ove: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Cloud Cuckoo Land: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The City of Dreaming Books Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Alchemist: A Graphic Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5It Ends with Us: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Priory of the Orange Tree Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The King James Version of the Bible Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Fellowship Of The Ring: Being the First Part of The Lord of the Rings Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Alchemist Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Mythos Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Shantaram: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Silmarillion Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Unhoneymooners Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Jackal, Jackal: Tales of the Dark and Fantastic Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Dante's Divine Comedy: Inferno Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Life of Pi: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Babel: Or the Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Iliad of Homer Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Ocean at the End of the Lane: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5We Have Always Lived in the Castle Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Everything's Fine Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Paris Apartment: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Rebecca Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Beyond Good and Evil Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Recital of the Dark Verses Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Meditations: Complete and Unabridged Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Beartown: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Reviews for The Book of Lies
11 ratings11 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Cat Rozier is a murderer. She's lived all her fifteen years on the Channel Island of Guernsey, where (she will be happy to tell you) the only things for people to do are drink, have sex, and kill each other. The person she's killed is Nicolette, her best friend. Well, former best friend. It's complicated.
Cat's uncle was a murderer too, or at least that's what she tells people. He was also a prisoner of the Nazis during the Occupation of the island, and he never really got over it. Cat never met her uncle, but the history of the Occupation was her father's obsession. After her father died, Cat went through all his papers looking for answers. She found...quite a few of them.
The Book of Lies is made of documents: Cathy's manuscript confession, addressed to her mother, and transcriptions of Charles's story, and notes and letters from Cat's father's researches. The story goes from 1940 to 1985, through three generations of the Rozier family, and straight through the center of Cat's life.
I literally could not put this book down. I started it a week or so ago, then picked it back up to read on my breaks at work and stayed up all last night to finish it. Cathy is a wonderful narrator, the kind of cynical, intelligent, painful thing I remember being at fifteen. She's not a reliable narrator, though; far from it. (You don't have the self-awareness to be reliable at fifteen.) She's mostly telling the truth on one thing, though; she is a murderer.
The Book of Lies is equal parts historical drama and bildungsroman. I knew a little bit about Guernsey during World War II before I started the book; I knew that England basically abandoned the Channel Islands during the war and then looked down on them for failing to effectively resist the Germans without weapons or soldiers. It was fascinating to read a story - even told so second-hand - about life in such an awkwardly occupied state. Even the occupiers didn't want to be there, but strategically, they just couldn't leave. The things people did under the strains of the occupation make up a large proportion of the titular lies of the story.
Most of the rest come from Cathy's adolescent fury. Seen from the outside her story is terribly predictable - her father dies, she starts hanging out with new friends, she starts drinking and causing all kinds of trouble, her grades go... - but of course we aren't seeing it from the outside, but from Cathy's perspective, written as a justification after the fact for her friend's death. Teenagers are mostly made up of lies anyway, but one in her situation much more so.
The big lie, though, is the one lurking in the subtext and in between the lines of the whole story. As Cathy tells her mother in the final pages of her narrative, it's perfectly visible once you get to that point. Cathy's not out to expose anyone, just to make sure they all understand one another. It's clear she's grown up a lot throughout the course of the story.
In a sentence: The Book of Lies is a fascinating story about truth, lies, and mutual understanding, and I highly recommend it for your next book club selection. - Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I did and I didn't like this book. I liked the voice. I thought the dynamics of the teenage relationship were well observed and written. I thought it had a really good sense of place which I found believable.What I didn't like - the secondary story: the account of what happened in the war. I found that slightly *too* confusing and it didn't quite sit properly for me re motivations. I feel it missed a trick or two with what could have been done.As a side note, this book has footnotes in it. I was reading it on Kindle and, if you've never experienced them, footnotes on Kindle are epically annoying. At the end of every chapter the footnotes appeared without a paragraph break or owt. I'd recommend picking up a hardcopy rather than the Kindle version (unless you're less easily narked than I am, obviously.)
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Hard to follow the logic in a book all about lies, but an interesting story nonetheless.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Life on the tiny island of Guernsey has just become a whole lot harder for fifteen-year-old Cat Rozier. She’s gone from model pupil to murderer, but she swears it’s not her fault. Apparently it’s all the fault of history.A new arrival at Cat’s high school in 1984, the beautiful and instantly popular Nicolette inexplicably takes Cat under her wing. The two become inseparable—going to parties together, checking out boys, and drinking whatever liquor they can shoplift. But a perceived betrayal sends them spinning apart, and Nic responds with cruel, over-the-top retribution.Cat’s recently deceased father, Emile, dedicated his adult life to uncovering the truth about the Nazi occupation of Guernsey—from Churchill’s abandonment of the island to the stories of those who resisted—in hopes of repairing the reputation of his older brother, Charlie. Through Emile’s letters and Charlie’s words—recorded on tapes before his own death— a “confession” takes shape, revealing the secrets deeply woven into the fabric of the island . . . and into the Rozier family story.I really wanted to love this book. It had an interesting premise and takes place on Guernsey Island, a place I have been fascinated with since reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.I found Cat interesting and that we find out right at the beginning that Cat kills Nic. However, it kind of goes downhill from there. The story is very fractured as it moves from Cat's story to that of her father and uncle. I don't mind an alternating story, but this wasn't done very well. I wouldn't get far into either story before it would switch and it just didn't hold my interest.I did enjoy the history of the island and I think that it this could have been a great novel. But it was mediocre at best despite it's potential. Hopefully, the author will have better luck with her next book. my rating 2.5/5
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I found The Book of Lies by Mary Horlock to be both interesting and informative, but unfortunately I also found myself struggling to finish the book. I didn’t mind that I disliked all the characters, they were well developed and distinct, but the stories just didn’t hold my interest or were able to draw me in. I say stories as the book, set on Guernsey Island, actually covers two, in one we are introduced to a 1980’s teenager, Catherine, who informs us that she has murdered her best friend. She is writing down the events that led up to this tragedy and we learn how insecure, truth-stretching Catherine was ever so grateful for the friendship Nicolette offered, that she apparently didn’t see how Nic was using her for her own benefit. Nic eventually turned her back on Catherine and ensured through her bulling and belittling that Catherine once again was a social outcast. Along with Catherine’s story, is that of her uncle’s anguish over events that happened on Guernsey during the German occupation of the 1940’s. These are stories that are about the truth, but as seen through the eyes of one who only knows half the story, the truth becomes rather flexible. The lines here are blurred and fluid. I did feel that the author, who grew up on Guernsey, captured the claustrophobic feeling of living on an small island where everyone either knows or is related to everyone excellently I found it slightly jarring to be in one time period and then suddenly in another. I was surprised that of the two, I actually preferred Catherine’s story and I did quite like how these stories were wrapped up. Overall, The Book of Lies was an original idea but for me, it just feel short of the mark.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Set on Guernsey in the Channel Islands in 1985 and, in memories and flashback, during the German occupation of the Islands during WWII. Told from the point of view of a teenaged girl who is hiding her involvement with the death of a school mate. A well-told story with lots of new-to-me information.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I really enjoyed this book. As the author points out in her acknowledgements, the title is deceptive because there is plenty of fact within the fictional story. Told in a journal/diary style by Cat Rozier and her late father Emile, it is set on the island of Guernsey in 1985 and the 1940s respectively. Emile's journals, written in the 1960s, are based on information left by his older brother concerning the lead up to their father's death, shot by the occupying German forces in 1942. Teenager Cat's diary deals with both the death of her own father and her "best friend" Nic. Cat tells us at the beginning of the novel, that she has killed Nic by pushing her off a cliff at Clarence Batterie. Thus begins a gripping story which I found hard to put down. Although events take place 40 years apart, there are striking similarities between their two stories. Deception, lust, murder and misunderstandings abound. The historical portrait of Guernsey during the German Occupation is really fascinating. Being such a small island of just over 3 miles across, everyone knows everyone else and it would appear to be difficult to keep secrets. This is most definitely not the case in both the 40s and 80s. It is these secrets and misunderstandings which form the fabric of this story. Some of the characters have lived their whole lives beieving things which are not true and the sadness this brings is well handled here. I would recommend this book, both as enjoyable fiction and an insight in to how the people of Guernsey dealt with a very difficult time in their history. It appears that they were treated very shabbily by the British Government during the Second World War and this novel highlights their struggle and how it altered the whole community structure for many many years.This book was made available to me, prior to publication, for an honest review.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5What a cracking book! Two stories twist about each other; both wrapped in the way that we lie to each other; and even worse, to ourselves. Sometimes, they hardly seem like lies; and sometimes we are confronted by the evil of a character's lies, only to find that there is another perspective which diminishes the guilt of, or exonerates the perpetrator completely.The stories pirouette right up until the final page where, as in real life, we are left on something of a cliffhanger (pun intended - and if you want to know what the pun is, then read the book: you really should!)Mary Horlock was born on Guernsey and, I would guess that some of the dislike of a captive group of islanders is autobiographical. The stories are those of two young girls in 1985, one popular and one less so, and a family in occupied Guernsey - as recreated in 1965. The claustrophobic atmosphere of fear, lies and more lies runs like a thread through this book whilst, somehow, makes one laugh at the same time. Mary is better than most authors at writing from the perspective of young people: her characters are all believable and the stories, which would sound preposterous were I to retell them, read as eminently realistic. It is surprising how many deep issues are confronted by a book that initially appears to be a light read: for example, one is presented with the hopelessness which the people of Guernsey must have felt when occupied, their feeling of a lack of sympathy from the Allies when rescue came and the difficulty of a young person coming to terms with their family history, to name but two (or is that three?) The book does not spoon feed the reader and, as we are warned in a letter from Catherine to her mother, near the end of the tale, we need to read between the lines, as well as the printed word. Lots to chew over: I shall watch out for further works by Mary Horlock with interest.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This is primarily the story of Catherine Rozier, a teenager living on the island of Guernsey. Her friend has died falling from the cliffs and Catherine tells the story of the friendship and what happened. Alternated with her story is a transcript of a taped interview with her uncle who died twenty years earlier, and his story goes back to the German occupation of Guernsey during World War II.This is an intriguing read. It took me a while to get fully into it and to really understand the different voices. Catherine's voice is slightly irritating at times, but by the half way point I’d got used to it. And I did enjoy the story that her uncle told about his experiences during the war.What was particularly interesting about this book was the details about the German occupation and the effect it had on the islanders as some people collaborated with them, some had to work with them, and some were totally against them. The book doesn't really do a lot for Guernsey tourism though, with Catherine's bleak view of island life.This is quite a dark book really, underneath the teenage woes, and I found myself racing through it.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5In looking at everyone else's ratings for The Book of Lies, I'm the odd woman out. I could not get into this novel and couldn't find any sympathetic characters in it. I quit reading about 1/3 of the way through it, which is unusual for me.This just reinforces for me that each person sees a novel very differently..
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5The history was interesting, but I never quite connected to the main character. Her personality was past quirky and headed toward disturbing. I kept hoping the ending would redeem the book, but this did not happen for me.
Book preview
The Book of Lies - Mary Horlock
The Book of Lies
Mary Horlock
Dedication
to
for
because of
Darian
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Prologue
12th December 1965
13th December 1985, 5:30 a.m.
13th December 1965
13th December 1985, 5 p.m.
13th December 1965
14th December 1985, 9 a.m.
Property of Emile Philippe Rozier
14th December 1985, 5:12 p.m.
15th December 1965
15th December 1985, 7:32 a.m.
15th December 1965
15th December 1985, 1:34 p.m.
15th December 1985, 4:30 p.m.
16th December 1965
16th December 1985, 11:56 a.m.
16th December 1965
17th December 1985, 5:30 p.m.
Property of Emile Philippe Rozier
17th December 1985, 9 p.m.
18th December 1965
18th December 1985, 5:30 p.m.
18th December 1985, 7:30 p.m.
18th December 1965
19th December 1985, 12 p.m.
19th December 1965
19th December 1985, 7 p.m.
Property of Emile Philippe Rozier
20th December 1985, 9 p.m.
20th December 1965
21st December 1985, 12:18 a.m.
22nd December 1985, 2 a.m.
The Charlie Rozier Story Concluded
22nd December 1985, 2:30 p.m.
A Mother’s Story [Extract]
22nd December 1985, 6 p.m.
23rd December 1985, 6:30 p.m.
23rd December 1985, 9:30 p.m.
Property of Emile Philippe Rozier
24th December 1985, 5:30 a.m.
24th December 1985, 7 p.m.
Acknowledgements
Insights, Interviews & More. . .
About the Author
About the Book
Read On
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Map
Prologue
My name is Catherine Rozier, please don’t call me Cathy. If you do I’ll jump. Don’t think I’m bluffing. It’s a 3000-foot drop and even though I’m fat, I’m not fat enough to bounce. I’ll dive headfirst into ye ancient Guernsey granite outcrops and then my mashed-up body will be washed out to sea. Of course, if I get the tides wrong I’ll be stranded on the rocks with seagulls eating my eyes. I know for a fact they’ll eat anything.
Killing myself wouldn’t be too clever, but then neither was killing Nicolette. It’s been a fortnight since they found her body and for the most part I am glad she’s gone. But I also can’t believe she’s dead, and I should do because I did it. Yes. That’s right. I killed Nicolette on these very cliffs and I’m frankly amazed that no one has guessed. When her body was dragged out of the water, the verdict was she’d fallen. Ha-ha. (Only I’m not laughing.) Why hasn’t anyone worked it out? The Germans were right, the people on this island are a bunch of half-wits. When they landed here in the summer of 1940 they must’ve thought they’d won the War already. They called Guernsey A SMALL PARADISE. Excusez-moi, but since when did a few manky palm trees make a paradise?
And when everyone finds out what I’ve done there’ll be no more pretending what this island is. If you want me, come and find me. Assume I’ll be skipping along Clarence Batterie, stretching out my hands towards St. Peter Port, preparing to take the plunge. If this counts as my last will and testament I hereby bequeath my unspent book tokens from last year’s prize-giving to my mother. I’d also like to make it clear that although my disappearance from this miserable rock coincides with Christmas, it has nothing to do with her New-Recipe Mexican Turkey.
Obviously she’ll be upset. I was supposed to be the first in the family to go to university.
But at least I made front-page news (kind of, sort of, almost). Nic’s death was all over the Guernsey Evening Press* for four days on the trot, and they even used one of the photos I took of her—the one in Candie Gardens where she’s leaning back against a tree with her hair spread out across her shoulder. Did I mention she was beautiful? She got a full page because of how she looked. When you saw her perfect face, it was hard to imagine that she was ever such a bitch. But she was. My so-called best friend was a Liar and a Traitor who deserved everything she got. I won’t go into the details of how I know this, but I won the Inter-Island Junior Mastermind so, trust me, I’m rarely wrong.
Nicolette Louise Prevost had to die.
Inow realise we should never have been friends, but some things are destined, as per Shakespeare and his tragedies. When she found me that night, on these very cliffs, I knew she was planning something deadly lethal. Do not think for a minute I am a violent person. Just because I like watching mindless violence on television doesn’t mean I want to go round cutting throats (or that I know how to). I was scared and I panicked—do you blame me? It was pitch-black, and the rain beat down so hard I could barely open my eyes. When she came at me out of the darkness it was like my worst-ever nightmare. I screamed but the wind just took my voice away, and there was no one there to help me, which is how she always liked it. We fought, we kicked. She grabbed my hair but I grabbed hers, too, because I’m not stupid. It was like Friday the 13th ( Part 1 or 2 ). If only I could’ve ripped her head off and had fake blood spurt everywhere.
But, of course, it never happens like that. All I did was push her. Honest. That was all it took. One big push and she was gone. Gone. I still can’t believe it. She vanished into blackness, and the churning sea swallowed her. How cool was that?
And fair enough that a part of me is glad. It’s how it should be. I was doing the world (or Guernsey) a favour. Bullies should be punished, right? They are like the Nazis, picking on poor, isolated people and pulling them to bits. What I did was not an Abomination (excellent word). I should even feel a teensy bit happy and proud. So why do I feel cheated? Nic’s gone and left me with this guilt, and I know I should go, too. Then somebody else on this stinking rock can feel guilty in my place.
But don’t think I’m going quietly. First I’ll write this down so that everybody knows. It’s such a good story I could turn it into a book, and perhaps it won’t look so bad once I see it there in black-and-white. After all, being a murderer isn’t such a big deal for this little island. This is Guernsey, please remember, where there are plenty of secrets no one’s ever meant to talk about. If you’re British you’ll know how us Guernsey people have been accused of all sorts. Usually we blame the Germans. Me? I blame Dad. *
The trouble started with him dying and no, I didn’t kill him, although I admit I thought about it. Dad was the expert on Guernsey’s Guilty Past—he had boxes full to bursting on that very subject. He was the one who first told me that History has a bad habit of repeating, and he had a bad habit of always being right. Mum was never interested, though, which was/is a bit of a problem.
Mum doesn’t care much for real-life events and says the newspapers are just too depressing. She prefers her crime and murders bought by the yard from the Town Church jumble. It’s funny, because she’s a total prude and won’t even swear but she’ll plough through any amount of blood and gore as long as it’s not real.
I’d love to pretend that none of this is real for her sake, at least. Poor Mum. How do I even begin to tell her what I did and why? If Dad were still here he’d know what to do. He’d start by saying that you have to go way back. Perhaps if Mum had done that sooner she would’ve seen what was ahead. If I’m writing this for anyone I suppose I’m writing it for her. She knows what happened to Dad, and what happened to Dad is definitely connected to what happened to Nic. It’s amazing, really, how everything connects. But what would you expect on this tiny island? We all know each other, or worse, we are related.
We talk about getting away and seeing the world, but we never do. We stay here making the same mistakes, over and over. I’m a murderer and it’s not just my fault. I can blame the Germans, and I can blame my parents, and I can blame my parents’ parents. Don’t you see? Once you know your History, it does explain everything.
It turns out I was a murderer before I was even born.
12th December 1965
Tape: 1 (A side)
The testimony of Charles André Rozier
[Transcribed by Emile Philippe Rozier]
Faut le faire pour le register: This is the testimony of Charles André Rozier, a useless wretch now often thought a half-wit, the eldest son of Hubert Ebenezer Wilfred Rozier and Arlette Anne-Marie of Les Landes. Back when people talked to me, they only called me Charlie. I was born the year of Our Lord 1928, when this island of Guernsey was still that small and perfect paradise. Would that we could go back to that time, would that I was never born at all!
But I was born and I did live, and this miserable life is all I cling to. The rest was taken from me by one I counted as a friend. He was just a kid, like me, when he stole everything I valued. I call him many things. Murderer. Traitor. You can call him Ray Le Poidevoin. As solid a name as Guernsey granite, but common for this island. Let’s hope he meets a common end.
Eh me, Emile, I want the wrongs righted but you won’t read my story in the Press, and I don’t want it printed there, neither. They say I am the guilty one, only out for revenge, but they have been lying since the War began and don’t think it’s over yet. Only today I was on them cliffs by Clarence Batterie, knee-deep in pink campion and squinting at the sun, but every view was framed by German concrete. It is an abomination what has happened to this island! And as I stood there I imagined Ray was aside of me, watching the black clouds of death rise up from the horizon. It was just like in that summer of 1940, a hot summer that chilled me to the bone. I looked down into the crystal, twinkling sea and near surrendered to it. I felt my knees buckle and the ground slip away, but you know what stopped me? It was old Ray pulling me back like he did that once before. Emile, it is a curse on me! I am ever in his clutches.
Why is it we find this little rock so hard to leave? If only I were again on the streets of St. Peter Port, the kid that I once was, holding tight to our mother’s hand. I remember how we pushed our way through the chaos of weeping and shouting. It felt like the whole island was on the move and if ever there was a right time to go, it was then. The Germans were too close for comfort. Everyone knew what they was doing to France—we heard the guns loud and clear—so I was to be packed off to England with my classmates. But as I stood with my teachers on the quay I didn’t feel scared. Words like war and death didn’t mean too much to me, and England meant the ends of the earth, a million miles away.
Reckon there must’ve been something evil in me even then, since that day was the first time I’d ever felt special. Before, I was just p’tit Charlie with too-pale skin and twiggy legs who got poked and teased and laughed at, but as we marched up the gangplank I felt something stirring deep inside. I’ve spent a long time trying to explain what it was that made me do it, and I cannot find a simple, single reason. Perhaps it was the fear and mayhem, perhaps it was the heat, or perhaps it was a bit of island madness. As that bright sun beat down I felt my cheeks burn up, and then I started screaming.
I shan’t go. You can’t make me! You put me back!
Back then I had a pair of lungs, me, and I could shout myself inside out. I was lashing out with my elbows and kicking like a donkey. Quel tripos! The boat was already moving as I lunged for the side and started going over, and I would’ve ended up in the water had it not been for Ray. He was right at the edge of the pier, holding on to the railings, leaning over to me. All I saw was a big, brown hand and then I felt this grip so tight it cut off all the blood. I was safe, or so I thought, as Ray Le Poidevoin reeled me in.
What the Hell do you think you’re doing?
someone asked.
He’s going to stay and kill some Jerries!
I laughed although I didn’t know why, and I clambered with my new friend up onto the harbour wall. Someone tried to grab my shirt. Did I hear my mother shout? I turned to watch the boat move off and the sea open up. Then I turned back to St. Peter Port, to the crowds that thronged forward. Nobody could touch me and I thought I was so clever: this was history in the making and I would help to make it. Did I realise then what a dark and damnable history it would be? No, but I should have had an inkling when Ray pointed upwards, into the rich blue, cloudless sky.
Look!
I lifted my head and nearly toppled backwards from the effort.
There were German planes circling high overhead, and they looked like little silver fish. The world itself was turning upside-down and would never be righted.
"Now, man amie. Ray whistled.
Now the party’s starting!"
13th December 1985, 5:30 a.m.
[MY BEDROOM, 2ND FLOOR, SANS SOUCIS, VILLAGE DE COURTILS, ST. PETER PORT, GUERNSEY,* THE CHANNEL ISLANDS, THE WORLD]
I’m not a party person. I’ve never liked crowds of people: all that pushing and shoving and possible sweat. But if I’m faithful to the facts, that’s where my story starts. Saturday, 25 November 1984 to be precise. The day Nicolette had that stupid party. I should never have been invited, and everyone was morbidified that I was.
And by everyone I mean my classmates at Les Moulins College for Cretins, the only all-girls’ school on the island. They mostly hate me for no good reason. Just because I sit at the front of the classroom and get all the questions right and hand my homework in early. And they call me Cabbage because of it. Teenage girls are très mega horrible, and Nic was exactly like that but prettier. She’d been moved from the Grammar School, having been put down a year on account of her dyslexia. For some people (me) this would’ve been embarrassing, but my classmates took one look at her long blonde hair and big green eyes and turned dyslexic, too.
It was pathetic how they fought to be her friend, scrambling to sit near her and jostling to get her attention. No better than boys now I think of it. I didn’t join in because I never do, and maybe that impressed her. I was also busy with my Festung Guernsey* timeline, which secured me an A+ in our Living History project. There was a bit of a fuss over it, actually, because I’d included quotes from local people who’d had to work for the Nazis, and some of my classmates didn’t like seeing their surnames underlined in luminous green. Nic thought it was hilariously funny, though.
But that wasn’t why she invited me to her party. The truth is, she was the new girl in class and she invited everyone.
Even Vicky. Vicky Senner lives down the road from me and our mums have been friends forever. She’s called Stig because she’s dark and hairy and is a champion builder of dens. Before Nic came along, she was the closest thing I had to a best friend, and we agreed to go to the party together.
I was (I’ll admit) excited, and I was curious to see inside Nic’s house. She lived on Fort George, one of those modern fancy housing estates* Dad used to call a TRAVESTY, and as per ever he was right. Les Paradis looked exactly like Nic’s birthday cake—all sickly-rich and cream-coloured. It had chandeliers in every room and gold-plated knobs on the banisters.
Therese Prevost, Nic’s mother, gave me the full guided tour.
Therese is very important to this story although I’m sure she’d rather not be. She’s extremely beautiful, like an older and more French-polished version of Nic. You could easily make the joke that they were sisters, except that Therese had done all the fussing older women do: she’d had her hair multicoloured at Josef’s in Town Church Square and her lips tattooed a dried-blood red. And she always wore heels—this explains why she walked so slowly. I sometimes thought she floated across a room, and she had this way of holding her hands out to each side like she was waiting for her tan to dry.
The first time we talked properly was at the party. I was hiding in the kitchen, chatting away merrily to absolutely no one, and Therese wafted in. When she realised I was alone she smiled politely.
Is everything OK?
she asked.
I made a joke about how I had lots of imaginary friends who were all very funny and not remotely dangerous.
Ah.
She nodded. I’m always talking to myself as well. I say you get a better class of conversation that way. People frown on it but I find it therapeutic.
I spread my hands flat on her Italian maybe-marble worktop and told her she had excellent good taste. That’s when she showed me around the house. I was especially impressed by the automatic blinds in the conservatory and the impulse jets in the shower. There were also mirrors everywhere, which reminded me of the house of Victor Hugo, the famous/tortured writer.* He’d lined his walls with mirrors so as to spy on his family and send them all mad. This was after he was thrown out of Jersey for smoking cannabis and kidnapping street children.
Therese was definitely riveted when I told her all of this, and I’m sure she would’ve liked to hear more if Nic hadn’t interrupted.
Sounds like a fucking perv to me,
she said, leaning against the doorframe.
I remember how she smiled as I spun round to face her. She could say the meanest things and still look so angelic.
Of course I told Nic she was very wrong, and that Victor Hugo was an artist-genius type, and therefore eccentric/not appreciated until dead.
After an awkward silence (which I’m used to), there came the screams from the sitting room. I hoped someone had been mutilated, but they were only playing Twister. We found Vicky crushing Shelley Newman, who had straddled Isabelle Gaudion, whose skirt had somehow vanished. And they thought I had problems.
Nicolette looked at me, rolled her eyes, and nodded to the stairs. She didn’t look back as I followed her up to her bedroom, she didn’t even turn round once we were inside—she just went and stood by the window with the light surrounding her. Then she raised up her arms to pull her hair off her shoulders and spun back, flashing all of her midriff. That was one of her little moves. She always wore short tops that gaped and therefore showed her skin.
Sit down.
I plonked myself on the deluxe-goose-feather-down-duvet-you-can’t-even-buy-in-Creasey’s and watched Nic crouch in front of me. She was rummaging under the bed for something.
Your mum’s nice,
I said, trying not to look down her bra.
She’s a dumb whore.
I’d only ever heard of whores in the Bible and Jackie Collins, so I got a bit excited.
Then Nic stood up and I saw the bottle—whisky. It had been hidden in a sock. She unscrewed the top and took a long gulp, and then offered it to me.
Thanks.
I pretended to examine the label. Whisky is my favourite tipple.
She laughed. Do you always talk like an old man?
People are generally impressed by my use of the English language, so I was annoyed and drank quickly and half choked. It’s funny because now I can drink a small bottle of it a day, and often do. Well, that’s not funny. Anyway, as I coughed up my guts Nic sank onto her bed and twirled strands of hair around a finger.
Pathetic party, isn’t it? Next we’ll be pinning the tail on the donkey. I’d rather slit my own throat.
I felt her eyes turn onto me. You’re a funny one: always on your own, acting like you know better . . . how come you weren’t joining in downstairs?
I focused on the glossiness of her lips.
Because I do know better and I don’t like games.
She nodded. Mum thought it was something else. She thinks you’re sad because your dad died.
I stared at Nic’s lovely oval face. I scanned her chin with its tiny dimple, the glossy lips, the outlined eyes.
I don’t feel sad at all.
I took another swig of whisky. Besides, my dad always said we carry the dead with us, so in theory he’s right here.
Nic blinked. If you’re trying to freak me out it won’t work.
I handed the bottle back to her.
Who taught you to do your makeup?
Taught myself.
I must’ve felt brave on account of the whisky.
Teach me.
Nic pulled a shiny red bag off her dresser and made me sit up straight. We were suddenly very close, facing each other. She sucked her bottom lip.
Where to start?
I stared into her eyes, probably (definitely) hypnotised. I remember how her bangles clinked against me, I remember the smell of her perfume (she called it Anus Anus but actually it smelled like lilies). She had different coloured creams and powders and pencils and she used a bit of all of them. It was strange, letting her prod at my cheeks and pull back my eyelids, but it made me feel dead special.
Then Isabelle burst in and ruined it.
"There you are! What are you doing? Oh-my-God! Oh-my-God!"
(Isabelle was very keen on her amateur dramatics.)
She grabbed the whisky and threw herself on the floor, giggling.
Vicky was standing behind her.
A private party, is it?
NB: A lot of Guernsey people end their sentences with eh?
or is it?,
which I think sounds common-as-mud. Dad said it demonstrated the fact that we are more French than English.* It is also possibly a sign that Vicky/French people are simple-minded.
Come on in.
Nic was smudging blusher on my cheek. I’ve finished. You look great, Cat. Much better.
No one had ever called me Cat before and I liked it a lot, but Nic was so close it was like she was going to kiss me and I thought she had to be teasing me. There’d been some rumours, you see. Aside from associating me with a leafy vegetable I was also sometimes called G.A.Y. A few months earlier I’d been in the hockey pavilion having a lively chat toute seule and two girls in the fourth year had caught me. They’d claimed I was rifling through their gym gear when I was only sitting on it. Very upsetting, it was. Especially since I didn’t ever think about sex, unlike every other girl in my class. They might’ve gone round pinging each others’ trainer bras and pretending to smoke their tampons but I wasn’t bothered with any of that.
Nic wouldn’t let anyone else near the whisky but she made me drink a lot. I gulped back as much as I could, and was feeling queasy by the time she stood up.
"OK, I’m not playing nanny to you lot anymore. I’m off to have some real fun."
Real fun meant having sex with someone called Simon, who was 17 and worked at Fruit Export and drove a lime-green Ford Capri. They did it at Jerbourg Point and Pleinmont and Le Gouffre and he was very good with his tongue but his willy had a kink in it. (I have no idea what that means.)
Nic asked us to name our best sex positions. Isabelle suggested doggy-paddle and Vicky collapsed under the weight of her own giggles. I felt I had to say something.
If you’re going to do it out-of-doors, don’t go on the cliffs near me. They found evidence of a mass grave left over from the German Occupation.
Isabelle rolled her eyes and muttered, Here we go,
so I swore on Dad’s (more recently) dead body and made everyone embarrassed.
Par le chemin, although I have sometimes made things up, this is rock-solid-Guernsey-granite truth. They were found five years ago, and were believed to date back to the 1940s. Dad said it was obvious they were the bodies of poor foreign slave workers* who’d been brought over by the Nazis to build their secret bunkers and possible gas chambers but the Guernsey Tourist Board hushed it up because it was in big trouble.* Of course, Dad hypervented as per THE SHOCKING WHITEWASH and wrote a trillion letters to the newspapers on this very subject, but his letters were never published, which made him hypervent more. (I had a theory that all this hyperventing killed him, but that’s just one of a few.)
Nic liked my little story of shameful lies and death and licked her Boots 17 Cherry Pie–coated lips.
Where do you go with your boyfriend then?
Vicky said I’d never had much luck with lads since I’d always so closely resembled one. (Ha. Ha.)
My supposed-to-be best friend then explained how, on our last outing to Beau