The Book of Lies
THE BOOK OF LIES
Mary Horlock was born in Australia but grew up in Guernsey in the Channel Islands. She moved to England at the age of eighteen, where she studied Art History and later worked at the Tate. She is a former curator of the Turner Prize. Mary lives in London with her partner and their two children.
The Book of Lies
is her first novel.
THE
BOOK
OF LIES
MARY HORLOCK
TEXT PUBLISHING MELBOURNE AUSTRALIA
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
Copyright © Mary Horlock 2011
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
This edition published by The Text Publishing Company 2011
Published by arrangement with Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
Map of Guernsey copyright © Victoria Kinnersly 2011
Cover design by WH Chong
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Author:Â Â Horlock, Mary.
Title: Â Â Â Â Â Â The book of lies / Mary Horlock.
ISBN:Â Â Â Â Â 9781921758102 (pbk.)
Subjects: Life change events Fiction.
Friendship in adolescence Fiction.
Family secrets Fiction.
Truthfulness and falsehood Fiction.
Guernsey (Channel Islands) Fiction.
Channel Islands History German occupation, 1940â1945 Fiction.
Dewey Number: 823.92
Primary print ISBN: 9781921758102
Ebook ISBN: 9781921834226
to
for
because of
Darian
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 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
1
for four days on the trot, and they even used one of the photos I took of her â 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.
I now 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 â 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
13
th
(
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.
2
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 â 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.
    Contents
16TH DECEMBER 1985, 11.56 a.m.
21ST DECEMBER 1985, 12.18 a.m.
Tape:
1
(A side) âThe 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.
