Mary Horlock - 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

textpublishing.com.au

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: Horlock, Mary.

Title: The book of lies / Mary Horlock.

ISBN: 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, 19401945 Fiction.

Dewey Number: 823.92

Primary print ISBN: 9781921758102
Ebook ISBN: 9781921834226

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Contents

My name is Catherine Rozier, please dont call me Cathy. If you do Ill jump. Dont think Im bluffing. Its a 3000-foot drop and even though Im fat, Im not fat enough to bounce. Ill 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 Ill be stranded on the rocks with seagulls eating my eyes. I know for a fact theyll eat anything.

Killing myself wouldnt be too clever, but then neither was killing Nicolette. Its been a fortnight since they found her body and for the most part I am glad shes gone. But I also cant believe shes dead, and I should do because I did it. Yes. Thats right. I killed Nicolette on these very cliffs and Im frankly amazed that no one has guessed. When her body was dragged out the water, the verdict was shed fallen. Ha-ha. (Only Im not laughing.) Why hasnt 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 mustve thought theyd 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 Ive done therell be no more pretending what this island is. If you want me, come and find me. Assume Ill 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 years prize-giving to my mother. Id 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 shell 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). Nics death was all over the Guernsey EveningPress for four days on the trot, and they even used one of the photos I took of her the one in Candie Gardens where shes 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 wont go into the details of how I know this, but I won the Inter-Island Junior Mastermind so, trust me, Im 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 doesnt 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 Im not stupid. It was like Friday the13th (Part1 or 2). If only I couldve 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 cant 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. Its 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? Nics 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 dont think Im going quietly. First Ill write this down so that everybody knows. Its such a good story I could turn it into a book, and perhaps it wont look so bad once I see it there in black-and-white. After all, being a murderer isnt such a big deal for this little island. This is Guernsey, please remember, where there are plenty of secrets no ones ever meant to talk about. If youre British youll 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 didnt kill him, although I admit I thought about it. Dad was the expert on Guernseys 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 doesnt 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. Its funny, because shes a total prude and wont even swear but shell plough through any amount of blood and gore as long as its not real.

Id 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 hed know what to do. Hed start by saying that you have to go way back. Perhaps if Mum had done that sooner she wouldve seen what was ahead. If Im writing this for anyone I suppose Im writing it for her. She knows what happened to Dad, and what happened to Dad is definitely connected to what happened to Nic. Its amazing, really, how everything connects. But what would you expect on this tiny island? We all know each other, or worse, we are related.