The Book of Lies - By Mary Horlock Page 0,1

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 – 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

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.

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.

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.

20TH DECEMBER 1985, 9 p.m.

20th December 1965

21ST DECEMBER 1985, 12.18 a.m.

22ND DECEMBER 1985, 2 a.m.

22ND DECEMBER 1985, 2.30 p.m.

22ND DECEMBER 1985, 6 p.m.

23RD DECEMBER 1985, 6.30 p.m.

23RD DECEMBER 1985, 9.30 p.m.

24TH DECEMBER 1985, 5.30 a.m.

24TH DECEMBER 1985, 7 p.m.

Acknowledgements

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,