‘You’re in a prime position,’ sniffed C.P., ‘but I’m not sure I could ever live in a modern house like this. I suppose it’s all you could get on the Open Market.’20 Donnie told Constipated Piggy he preferred ‘all mod cons’ whilst quickly refilling his glass.
C.P. nodded and harrumphed back to the buffet.
‘What’s he got against the English?’ laughed Donnie.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘for starters you’re a tax exile, so you’re basically just taking advantage. But more importantly, at the beginning of the Second World War you abandoned us and were entirely to blame for us being bombed and then occupied by the Germans for five years.’
Donnie pulled a face of what I would call mocky-horror. ‘Oh, come on, the Occupation was a picnic. Didn’t everyone learn German?’
He winked at Mr McCracken, who smiled and waved his hands. ‘I’m staying out of this.’
‘Actually,’ said Nic, ‘half Cat’s family were killed by the Nazis so it’s no laughing matter. She could show you where the Germans buried the dead bodies of ex-prisoners, too. It’s pretty much at the bottom of your garden.’
Donnie froze. ‘What?’
I pinched Nic hard.
‘Ow!’
Mr McCracken shook his head.
‘Ignore them. There are a lot of stories and it’s mostly built on gossip and hearsay. She’s referring to an incident that was before my time, but I’m pretty sure it was a skeleton dating from the nineteenth century, and it was much further down the cliffs.’
Nic gave me a nasty look, like I had somehow misled her, so I jumped in and explained how some of the poor people who’d been imprisoned on Alderney21 had described watching Nazi guards herd fellow inmates off the cliffs. The men were often very weak and dying, so the Germans called it ‘suicide’. They also shot some and claimed they were killed ‘trying to escape’. I said it was highly likely that the same thing had happened in Guernsey.
I’d forgotten that Michael was still in the room, but suddenly he was standing right next to me.
‘It’s illegal to kill yourself on Guernsey.’ He raised an already-empty beer bottle. ‘But my dad couldn’t even arrest a corpse. Ha-ha!’
Donnie was glaring hard at Michael (who scowled deliciously back). I pointed out that suicide was in fact the perfect murder since you couldn’t catch the killer. Everyone was meant to marvel at my intelligence but didn’t.
Donnie waved his hands nervously and asked if we had to pursue this most morbid of topics.
Nic jumped off the sideboard, flashing all of her thigh.
‘Sir . . . I was going to ask . . . did you get a card?’
Mr McCracken’s eyes scrunched into raisins.
‘What?’
‘For Valentine’s, sir! Don’t tell me you didn’t get one, a dish like you. I bet you get all the mums excited at our parents’ evenings, and that’s saying nothing about the pupils.’
Before Mr McCracken could answer Nic turned, cocking her head to one side.
‘And what about you, Donnie, is there no Mrs Golden locked in the basement?’
Donnie smiled his best TV smile and explained how he’d spent the last ten years nursing his mother, who’d only just died and was not locked anywhere.
‘Between work and Mother I didn’t have much fun these last few years. After she was gone I knew I needed a change. I’ve never settled anywhere in England for long and liked the idea of living on an island. Personally, I think it’s good to be a little bit cut off from things.’
Nic yawned. ‘Dead from the neck down, you mean.’
Mr McCracken ignored her and asked Donnie more about his work and Donnie gave a quick version of his life story, standing straight and keeping eye contact, so as to make a good impression. He knew some of his neighbours thought him suspect (and not just because he dyed his hair). Maybe that’s why Michael liked him.
Michael Priaulx is a god, by the way. He was brilliant at football before his accident, and I’d often see his name in the sports pages of the Press. He’s three years older than me but age is irrelevant. I’d watch him roar around Town on his motorbike and flick ‘V’ signs at everyone and feel my heart beat faster. It didn’t even matter when he started to wear eyeliner.
Donnie said I didn’t need make-up. That night, he took me around his garden and talked more about his mother’s slow and painful death, and how he’d brought her ashes to Guernsey and scattered them in his flowerbeds, so they’d still be close. He