Free The Book of Lies by Mary Horlock Page B

emblem. And how tragic when, on 28 th June 1940 , German bombers destroyed an entire crop that was being loaded onto the boats for Southampton. What made it worse was they’d done so by mistake, because the stupid British government had never told them that they’d demilitarised the islands, and the Germans had mistaken tomato trucks for boxes of ammunition.
    I told Pagey we should therefore hate the British and not our parents, but he didn’t agree.
    â€˜That’s the most bloody stupid story I’ve ever heard,’ he told me.
    â€˜It’s not a story,’ I replied, ‘it’s His tory.’
    I saw Nic roll her eyes in the mirror. ‘We aren’t here for a fucking lecture, Cat.’
    I was a bit offended and opened the car door. ‘Anyone fancy a walk?’
    Nic laughed. ‘It’s raining.’
    (I hadn’t noticed.)
    Pagey stuck out his Caveman-chin.
    â€˜For fuck’s sake shut the door, you’re getting me wet.’
    I stood there, feeling Stupid. I had wanted Nic to make a choice but in fact she already had. Even if I was her best friend, boys mattered more. Back then I didn’t especially like boys. They were far too rowdy/interested in their own bodies. Of course, it was Nic who made them rowdy/interested in their own bodies. I suppose that means I saw them as a threat, but I never wanted to grope Nic or stick my tongue in her ear. I just wanted her to myself.
    Instead of getting back in the car I decided I’d rather be alone, so I grabbed my bag and a half-bottle of Unlabelled Sinister Import and walked off up the slope towards the watchtower. I don’t think I stormed off (like Nic later said) because it was a steep hill and I had to walk slowly.
    Although the tower was dark and smelly, I liked the sound of the wind whistling through the narrow windows. I could walk around and watch the rain and create my very own music video, and I was having a lot of fun before I noticed Michael Priaulx leaning against the entranceway. That was more than embarrassing. I know I’ve just said I don’t like boys but Michael is different, and you’ll see what I mean soon enough. He was wearing his usual black leather jacket that skimmed his waist and had padded bits at the shoulder and elbow, and his face and hair were glistening from the rain. His flames-motif crash helmet was tucked under his arm, and a shadow fell across his face as he walked inside. Some people think his head is too big for his shoulders, and that he’s slightly cross-eyed, but I swear he looks like Marlon Brando, even though I didn’t know who that was at the time. I tried to act all casual but my heart was doing bunny hops. I assumed that was because of the music video choreography (which, of course, I’d stopped).
    Michael didn’t come close, but turned and squatted down, leaning his back against the tower wall. Then he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a homemade cigarette.
    â€˜It’s pissing down. Hope I’m not interrupting.’
    I realised his cigarette was not actually a cigarette as he lit it and blew smoke out towards me.
    â€˜Those your mates down there?’
    I nodded and realised I should try to say something.
    I couldn’t.
    Michael reached into his other jacket pocket and pulled out a can of deodorant. I was quite excited because I’d heard how people had hallucinatory visions after inhaling deodorant (or Tipp-Ex). I was disappointed when I realised it was spray paint. Michael stood up and scanned the wall behind him. There was a large-ish bright-red swastika bang-slap in the middle. He shook the can and wrote ‘The Nazis Won’. Only once he’d finished did he turn back to me.
    â€˜Your dad said the swastika was an ancient Buddhist symbol before the Nazis used it. It meant being at one with the earth. I gatecrashed one of his Occupation Society tours. Fascinating, it was. He knew every little detail, which was