“A compelling, life-affirming story of a man’s endurance and will to live under the most brutal of circumstances. If this was pure fiction, no-one would believe it.” HELEN FITZGERALD
“Moving, thrilling and rousing … A magnificent piece of work.” DOUGLAS SKELTON
PRAISE FOR MICHAEL J. MALONE’S PREVIOUS BOOKS:
“Blasts onto the scene like a bullet… my debut of the year.” TONY BLACK
“Taut and expertly detailed with blistering prose… an explosively cool and riveting novel.” SAM MILLAR, novelist and reviewer for The New York Journal of Books.
“This book had me gripped by the throat from first page to last. An absolute stunner.” IAN AYRIS
“An addictive thriller that has more twists, turns and blind alleys than a labyrinth. … A bold and dazzling debut.” CRIMESQUAD.COM
“Urgent, pacy prose and sharp dialogue shot through with gallows humour.” EVA DOLAN
“A remarkably assured debut novel… The writing is expressive and taut, and the plot unfolds at a relentless pace.” ROB KITCHIN
“A superb piece of writing.” KEN BRUEN
“An outstanding novel and a must-read.” – UNDISCOVERED SCOTLAND
“Quite simply, one of the best novels I’ve read in the last ten years.” CARO RAMSAY
“Effortless prose and the piercing insight that creates characters you not only believe in but actually feel for… Deeply disturbing and emotionally charged… a must read for fans of psychological crime fiction.” EVA DOLAN
“An expert storyteller.” SARAH WARD, CRIMEPIECES
THE
GUILLOTINE
CHOICE
Michael J. Malone
and
Bashir Saoudi
I would like to dedicate this book to all the members of my family: to my siblings, Tahar, Chérif, Abderahman and Zahra; my wife, Samia; and my children, Tamlan, Lias and Nathan. I also dedicate it to my aunty, Nana Messaouda, for her hours of hard work in providing so much missing information to help make this story complete.
To the entire population of M’chedallah, the people our father loved and served during his time as Secrétaire Général. We are all richer for having him live and work among us. Thank you for your interest and support in the telling of his story.
To every member of the family Saoudi, in the hope that this book will remind us of our father’s last fervent wish before his death, to stay united.
To all the people who fight for freedom and justice in our world.
To my loving 93-year-old mother, who was our father’s dearest companion.
Finally, I would like to dedicate this book to our father, whom I got to know better after thirty years of research. His life is an inspiration and serves as an education to all of our children. This book is a way to thank him and to say what I should have told him in the living years, that is: DAD, I LOVE YOU.
BASHIR SAOUDI
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE: Bashir’s Story
PART ONE: ALGERIA
ONE: The Harvest, 1913
TWO: The Orphan and the Moon, 1924
THREE: A Gun
FOUR: Infighting
FIVE: A New Job
SIX: The Possibility of Threat
SEVEN: Gunfire in the Djurdjura
EIGHT: Under Guard
NINE: The First Prison Cell
TEN: The Arrest of Ali
ELEVEN: A Hiding Place
TWELVE: A Father’s Desperation
THIRTEEN: A Prisoner’s Life
FOURTEEN: Return to Maillot
FIFTEEN: A Last Intervention
SIXTEEN: The Hearing
SEVENTEEN: Maison Carrée
EIGHTEEN: Preparation for the Voyage
NINETEEN: A Burning
TWENTY: The Day of Departure
PART TWO: DEVIL’S ISLAND
ONE: The Crossing
TWO: In Self-Defence
THREE: Land Ahead
FOUR: The Blockhaus
FIVE: Out of the Woods
SIX: Little Paris
SEVEN: Temptation
EIGHT: Jungle Fever
NINE: Blue Morpho Butterflies
TEN: Word from Home
ELEVEN: The Morgue
TWELVE: The Eagle
PART THREE: ‘WE LIVE AND HOPE’
ONE: Wind of Change
TWO: Quartier Libre
THREE: New Trousers
FOUR: Tea with the Mayor
FIVE: New Friends
SIX: Closing the Bagne
SEVEN: Accusations
EIGHT: A Burial at Sea
NINE: The Judge and the Gold Dust
TEN: A Letter
ELEVEN: Thoughts of Freedom
TWELVE: Welcome News
THIRTEEN: Fight and Flight
FOURTEEN: An Offer and a Refusal
FIFTEEN: Paid Work
SIXTEEN: The Man in the White Suit
EPILOGUE: Bashir’s Story
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
Also by Michael J. Malone
Copyright
PROLOGUE
Bashir’s Story
I flew first class with Air France from Boston to Algiers via Paris. Paid for and arranged by my American employer. The cabin was quiet. The stewardess read my reserve and only interrupted my thoughts in order to offer me some food and alcohol. I shook my head at both offers.
‘Some water, perhaps?’ she asked, her face long with concern, and for the first time I realised I had been crying.
I nodded, forced a smile and wiped a tear from my cheek.
Water might do me good. My mouth was as parched as my thoughts. They kept going back to that last time before the news came through. The last time I saw my father alive.
He stood at the door of his house while my cousin drove me back to the airport. In the wing mirror I could see that he stayed to watch until the car shrank into the distance.
We hugged before I left.
We gathered a lifetime of hugs in that month.
His skin lined, his frame shrunk, his eyes were framed in an expression of loss. From the distance of time I can read that expression.
He knew.
Fathers and sons… Was it every man’s experience to go back home, take part in the funeral service, and question what his father was really like and wonder what might have been?
I closed my eyes tight against the feelings that threatened to swamp me. I had to keep control, until the ceremony at least.
A cough intruded on my thoughts. The stewardess with my water. She pointed towards the table on the back of the seat in front of me. Another weak smile. I released the table so she could place the small bottle and glass in front of me.
‘Can I get you anything else, sir?’ she asked.
‘No. Thank you,’ I answered. All I could manage was a whisper; my throat was so tight with emotion.
I scanned my memory for my father. Things he had done and said. He was remarkable, by any man’s measure, but how well did I really know him? How well does any son know his father? And does the fault for this lack lie with the son? Or the father?
Resolve tightened in my gut, worked at the muscles of my jaw. I should know more about my dad. I should speak with the old ones. His generation. I should record what they have to say about him. I should write it all down and make sure the world knows.
I thought about the days ahead. The funeral. The turnout was going to be huge. My chest tightened with pride at this thought. Hundreds of people would be there and many of them would travel for miles, such was his influence and reputation.
He was special, and this is not just a bereft son’s bel
ief. What made a man from such a humble beginning become such a force in a huge region of Algeria?
* * *
A memory. My father’s voice, low and without judgement. Telling the tale of his favourite dog and what he witnessed that day as a child. How many other boys would have grown to manhood and demanded retribution against a conquering nation, instead of seeking rapprochement?
Much of his story he kept to himself, but this was one episode he was happy to repeat. In fact, I heard the story so many times as a boy it almost feels like the memory is mine.
As if I was actually there…
PART ONE
ALGERIA
ONE
The Harvest, 1913
The dog was chained at the boy’s feet. A question in the angle of his head and in his large brown eyes. Kaci bent down and hugged him, taking warmth from the animal. Its tail brushed back and forth across the grey dust of the earth. Smiling, Kaci rubbed the dog’s head, just in that spot he loved so much; between the ears and the top of his skull. The dog’s eyes all but closed in pleasure as the boy’s small knuckles did their work.
‘You like that, don’t you, Lion?’
Lion was not the biggest dog in the village, but he had the biggest heart and the loudest, most persistent bark. Bear and boar dare not enter his territory and he had even chased a leopard away from the field where the olives grew. Or perhaps Papa had pretended about that one. He was always laughing and teasing.
Kaci stood up and looked in towards the olive trees. Small as he was, he still had a job to do at harvest, picking olives from the sacking that lay beneath the trees, while his uncles, brothers and older cousins climbed up and shook them loose. It was also his task to watch over Lion as he guarded the increasing pile of harvested olives in front of the family home. Although he was only six years old, Kaci already knew that other village children would be paid pocket money for any stray olives that managed to work their way under their gandora, the loose, thin shift they wore in all seasons. He also knew that every olive gathered would improve his family’s financial position.
The Saoudi family, unlike most, still owned some land. That it had not been taken over by some French colon was a tribute to their hard work and persistence. It did, however, cause some jealousy among some of the extended family and neighbours. Kaci had heard his father, Hadj Yahia, argue at the last village meeting that this was all part of the Frenchman’s plan. If the indigènes fight among themselves, he stressed, the French can go on stealing what remains of their land. He had even offered to share what he could with the poorest families of the area in an effort to stem the flow of resentment that surfaced every year around harvest time.
‘Have I not also suffered under the French?’
Kaci remembered his father’s expression, dark with suppressed anger as he faced down some of the louder voices. This had brought silence and everyone looked over at Kaci as they remembered his mother. Perhaps if there had been a doctor nearby and money to pay him, she might have survived. He was only two when she died in labour. The lack of healthcare for the indigènes was acute, and the blood loss was too much for the local woman who acted as midwife to try and repair.
Kaci had pretended to examine the small wooden carving he was playing with, the image of his father standing tall in the room strong in his mind. He felt he might burst with pride at his father’s bearing, and his kindness. He too would be a son who would help his fellow Algerians. He would grow into a wise man. One day, he would be such a man to make his father proud.
Back in the present, the dog stiffened under his fingers. His ears up: his snout and body pointing in one direction. He issued a low growl.
Kaci looked where the dog was aiming his warning and could see nothing but a speck in the distance.
The speck grew larger. The dog grew fiercer.
Kaci felt a tremble in his thighs and worry churn in his gut. He put a hand out to soothe the dog and spoke sharply, ordering him to sit.
The shape moved closer still.
The dog’s anger surged to fury and he jumped to the end of his chain with such madness that he choked off his bark, his body aimed like an arrow at a large shape moving closer with each second.
A man on a large horse. Closer.
Still the dog barked.
And on the man rode, unmoved by the dog’s fury.
‘Quiet, Lion, please be quiet,’ Kaci pleaded, and reached for the dog’s collar, thankful for the chain. Without it, Lion would surely be lunging at the horse’s flanks, and would just as surely receive a hard kick. With all of his strength he held on, willing the dog to be still.
Kaci struggled to keep his feet and still the dog tried to throw himself at the figure making its unhurried way up the dirt road to the house. He was close enough now for Kaci to make out the uniform of a Garde Champêtre, one of the hated French field police.
The guard was wearing his hat low over his face and all Kaci could see was the line of his nose and thin lips angled in mild irritation. He must have been a tall man, for he seemed like a giant on top of his dun-coloured horse. The horse snorted its concern over the closeness of the angry animal on the chain, but the guard simply pulled at the bridle and drew nearer.
The Frenchman reached a spot that he seemed to consider safe enough for his horse. He jumped from its back and walked towards the boy and the dog, his focus never wavering from them, his expression not altering.
Still the dog lunged and barked.
‘Please stop, Lion, please!’ Kaci shouted as loudly as he could, fighting to hide his own fear.
The guard came closer.
And still the dog barked. And jumped. An electrifying bundle of hair and muscle.
With one fluid movement, the guard reached for the pistol at his side, pointed it at the dog and fired from point blank range down the animal’s exposed throat.
Dog and boy collapsed to the ground, like puppets whose strings had been severed. All that energy and fury cut off with the roar of a gun. Kaci held on to the dog’s neck, fingers entwined in his fur.
‘No. No. No. Lion!’ he screamed. ‘You killed Lion.’ His ears rang with the report from the weapon.
The sound of the gun brought the men running from the field. Kaci wouldn’t, couldn’t, let go and his cousin Hana Addidi was there, prising his fingers from the fur.
His father picked him up and held him tight against his chest. Kaci screamed and twisted; kicked and punched at his father.
‘He killed Lion.’
‘Be quiet, Mohand.’ Normally the use of his formal name was enough to stop Kaci in his tracks, but he couldn’t stop. It was as if the fury from the dog had been transferred to him. He landed a blow on his father’s nose, and in surprise his father dropped him. Kaci lunged for the blood-matted dog lying lifeless on the ground.
The Frenchman spoke for the first time. ‘Who owns this sack of fur?’
‘Chouchou,’ Hana Addidi whispered. ‘Please. Let go.’
Kaci looked up at the guard through eyes thick with tears. The man’s expression had altered only slightly; he looked as if he had found enough energy to move beyond bored. Kaci’s little body was shaking with emotion, yet part of his mind was watching events with detachment. Some instinct told him there was still danger here and he had to be alert to it. The guard had murdered his favourite creature with less thought than he might stub out a cigarette. What might he do to his people?
‘I do,’ Hadj Yahia answered, chin high.
‘Then you have committed a crime. You are charged with owning a dangerous animal and you will pay sixteen francs.’
There was a loud gasp from the adults gathered nearby. Few of them spoke sufficient French to know exactly what the guard had said, but they all understood the sum of money he was talking about. It was enough to feed a family for a month.
Everyone there had been touched by the case of a local man who had forgotten to register his son’s birth: another of the man’s children had died just days earlier in a hou
se fire and he had been distracted by grief. For that he had been sent to jail for six years.
What if his father was sent to prison, too? If Hadj Yahia did not find the money, would he have to sell off more land to meet the fine, as many of his countrymen had done in the past? If he did so, how would the loss of revenue from the olives affect the family’s wellbeing?
Kaci had not let go of the dog’s coat, his body still heaving as he sobbed. How could this foreigner come here and do this to his people? How could Allah allow this to happen? How could this man of flesh and blood and bone treat Lion, his best friend in the whole world, in such a manner?
‘I will pay your fine, Frenchman,’ said Hadj Yahia, muttering a Berber curse under his breath. His eyes never wavered from the guard’s face. But Kaci read something in them. Had he the words at that young age to describe what he saw, he would have been torn between ‘defiance’ and ‘acceptance’. It was as if somewhere deep inside, his father was staring at some terrible truth.
Kaci swore that one day he would understand. He would watch. He would study and he would learn everything about the French, so that he and his kind would show that they were worth more; that they too were of flesh and blood and bone.
One day he would grow up to be a man worthy of respect, from everyone.
TWO
The Orphan and the Moon, 1924
A teenage Kaci sat under a tree, his belly full after an evening meal of couscous, watching the setting sun paint the ridge of the distant mountain gold and red. Wood doves called to each other in the olive groves around him to the accompaniment of children’s feet scuffing the dusty earth as they chased and fought and played.
One of the children broke away from the group. His little body was rigid with anger as he stamped across to the trees.
‘Baby!’ one child shouted after him. ‘Zaki is a baby.’
Head down, Zaki tried to ignore the taunts until he was safely under the shelter of an olive tree. From Kaci’s vantage point he could see that once he was out of sight of the other children, the boy slumped on the ground and gave in to his feelings, sobbing into his sleeve.
The Guillotine Choice Page 1
