The Guillotine Choice

by Michael J Malone

  ‘You won’t need them where we’re going,’ he said. Mohand recognised the voice immediately. Fournier.

  His feeling of fear increased.

  ‘Allons-y,’ Fournier commanded and the two men holding him marched him from the room.

  He was pushed into a cell, stripped of his shorts and tied to a chair.

  Fournier punched for maximum effect with minimum effort. The soft tissue of the ears, nose and mouth were his targets.

  Mohand clenched his whole body against the pain. What was going on? Why was he being treated like this?

  No one answered his questions. No one spoke as he grunted against the pain.

  After what felt like hours, the beating stopped. A cold bucket of water was thrown over him and he was taken to another cell. Before the door was closed on him he tried to speak through his swollen lips.

  ‘Please tell me…’

  ‘Quiet, scum,’ Fournier shouted. ‘No talking allowed here.’

  ‘But I…’

  A fist sparked pain on his temple, he was thrown back into the tiny room and the door crashed shut behind him, leaving him in darkness.

  He crawled along the wall until he came to a corner and there he squatted, trying to make sense of what was happening and fighting to contain his fear.

  He was trembling. Every inch of him was shaking as if he had some terrible fever.

  This was not the first time he had been in this situation, he told himself, and he would come out of this alive and well as he had before. The words limped across his mind with little conviction. All of his worst fears crowded him. He would be kept in solitary confinement for years, going slowly insane; he would be sent back out to the jungle to die; the guillotine was being erected at that very moment, just waiting for that sweet spot on his neck.

  Gradually the light began to grow and Mohand was able to make out the detail of his cell. From his crouch he was able to pick out the wooden bench, which was surely to be his bed. The only other item in his cell was a small bucket.

  Not sure which part of him was in most pain, he straightened his legs and, with a loud groan, moved over to the bench and sat down. What had happened? From being given warnings by some of the most important men in the colony, he was being beaten and locked up in a cold cell. The complaints against him must have risen to a level the authorities felt they could not ignore.

  Was there evidence against him? How could there be, he had done nothing wrong.

  His mind looped back to his long years in the jungle. Could he survive another term there if that was where he was sent? He almost preferred the guillotine.

  But wouldn’t that be a cruel trick? After years in hell he receives the punishment he had worked so hard for others to avoid.

  He heard footsteps. Pails scraped against concrete as other inmates pushed their toilet buckets to their cell doors to be emptied.

  Then nothing but hush.

  He placed his feet on the bench and hugged his knees. Something he hadn’t thought about in years came back to him. Mezaine’s comment about Joseph. He tracked his own story against that of the prophet. The comparisons were there. Both of them betrayed by family, both of them found a way to overcome. Both were imprisoned, and Joseph had found a way to safety and security. Might he also be able to recover once again from an impossible situation?

  He heard a cough and a groan from another part of the prison and then silence again reclaimed the corridors. He shuddered. It was a silence thick with fear.

  He heard the soft, confused sounds of someone crying. It came from his left. Footsteps and a gruff voice ordered quiet. Or else.

  More feet sounded on concrete. Wordlessly, a convict was working his way down the row of cells delivering what Mohand guessed might be food. He counted the number of times doors creaked open and tin was slid across the ground.

  A small insert at the bottom of his door opened and a chunk of bread and a cup of water were pushed through.

  He waited until the door was closed before moving over to collect his food. As if some part of him did not want anyone to see how desperate he was. Or how quickly his dignity had fled. It took minutes to finish, only aware when the first chunk of bread hit his stomach of just how hungry he was.

  Good. They were not about to starve him.

  Bad. They wanted him to be alive when they made an example of him. Which was surely what they would want to do.

  From his crouch on the bench he held his hands out in front of him. He was no longer cold but still they shook. He considered what the viewpoint might be of the authorities. They have a convict who has been allowed into a position of trust. This convict is given control over a large part of their budget and has been given a big role in the smooth running of this part of the colony. Then this convict betrays their trust. He makes them all look the worst kind of idiots. They would be harsh in their judgement. What else could they do?

  After long hours the weak light faded and the dark took over.

  * * *

  Fournier came for him again. The punch connected before the first question reached his ear.

  ‘What have you done with the money?’

  Mohand spat blood from his mouth before answering.

  ‘What money?’

  Fournier punched him again.

  ‘There’s only…’

  Punch.

  ‘…one way this will end.’

  Punch.

  Fournier grabbed Mohand’s hair and brought his face to his, making sure he had eye contact.

  ‘The guillotine.’

  Punch.

  Pain was everything. Mohand gulped for breath, fighting down the panic that surged within him.

  He was lost. Surely he wasn’t coming back from this. He closed his eyes.

  ‘Villiers was a friend of mine.’ Fournier had expended so much effort he was sweating. He slapped Mohand’s face hard, waiting till he opened his eyes. ‘I don’t give a fuck about any money. I’ve been waiting for a chance to do this again for a very long time.’

  He punched Mohand in the gut.

  Breath exploded from him. He doubled over.

  ‘You’re mine now, Saoudi. I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born.’

  Mohand was on his knees, his eyes screwed shut. Fear tore the wind from his lungs. He felt Fournier reach for him again and he leaned back, pushed against the floor and tried to get as far away from this maniac as he could.

  In two steps Fournier caught him and pushed him against the wall.

  ‘Marie-Louise Villiers was one of the loveliest women I ever met. Until you got your hands on her, you ugly son of a whore.’

  There was a rasp to Fournier’s voice that suggested a darkness the man was only just allowing himself access to. Despite himself, Mohand looked up into the other man’s eyes and then he shrank from what he saw there.

  The big man’s face was in his. His breath hot and foul on his cheek. His tongue rasped down the side of his face.

  Fournier smiled. ‘So that’s what fear tastes like.’

  Without another word, he turned and left.

  * * *

  Mohand wasn’t aware how long he had been in the cell. His toilet pail was collected. Meals were delivered. The dark weakened and then grew. Such was the pattern of time as he fought to control his fears.

  There was barely a night when he had slept from dusk to dawn. He knew he was innocent of any wrongdoing, but if the authorities had been desperate to find him guilty they would have found some way of doing so.

  Hour after hour, he lay on his bench worrying about what the next day might bring. Would some ‘evidence’ turn up? Would one of his ‘trusted’ colleagues fabricate some lie and testify against him? When he did sleep, he often woke up in a cold sweat just before the blade plunged through his bare neck.

  Two questions ran through his mind in a continuous loop: when would Fournier come back? Would he want to finish the job once and for all?

  * * *

  They released him as
suddenly as they arrested him. The door was opened and a guard stood on the other side bearing Mohand’s prison uniform. He held the clothing towards him.

  ‘You might want to give yourself a wash before you put these on,’ the guard said.

  Mohand stood up. His feet were stuck to the floor as his mind sought to make sense of what was happening.

  ‘C’mon, convict. I don’t have all fucking day,’ the guard barked. ‘I’d be just as happy to close the cell door again.’

  A confused shuffle led Mohand to the door. He held a hand out to take his uniform.

  ‘Back to work, prisoner. You have a job to do,’ the guard said. He wrinkled his nose with disgust as Mohand drew nearer. ‘But before you do, give yourself a wash.’

  Back at his room, everything was just as it was when he had left all those… days? weeks? hours ago? He had no way of knowing just how long he had been away. His bed and chair sat in the same position he had left them. The blanket was scrunched up at the foot of the bed as if he had just left the room to visit the toilet.

  He filled his small sink with cold water and worked to wash away the stench of the cell. With a small sliver of soap he tried to work up a lather to release the grime and the odour that had built up. As he scrubbed, he examined himself in the small, cracked mirror on the wall. It was so small that all he could see was his face.

  He tried to remember the young man who had arrived in the prison all those years ago. Had he aged much since? He couldn’t remember if his cheekbones had been that prominent, or if the skin under his eyes had been so dark.

  Who are you? he asked himself. How will you survive if the authorities decide to punish you again? His spirit quailed at the thought. Fear rose in him, dark and unfathomable. He looked away, uncomfortable with what he saw.

  * * *

  In the office, everyone greeted him as if he had been away for moments. He sat at his desk, teeth grinding against a strong feeling of injustice. A feeling that warred with relief. There had been no explanation, no apology. He had simply been released and returned to his duties.

  He stared at the papers in front of him. How can they treat people like this, he raged inwardly. He aimed a pen at some paper. His mind suggested numbers he should annotate. His body could not obey. He had been stripped naked, caged, beaten and given starvation rations and then the door was unlocked with the instruction to go back to work.

  He should complain. He should go to the director’s office and let them know how he felt. He should sit down, shut up and get on with his work or they could throw him back in a cell and this time never let him go.

  Habits formed in the long years of self-preservation took over and he examined the papers in front of him and began to write.

  * * *

  A few weeks later Mohand received a familiar visitor. With a degree of trepidation, he watched Captain Sancarve as he drank from his cup.

  ‘Ahhh,’ Sancarve sighed after a sip. He closed his eyes. ‘I needed that. Shame you have no cognac on you.’ Mohand nodded, his mind elsewhere.

  ‘You do have cognac?’ Sancarve misread his action.

  ‘Sorry, no,’ answered Mohand. ‘I don’t store alcohol in the office. It would only get stolen. Excuse me, Captain, perhaps you might explain why…’

  ‘Oh, yes…’ Sancarve studied Mohand’s face and read the tension there. ‘Excuse me, Monsieur Saoudi. If I may…’ He placed his cup on the desk. ‘I am aware that there have been some investigations and that a… mutual, ah, acquaintance has been involved. Because my visit is unofficial, I have to be indirect…’

  Mohand thought to himself that if the captain wasn’t a good deal more direct in the next couple of seconds, he might stick a foot up his well-tailored backside.

  ‘Our findings have found that the individual investigated was honest and trustworthy and should never’, here his expression changed from his usual hangdog look to one of empathy, ‘have been placed under such strain.’

  Sancarve then went on to explain the results of the investigation into Mohand’s affairs.

  ‘There were a lot of papers to go through,’ was as close as anyone came to offering an apology. They found nothing in the office. In his room, they found some butter. The director was not happy about the butter.

  ‘The prison clerks don’t have butter and Mr Saoudi allows himself butter,’ he had apparently said.

  There was, however, one issue they decided should be upheld. Mohand’s chickens. For many years he kept chickens in his backyard as a source of fresh eggs. After the director’s search, there was nothing else they could find worth to report back to the authorities.

  ‘The chickens,’ said Sancarve. ‘The chickens have to go.’

  Mohand simply shook his head. It was ludicrous. He stifled an impulse to laugh. After all of the mental anguish and the physical abuse he had suffered, all they could say was that he should have his chickens confiscated.

  His mind returned to the source of all of this: Hassan. It must have been Hassan.

  How far would he go?

  One more attempt by Hassan, and Mohand didn’t know how he might react. An action formed in the heat of the moment would result in only one thing: a dead Hassan and the guillotine for Mohand. No, that would not be a suitable outcome.

  If he was going to deal with Hassan, it would have to be planned and executed with care.

  EIGHT

  A Burial at Sea

  Mohand looked at the calendar on his desk. It read 16th March. He had an order to complete before the twentieth, but other camps in the region were not answering his requests.

  Everyone was suffering from the effects of the war. France still struggled to send goods over from the other side of the Atlantic and other contacts at this side of the ocean were now less forthcoming. Mohand rubbed at his eyes and worried. Food supplies were becoming dangerously low and in a place where more men starved than managed to eat, this was potentially disastrous.

  He had met with Armand, the would-be mugger, over at Lacroix’s just the night before and couldn’t help but notice that his friend was displaying the swollen stomach typical of the malnourished.

  ‘How are you managing?’ he asked.

  ‘Tsk,’ Armand dismissed him. ‘Don’t you be worrying about me, my friend. Armand will always rise to the top. Like scum in a swamp.’

  ‘Nice thought, Armand,’ Mohand said and grinned. ‘I prefer oil on water.’

  ‘You, my friend, have class. I…’ he looked down at the dirty rags that just about preserved his modesty, ‘I have nothing.’ The grin he wore to answer Mohand’s was weak and lopsided.

  Mohand rested a hand on Armand’s shoulder. He himself was struggling to get enough food, but he would get whatever he could for Armand.

  ‘Be at my office tomorrow morning, eh?’

  Armand’s head moved jerkily from side to side, as if he was holding a debate with himself. Pride versus need.

  He managed to nod. Need won.

  ‘I’ll see if I can scare up a pair of trousers. We don’t want people to be looking at that sad little penis of yours.’

  * * *

  Mohand roused his thoughts when there was a brief knock at the door and a messenger from the director’s office entered the room. A young guard, David Faber, held forward a summons.

  Walking towards the director’s office, Mohand’s mind was full of queries. It was rare to receive such a summons and, in his experience, it was never something worthwhile. Did he do anything wrong in his work? Had the complaints started up again?

  So it was that when he entered the director’s office, he was in a state of apprehension. This was not helped by the director’s expression. He looked like a man who was about to deliver bad news.

  ‘Please, Saoudi,’ the director said, pointing to a chair, ‘sit down.’

  Even as he placed his backside over the seat and started to sit down, Mohand was praying to Allah that he was safe. Holding his hands on his lap, he fought to control his nerves.

&n
bsp; Director Ramirez was not a man to waste any time, so without delay he told Mohand the reason why he had been summoned.

  ‘I am very sorry to inform you that your cousin Arab is seriously ill and has been delivered to the hospital in Cayenne this morning.’

  Mohand struggled to take the words in. They didn’t make any sense. Arab was indestructible. ‘Surely there must be some mistake?’ He didn’t realise that he had spoken these words out loud until Ramirez replied.

  ‘There is no mistake, Saoudi. I have the notice here on my desk.’ He pointed a long finger at an ordinary slip of paper before him.

  ‘But…’

  ‘You have been a good servant to the colony all these years, Saoudi. You deserve our respect, so if you want to see him before he dies, I can arrange this.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mohand managed to say as his throat tightened. ‘That would be…’ Aware that the director was staring at him, Mohand gathered his thoughts together. ‘Sir, I would appreciate this opportunity to say goodbye.’

  By around lunchtime Mohand found himself in the camp at Cayenne. He had an official authorisation and they were informed of his arrival. The guards at the hospital were brisk and uncaring; this was one more bag of meat and bones about to be fed to the sharks and they would like to get on with their day’s work.

  One guard took Mohand to a small ward where Arab lay under a threadbare sheet. The smell of dying men, creosote and excrement hit Mohand like a fist. He held a finger under his nose and forced breath in through his mouth until he was able to cope. He looked over at his cousin and was immediately transported back to the time he spent with Ali just before he died.

  If he hadn’t already known why he was here, and therefore what the bundle on the bed might be, he would have thought the cloth covering the body was nothing more than a collection of rags, so slight was the pile.

  Mohand crouched at the side of the bed. He spoke softly. ‘Cousin.’

  Arab turned his head to face Mohand. A movement that surprised him. The man on the bed had been so still he thought he was asleep. Or worse.