The Guillotine Choice Read online

  ‘Take him to the hospital. You must save him,’ argued Kaci, his voice hoarse from shouting.

  Pain bloomed in the side of his head. His reward for speaking was a rifle butt to the temple.

  ‘Silence, Algerian dog, or we’ll kill you where you lie.’

  Kaci groaned and fought to ignore the pain. This was nothing to what his friend was going through. As if he could read his thoughts, Samson groaned. His chest rose with a series of shallow grunts as he struggled to fill his lungs. Blood frothed at the corner of his mouth.

  A young soldier crouched down to speak to Samson. Since they arrived he was the one Kaci had been most worried about. While the others spoke he simply stared at Kaci as if his eyes were claws, and looks were able to tear out his heart. Muscles twitched in the line of the young soldier’s jaw. He pulled off his hat and rubbed at the thatch of blond hair on his head.

  ‘Monsieur Samson, tell us this man shot you and we will pull his intestines out of his belly and leave him for the birds.’

  A tall soldier behind him, with legs like sticks, laughed. ‘Pull his intestines out of his belly? You’ve been reading too many cheap novels, Meric.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, Grosjean.’ As he spoke, Meric’s eyes never left Kaci’s face. ‘Monsieur Samson, did this man shoot you?’

  Samson managed to move his head from side to side. ‘Kaci… couldn’t. There was…’ He groaned louder, the effort of speech was draining what energy he had.

  Couldn’t anyone see that his friend needed a doctor? He needed help or he would die.

  ‘A doctor,’ Kaci shouted. He didn’t care if it earned him another bruise. ‘My friend is dying. He needs a doctor.’

  Meric jumped to his feet and with one step he was close enough to strike. His boot lashed out, catching Kaci on the chin.

  ‘See how he tries to distract Monsieur Samson from speaking,’ Meric roared. He aimed another kick at Kaci, catching him on the side.

  ‘Enough.’ Grosjean stepped over and with a bored expression on his face gave Meric a shove. The blond fell to the ground. ‘Idiot. Was there not enough air in Brittany when you grew up? Or does all the blood get diverted from your brain to try and feed that puny little prick of yours? We need the young Algerian to stand trial. We need to set a public example.’

  Kaci shuddered. He knew what they were talking about. A public beheading.

  ‘I have killed no one. I am innocent.’

  Grosjean shrugged a ‘whatever’. ‘You were here. That is enough.’

  The next words froze on Kaci’s tongue. He could understand Meric’s fury. He was covered in Samson’s blood, after all. If the positions were changed he might feel the same, but Grosjean’s indifference chilled him to the marrow. He watched the taller man as he chewed on a hangnail. If it suited him, he could stamp on Kaci’s head until it was nothing but mush, then return to his cigarette. He could pluck out his eyes with as much thought as a child might pull the legs from a spider.

  ‘Monsieur Samson…’ Meric said as he scrambled over to the injured man. A nod and he would place a bullet between the Algerian’s eyes. ‘Did this man shoot you?’

  Samson managed to shake his head once more. ‘Not… him.’ He coughed. ‘There is no way he would… but he…’ Samson coughed some more.

  Kaci cringed with the harshness of the cough. He could hear a rattling sound.

  ‘Blood in the lungs.’ Grosjean shrugged again. ‘All we can do now is make him comfortable and wait.’

  A solitary tear slid down Kaci’s face, making a track through the dirt and dust. They were waiting for his friend to die.

  NINE

  The First Prison Cell

  Kaci’s eyes were so swollen from the beating he’d received from the soldiers that he couldn’t make out his surroundings. The last thing he could remember was kicks and punches raining down on him before he mercifully blacked out. He tried to move and groaned from the pain. It seemed that every part of his body was bruised. He moved his arms. His legs. He groaned at the pain. At least he had some movement. At least they weren’t broken. He ran fingers over his jaw. Swollen. Ahhh, painful. He opened his mouth slightly. Not broken. He shivered.

  Samson.

  What kind of man are you, Mohand, he asked himself? Complaining about a few aches and pains when he had no idea if his friend was alive or dead. He extended his other senses to try and make out where he was. He could feel cold, hard concrete against his naked back and legs.

  He could hear… nothing. Complete silence. Wait. What was that? A cough echoed in the distance. As if coming from the end of a long corridor.

  ‘Hello,’ he croaked. He tried again. Louder this time. ‘Hello?’ He felt shame at the fear evident in the tremble of his voice. Just in those two short syllables. He ran his fingers over his eyelids. He had to find out where he was. He had to see. His eyes were badly swollen and crusted with something he guessed could only be blood. Cuts in the skin round his eyes must have bled into his lashes, which were glued together. With thumb and index finger he tried to prise them apart, but with little success. Then he picked at the larger clumps. Eventually he was able open his eyes a little more and he could see…

  Total darkness.

  Panic surged through him. Acid churned violently in his gut.

  ‘Guards,’ he shouted. ‘Guards.’

  A cackle sounded in the distance. ‘“Guards,” he shouts. Rule number one of prison, my friend. Don’t shout for the guards.’

  Prison. He was in prison.

  ‘Who are you? Where am I? What is happening here?’

  Another cackle. ‘Rule number two of prison. Don’t ask any questions.’

  Another voice. Deeper this time. Sounded like it was closer. ‘Would you two fucking shut up? Silence is the rule here or the guards will…’

  ‘Sorry, silence is rule number one,’ the first voice interrupted. He chuckled. ‘All these rules. How is a poor man to remember them all?’

  Kaci leaned against a cold wall and instinctively crouched, making himself a smaller target. He had never known fear like this. His whole body trembled with it. What was going to happen to him? Samson was surely dead. There was no way he could have survived those terrible wounds. The French authorities need look no further than he. Discovered by the body of a dying Frenchman, drenched in his blood.

  What about his family? He had heard tales of reprisals from the French where whole families had been slaughtered in revenge. His father. Would his father know what happened to him? His wife. His ‘Senegal’. Saada. What would happen to the child growing in her womb?

  It was too much. A scream formed in his throat and flowed out. Tears coursed down his face. He rocked himself back and forward, panting now against the pain in his chest. He was going to die. He would never see his family again. Samson, his friend, was dead.

  Footsteps sounded in the dark. Strong, booted footsteps. Two men were marching in his direction.

  His door banged open. Strong daylight flowed in, outlining the broad shoulders of two men.

  ‘Shut it,’ a voice roared in French.

  Kaci cowered as far into the corner as he could. One of the guards made a short, sharp movement and cold water drenched him.

  ‘We demand silence in these cells. Silence. Does your puny little Arab mind not know the meaning of the word?’

  ‘So this is the Berber bastard that murdered one of ours?’ the other man said.

  Even as Kaci shivered at the cold and shrank against their insults, part of his mind mocked their ignorance. Arab or Berber. These idiots didn’t know the difference. Nor did they care.

  One moved closer to him. ‘They breed their murderers young, eh?’ He cuffed the side of Kaci’s head. Kaci lost his balance and fell to the floor. He curled himself into a ball fearful that he was about to experience even more violence.

  The other guard laughed. A thin, hollow sound. ‘Look at the little fucker. They’ve really done him over. There’s not a bit of him that’s not bruised.’r />
  ‘Can you bruise a bruise, I wonder?’ A boot connected with his buttock.

  ‘Probably better to let the bruising and swelling settle. Gives you something to aim for, eh?’ one man said with a quizzical tone to his voice.

  ‘I like the way your mind works, Dubois.’

  Kaci stayed exactly where he was. Any movement from him would only entice more action from the men towering over him.

  Another boot connected with his spine. Kaci moaned at this fresh assault. He clenched his jaw against the pain. Grinding his teeth to ensure he wouldn’t cry out. He would not give these bullies the satisfaction. But he didn’t know if he could take much more.

  ‘Silence is the rule in here, prisoner. Any talking, whispering, screaming… any noise whatsoever and we’ll come back again. But next time we’ll really hurt you. Understand?’

  ‘Don’t know why you’re bothering explaining, Leblanc. These savages can’t understand a word of the mother tongue.’ With that, he moved his face into Kaci’s line of sight and placed his index finger in front of his pursed lips. Then he mimicked the movement of a knife across his throat with a smile that suggested he would happily wield the knife.

  Kaci was too uncoordinated in his thoughts to tell them he could understand every word they said. He simply nodded. He was numb with fear, cold and uncertainty. What was waiting for him at the end of all this? A lifetime in prison? The guillotine?

  As if the guards could read his mind, one of them spoke.

  ‘A knife across his throat isn’t much of a threat, man. Surely he knows he’s headed for the guillotine anyway.’

  With a smile and shrug the other guard moved back from Kaci and they left the cell, banging the door behind them.

  He was once again locked in darkness so complete he might have been blind, with nothing but his own fear for company.

  * * *

  Kaci entered a strange world between sleep and waking, never sure at any one time which was his true state. Both were cold and dark. In both, his body trembled violently and words issued in his mind.

  Murderer.

  Your child will grow up without a father.

  The French will rape your wife before slitting her throat.

  He lost all sense of time, having nothing to measure it with, save his own shallow breath. It could have been days or moments before the door opened again and some striped cotton was thrown at him. Darkness. And then time crawled and sprinted again until the door opened and a bowl of something was slid across the floor towards him.

  Once the door closed he couldn’t see where the bowl had gone. On his knees, he guessed where it might be and moved slowly in that direction, sweeping the ground with his fingers. They touched something and he picked up the bowl and held it to his mouth. The contents were tasteless. Water with small lumps, which may have been rice. Something knocked against his teeth. Bread. He tried to break a chunk off. It was solid. He used his teeth and just managed to tear a corner off. He used the water and his saliva to soften it a little before swallowing. In this careful manner he eventually managed to work his way through his meal.

  This repeated action was enough to still his mind. It allowed him to focus on something else other than the real fear that his life might end. His trembling limbs now had a meagre covering and the fact he had something in his belly added some heat to his bones.

  The guard’s voice replayed in his head. He called him a murderer. He claimed he was headed for the guillotine. That could only mean one thing. Samson had died.

  He wept again. Mourning his friend. And the loss of his own future.

  What about his family? They relied on him to provide for them. He was the only one with an education. The only one who could come close to dealing with the French on their own terms.

  Who are you kidding, Saoudi? He laughed at the movement of his thoughts. On terms with the French? He was in prison, surely awaiting trial for murder. There were no terms. It was only master and slave.

  No. He shook his head. He would not allow this thread of thought to continue. The French would never know from him that they were the masters.

  For the first time he thought of Arab. What had happened to him? Where had he gone with all that money? An indigène with so much wealth could not escape the attention of the authorities.

  Kaci was surprised to realise that thoughts of Arab were not consumed with revenge. Why might this be? Surely he should be denouncing him to the French and demanding he stand trial for the killing?

  What would that achieve? Yet another Algerian rotting in a French jail. Arab had simply played the part that was offered to him by the colonialists. Divide and conquer. They’d followed the conqueror’s maxim as old as the Roman Empire itself. And most of his poor countrymen were too full of thoughts of revenge; their minds full of the lack of anything meaningful in their lives. Yet there was something of importance that the French could not rid them of. There was surely something of meaning in their existence. Family. The Berber way was all about family and throughout any amount of torture and suffering, he, Mohand Kaci Saoudi, would hold that thought to his heart.

  * * *

  Prison life passed in its own rhythm. A rhythm that Kaci had no control over. A rhythm that centred around the movement of the guards and the shuffle of the prisoners. Hearing the beating that was administered to Kaci, there was no further noise from any of the other inmates. He had no way of knowing what day it was, let alone what time of day. Equally he couldn’t know how many more men shared this section of the jail. Who they were or why they were here. Were they as innocent as him, or had they committed real crimes? He spent fruitless hours in such conjecture, as thinking was all he had to pass the time. That or waiting for the next excuse for a meal to be passed to him and then tracking the movement of that meal as it passed through his body and out into the bucket that sat in a far corner of his cell.

  Each morning a man would trundle a large bucket along the corridor outside and pause at each door, calling for the inhabitant to pass their waste through the hole at the bottom of the door. The stench that surrounded this man was too much for Kaci to bear and he almost thought he would prefer a clean death under the blade of the guillotine to a life of swilling out other men’s excrement.

  His mind then moved back to his family, his wife. Did they believe him guilty of such an act? Surely they would suspect Arab straight away? An image of Samson’s wife and her two boys imposed itself on Kaci’s mind. Did they think he was capable of such a traitorous act? He had been in their home, treated as a trusted member of the family. How they must regret ever allowing him into their home.

  Round and round and round his head such thoughts would go, hour after hour after hour.

  Until he was pulled from his cell and pushed towards another part of the jail.

  He blinked furiously, trying to adjust to the painful daylight, and followed the direction of his guard, while another walked behind him. As he walked his mind was crowded with a fresh set of questions. Questions he dare not ask as he well knew the violence that would result in. All he could do was determine that he would accept the abrupt change in his situation and face whatever came his way with as much dignity as he could muster. He would show these poor excuses for men who guarded him that here at least was one indigène they could not discount as an animal.

  He lost track of his passage through the jail as he turned one corner after another. He walked across a courtyard. Here he would have given anything to stop and feel the breeze ruffle his hair, the sunlight on his skin, but when he paused the guard behind him shoved him so hard he fell to the ground.

  ‘No dawdling, prisoner,’ the guard roared.

  Kaci showed no reaction. He climbed back up on to his feet and carried on walking. Eventually he came to a door just like any other door he had passed. This was opened and he was pushed through.

  The room was unfurnished. A window was set high up on the far wall, near the line of the ceiling. It was small and the glass was so dirty tha
t the sunlight coming through was as thin as rags. The walls were bare apart from what looked like a butcher’s hook high on one side and a pair of steel rings on the other. Stains ran off them like a warning of their gruesome purpose. For a moment Kaci imagined that the room rang with the sounds of the muted screams of the tortured.

  There were more guards inside and two men standing in the far right corner.

  One of the men stumbled towards him as soon as he saw him.

  ‘Mohand?’

  He recognised the voice but not the man who spoke. He was old. His face lined and grey. His once proud and strong frame now stooped and slight.

  ‘Father?’ Kaci asked. ‘Father, what have they done to you?’

  ‘What have they done to you, my son?’ A tear tracked down the coarse grain of his father’s cheek.

  As they moved to embrace, a guard stepped in between them and wordlessly indicated that they should not touch.

  ‘We are here to help you, Mohand.’ The man with his father spoke for the first time. He was dressed in the traditional Berber robes, but robes of a finer quality than any he had ever seen. This was one of the Caids; a group of specially chosen Algerians who were used by the French to sow discord among the natives in order to distract them from the real enemy, the colons themselves.

  ‘Caid Mezaine is a good man, son. You must listen to him.’ As his father spoke, he wrung his hands in distress. Kaci stared. His mind struggled to keep up with the notion that this shadow of a man was his father. He recognised the voice, but his sight warned him that this man was a stranger.

  While he stared, his father looked back at him anguish large in his expression. ‘Are they feeding you, son?’ He stretched an arm out, trying to touch his son’s face. ‘Bruises. Such bruises,’ he whispered.

  ‘How long have I been here?’ Kaci asked. The pain in his father’s expression was too much for him to bear. He couldn’t show weakness. He couldn’t allow the guards to see what the impact of their actions was. He had to be strong.