The Guillotine Choice Page 9
‘The money will be used to buy their freedom, Saadia. The risks here are great. They could be guillotined in public.’ An image of the great blade falling onto his son’s neck almost made Hadj Yahia sway on his feet.
‘I understand, Uncle. But still I don’t know, he never told me, I swear.’
‘We both know that Arab did this terrible deed. The money is here somewhere. Do you want me to bring my other sons and search?’
‘You must do what you must do, Uncle.’ Saadia was every inch the humble Berber wife.
‘I do not believe you. If you love your husband, you have to cooperate.’
‘I love my husband and I understand what you are saying, but believe me when I tell you that he never shared his secrets with me.’
Hadj Yahia once again looked over the fields at the animals grazing there. He had put Saadia to the test but he had to give it one more try. He owed it to his son.
‘In that case I will take you to Lala Khadidja. And there you must swear that you know nothing of the whereabouts of this money.’
Lala Khadidja was a shrine to a Muslim sage. A place of pilgrimage place that people came to visit from miles around. If Saadia swore of her lack of knowledge in such a sacred place then Hadj Yahia would have no option but to believe her.
* * *
The shrine was located in the mountains not far from their house. A distance that could be travelled by mule within an afternoon. Meekly, Saadia allowed herself to be guided there to offer witness.
The shrine was a small, white, dome-shaped building standing in the cool of some pine trees. When they arrived it was empty so they were able to walk in without waiting for other pilgrims to finish their prayers.
Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the space, Hadj Yahia could see that in the middle of the single room lay a large coffin laden with piles of colourful sewing material. The custom was that a strip of cloth was payment for guidance. Supplicants would shuffle in and offer prayers and seek wisdom in the presence of the spirit of the holy person.
Hadj Yahia told Saadia to put her hands on the coffin at the end where a head might rest. She complied. As she moved her hands into position Hadj Yahia noticed a slight tremble. He looked into the woman’s eyes. She met his gaze and slid her eyes down to the coffin. Hadj Yahia told himself that he was imagining things. Such was his desperation that he was willing to read something into even the smallest gesture. Then again, his instincts were telling him that something was not right here despite this woman acting like the perfect wife and mother.
‘Saadia, wife of Arab, to believe that you are telling the truth, I must ask you to swear on the life of your youngest child. Here in the presence of Lala Khadidja.’
Saadia did not hesitate. ‘I swear on my son that I don’t know anything about the money.’
Hadj Yahia slumped to his knees. The money was lost to him. How was he now to defend his son?
THIRTEEN
A Prisoner’s Life
The authorities relaxed now that they were convinced all of the guilty parties were under lock and key. Kaci was moved out of solitary confinement into the general population. No reason for this was given. He was simply pulled from his cell, doused with cold water, given clean clothing and shepherded towards another area of the prison.
Now he had a different routine to get used to. Even before the sun had coloured the sky he was awakened by the clamour of the guards and the clatter of the trolley that went round the cells collecting human waste from the night before.
At least here he could speak without the threat of a beating, and he was allowed out into the yard for his daily bout of exercise. It was here for the first time since the murder that he came face to face with Arab.
Dry-mouthed and almost beaten to his knees by the heat of the sun, he forced himself to stand and stare into the face of his cousin. As he stared his father’s words echoed in his mind, reminding him that he had a choice. All he had to do was point a finger and he would be sent home.
‘You killed my friend,’ he said to Arab.
His cousin stared him down. With his peripheral vision Kaci was aware that everyone in the yard had stopped to watch them. What he wasn’t yet aware of was the fear that his cousin was regarded with and subsequently he wouldn’t be aware that his stance before his cousin would earn him a great deal of respect among the other men. He was unmindful and uncaring of any of this. All he could think of was that this man had robbed his friend of his life and he himself of his future.
‘For a sackful of francs you brought dishonour to your family,’ he said and spat at Arab’s feet.
Arab simply kept on staring at him, but a small twitch at the corner of his left eye let Kaci know that his words were striking home.
‘Your brother and your cousin face the guillotine because of your greed,’ Kaci said and moved his face close to his cousins. ‘Do you feel no shame?’
Arab’s eye continued to twitch, but he stayed where he was.
Kaci ground his teeth together under the force of his anger. All that kept him from lashing out was the thought of the punishment the guards would give him. He had taken enough blows and bruises from his jailers.
Just then he felt a hand on his shoulders and heard a familiar voice.
‘Cousin, I see you’ve met my brother.’
Kaci turned to the side to see Ali standing before him. Ali smiled and spoke in low tones. ‘Now is not the time, Kaci. The guards are watching. If you want to do violence to my brother, I won’t stop you…’
Arab voiced a low growl at this.
‘You deserve it, brother. But now is not the time,’ Ali said.
Kaci nodded and took a step back, but never for a moment did he remove his eyes from Arab’s face. ‘You are right, Ali. The enemies of our family have enough ammunition.’
He relaxed into a smile and, moving to the side, gathered Ali into a hug. ‘How are you, cousin?’ he asked. ‘Are your spirits strong?’
‘Strong enough,’ Ali answered, looking Kaci up and down. His expression read of his surprise. This man of confidence was not what he expected from the boy he watched grow up. Sure, he was smart. And before the shooting he had been growing into a life of comparative privilege, but it was obvious from the look in Ali’s eyes that he was not expecting such a show of character.
‘What do I need to know to survive in this place, cousin?’ Kaci asked Ali.
‘Avoid the Arabs. They’ll only want to play with a boy as cute as you,’ he grinned. ‘Marton, the chief guard, is a bastard. Any chance he gets he will hurt you. Or if you have anything of value he’ll steal it from you.’
Kaci listened carefully and nodded, standing as if braced for whatever his new life could throw at him.
‘Whatever the world casts at you, Mohand, you will surely cope.’ Ali spoke as if suddenly served with a premonition.
Kaci leaned against the wall and, with his head cocked to the side, considered how Ali had moved from his boyhood name to his more formal one.
‘Mohand,’ he repeated. This suited the man he was becoming. Kaci was dead, mouldering in a dark silent cell, crying for the comforts of home. Mohand was the man who would help him become what he needed to be.
* * *
For the next few weeks Mohand observed the rituals of prison life and learned from the behaviours of the older inmates. He would adjust, for what other choice did he have? This was a life so removed from his previous experiences that it might as well be happening on the burning surface of the sun.
He learned quickly that men in prison prey on weakness. He noticed a young man of similar height and build to himself who shuffled around the prison as if looking for another inmate to bully him. And of course there were plenty who were more than happy to oblige. He observed how the men integrated with one another. How the men of the same region stuck together. How Berber and Arab spoke mainly among their own kind. Only strength is admired, but his was not the strength of Arab, who had quick fists. His strength was one of
will. Strength of dignity and certainty. He deserved respect and, by his quiet manner and quick wit, he would make sure that was what he received. But if that didn’t work, then he was more than prepared to bring his fists to bear.
He didn’t have long to wait to test this resolve. He was given the position of prison writer and time in a communal cell to work with the other men to scribe letters to their loved ones. A guard stood by the door at all times to ensure that nothing untoward happened. Mohand had just finished with one man and he looked up from a fresh sheet of paper to face his next client.
‘Gabir,’ the man said. His smile was all teeth and leer. He had deep lines in his face and scraps of grey in his hair. His nose was long and when he opened his mouth he displayed yellow teeth shaped like coffin lids.
Gabir rested one hand on the table and reached over with the other and lightly touched the back of Mohand’s hand, which was poised over a fresh sheet of paper.
‘Who should I address your letter to, Gabir?’ Mohand ignored the tremor in his voice and willed himself not to react to the obvious nature of this man’s interest.
‘My mother wants to know how her son is coping in this terrible place.’ His voice was deep and the tone at odds with his words. Mohand struggled with the sense of it. Threat. Was he reading threat in the man’s voice? He looked at Gabir’s hands. Long, thick fingers, knuckled with hair. Fingers that were now stretching over the back of his hand into a hard squeeze.
‘Tell her that I make friends in here. My friends make my time pass… more quickly.’
Mohand realised that Gabir hadn’t taken his eyes from his since he sat down. He could read the danger in the way this man looked at him. Like a farmer might look at a bull before sending it to the butcher. Liquid chilled in his stomach, but he gathered his strength and faced this man down.
‘Friends are important.’ He risked a glance at the guard who was at that precise moment picking his nose. ‘But you have to be sure you have the right friends.’
‘Friends let me protect them in this evil place in return for a few… favours,’ said Gabir while still squeezing on Mohand’s hand.
Ignoring the pain of his bones being compressed, Mohand kept his vision on Gabir. Any weakness and he knew this man would claim him, and his life would be over. He had seen other young men who, in fear for their lives, had given themselves willingly to older, stronger men in the hope that they would receive some protection. But this was not a situation he would ever give himself to.
Mohand moved the pen that was poised over the paper above the hand that was gripping his. It was a small piece of wood with a metal nib that could be dipped time and time again into a small bottle of ink. He pushed the nib onto a bulbous vein on the back of Gabir’s hand. Hard.
‘The one talent I have, my new friend, is to write letters. If you seek other talents, I suggest you seek another friend.’ As he spoke he was careful not to alter his tone in order not to alert the guard, while at the same time exerting more and more pressure with the pen onto the back of Gabir’s hand. The only sign that Gabir was in any discomfort was a muscle in his jaw that flexed against the pain.
‘Some friends need persuasion, don’t you find?’ asked Gabir.
‘Yes, but the quick minds among us soon realise that their efforts might be better appreciated elsewhere.’
Gabir stopped squeezing on Mohand’s hand.
He moved his pen back to the page.
Gabir slowly stood up, his eyes still locked on Mohand’s.
‘I think my poor mother would be disappointed by any letter I might write her today,’ he said, pushing the words out from between clenched teeth. With one last look that suggested this battle was far from over, he turned and walked from the room.
Mohand realised he had been holding his breath and he slowly filled his lungs.
‘Next,’ he said to the guard, his voice sounding too loud to his own ears. The guard winked and smiled at him, letting him know that he hadn’t missed a thing.
* * *
Soon, Mohand was to face another test of this strength. His father visited him in prison. When he arrived he was smiling as if the world couldn’t contain his joy.
Mohand was instantly intrigued. Had the authorities decided on his innocence? Had his father managed to buy back some of his precious land?
‘Dad, you look very happy today, what happened?’
‘My son, I have some very good news for you.’
Mohand was aware of his heart beating heavily in his chest. It must be big to have excited his father so.
‘What? Tell me, Father. What could be so good while I am locked away in here?’
‘Your wife has delivered this morning.’ He reached through the wire and grabbed his son’s hand. ‘You have a son.’
Mohand stayed silent for several beats while he absorbed the news. As his father watched, his own expression sank until it was matching that of his son.
‘Oh Dad, how can I enjoy the birth of my son?’ Mohand was close to tears. ‘My future is so bleak.’
Hadj Yahia pulled Mohand closer to the wire and rested his forehead against his son’s. ‘I understand how you feel, my son. May God make it easy for you.’ As he did so, he slipped a hand into a pocket of his son’s prison tunic. ‘Buy yourself a bowl of couscous. They’re not feeding you enough.’
Mohand turned as if to walk away.
‘Tell Arab his son has died,’ his father said. The pause before he said this made Mohand feel that his father had debated telling him this news.
He turned back to face his father, who was staring at some indeterminate point beyond him.
‘Tell him that his wife Saadia swore on his son’s life that she knew nothing about where the gold had been hidden.’ There was a hard light in his eyes that read of grim satisfaction and regret. ‘And now the boy is dead.’
* * *
As he returned to his cell, Mohand was so absorbed with what his father had told him, he all but walked into a wall. He stumbled back and then looked up at the man before him.
It was Marton, the chief guard. Mohand hadn’t seen him up this close before. He was over six feet tall and as round as the great earthenware barrels they used at home to store food over the winter. His face was puffy with greed and his eyes as sharp as a grabbed opportunity.
‘Your visitor passed something to you.’ He didn’t wait for confirmation, he simply held out his hand. ‘Give it to me.’
Still stunned by the news, Mohand could only stare.
‘We can’t have contraband in my prison, you little pile of dung. Hand it over.’
Mohand opened his mouth to speak when he was suddenly grabbed from behind, his arms pinned behind his back.
‘Search him, guards,’ Marton ordered.
Hands ran over every inch of him before eventually reaching into his pocket and finding the pathetic little folded note of currency that his father had dropped into it.
‘What have we here?’ crowed Marton. ‘A little smuggler, eh? Take off your clothes, boy.’
‘Wha…?’
Before Mohand could issue another syllable the guards around removed his clothing with brutal efficiency.
Marton’s fat cheeks bunched into a smile. ‘When someone smuggles into my prison, we have to search them very thoroughly. Open your mouth.’
Mohand opened his mouth, his face burning with the indignity of being naked in front of these men. Fingers were thrust into his mouth, where they probed under his tongue and against the back of his throat, forcing him to gag.
‘Lift up your balls,’ ordered Marton, looking down at his groin. ‘We need to know you have nothing tucked in at your thighs.’
Eyes now screwed shut, Mohand did as he was told. He wanted to scream at this man. He wanted to take his fat face and bash it repeatedly against the wall. But he dare not move because he knew the torture he would receive in punishment would be prolonged and have him begging to die.
‘Do you have a “plan”, boy?’
‘A “plan”. You useless little fucker. A “plan”. Don’t all of you Arabs have a “plan” tucked up your arses?’
He was talking about a small tube made of metal that prisoners used to hide any wealth they might have. It was then inserted into the most intimate place that only the most thorough search could find.
From his expression, Mohand was sure that Marton wasn’t expecting to find a ‘plan’ about his person so that made his next action all the more humiliating and all the more unforgiveable.
The solder behind him pushed his head forward until he was bent over from the waist. Then his feet were kicked apart and he felt Marton’s fingers pull his cheeks apart and then insert themselves into his anus.
Mohand couldn’t stop the scream that burst from his mouth. He had never felt pain like this before. ‘What are you…?’
A fist connected with the side of his head and he fell to the floor. Marton threw his clothes at him.
‘Get back to your cell, dungheap, and make sure you don’t bring anything else back into my jail.’
Mohand stumbled to his feet, but before he even had time to dress himself, Marton lashed out with his foot and kicked him down the corridor, to the tune of the cruel laughs from his colleagues.
Back in his cell, dressed in his prison uniform and wrapped in his blanket, Mohand’s mind was a morass of dark thoughts. If that man ever… how could he treat someone as cruelly as that? What manner of man thinks that form of action is acceptable? The indignity of it was almost more than he could bear. There was surely a black mark that covered his entire body, which only the sandblast of a desert storm could scour from his skin.