by Tom Gamble
31
They came for Summerfield just after dawn and the heavenly morning reminiscence of making love to Jeanne. He had just enough time to peer at the face of his watch—5.15 a.m.—before the front door imploded.
‘What the!’
‘Debout! Get up!’ Rough hands gripped him and pulled him from under his sheet. ‘Filthy bugger’s stark naked, sergeant!’
‘Give ‘im his trousers.’ Completely bewildered, Summerfield felt a bundle hit him and fall to the floor—his clothes. It was then that he fully realised the predicament and suddenly became bright red. ‘Put ‘em on, you dirty git. And quick.’ Summerfield bent down slowly, with as much decorum as he could gather, and began pulling on his trousers as the gendarmes looked on. ‘Bloody English and their weird manners—quick, I said!’ repeated the sergeant. ‘And you.’ He turned to a corporal. ‘Search the place. Get all the papers you can find.’
Once dressed, Summerfield looked on, helpless as the corporal and another gendarme systematically rifled his belongings—the chest of drawers, his desk, the kitchen hob, upturning the mattress and chairs, breaking his shaving mirror.
‘I’m a British citizen,’ he said at last. ‘I want an explanation. I demand to be taken to the British authorities.’
‘We know who you are. And the nearest British presence is in Casablanca, five hours’ train journey to the north.’ Summerfield dropped his gaze. ‘No luck, Mr. Summerfield.’
The two soldiers came back from the writing room, their arms filled with stacks of paper. ‘Found all this.’
‘Good,’ said the sergeant. ‘Take it downstairs. And handcuff our Anglish friend here. You never know.’
‘We’re allies, sergeant. There’s going to be a war and we’re on the same side.’
‘Oh, yes?’ replied the soldier, flippantly. ‘Passport and papers?’
‘Over there,’ nodded Summerfield, in the direction of his jacket.
‘I’m arresting you, Mr Summerfield. We’ll need to ask you some questions. Don’t cause us any trouble.’
‘Monsieur Lefèvre—the Administrator—he’s a personal acquaintance,’ offered Summerfield, lamely.
‘And my old auntie’s Edith Piaf,’ said the sergeant, shaking his head. ‘Come on—move.’
The street was eerily quiet, all windows shut. Summerfield supposed they must be watching through the cracks, fearful of the gendarmes. The sergeant got into the rear seat first and the corporal bundled in Summerfield next to him. The car, a small, khaki painted Hotchkiss, pulled away with a whine and disappeared around the corner.
Summerfield had already seen the police compound from the street—an art deco affair, much like an airport bungalow complex, whitewashed and with porthole windows. What he hadn’t seen before was behind the building. The little Hotchkiss passed through the checkpoint and barrier and drew up in a wide arc in front of a series of roughly built, thick-walled blocks surrounded by rolls of barbed wire. They could have been houses from any of the local villages were it not for the bars at the tiny, square windows, hardly large enough for a child, let alone a man, to wriggle through. There was a well nearby and above it, housed in a derrick, a well-oiled winch that sent his stomach momentarily churning.
‘Prison,’ said the sergeant, the trace of a smirk across his lips as he saw Summerfield’s look of fear. ‘But first, we’ll fill out some forms.’
In a cramped office adjoining the first block, a lieutenant was busy swatting flies. His khaki tunic was a single patch of sweat and his fair skin was blotchy red—obviously a recent arrival to the country. He turned upon the sergeant’s barked arrival, the fly swat in one hand and his other, in a recognisable tic, reaching for his fledgling moustache and rubbing it for reassurance.
‘Summerfield, sir.’
‘What?’
‘Arrest number 234E.’
‘Quite—quite,’ muttered the young lieutenant, in a daze. ‘Apologies, sergeant. The heat—can’t seem to get it together…’
‘All the same in the beginning, sir. Takes a while.’
‘And then you become as crazy as everyone else in this place,’ said Summerfield, turning to the lieutenant, sure that he had found an educated equal.
‘Silence!’ shouted the sergeant.
‘Lieutenant, I only want to—’
‘Silence, I said!’ Summerfield suddenly felt as though his stomach had been blown out. He fell to his knees and groaned like a wounded animal.
‘Neupont!’ it was the lieutenant’s voice. ‘Did you really have to kick him?’
‘Sorry, sir—the heat. And that bastard had it coming.’
‘Enough—help him up. He’s a British citizen.’
They carried him to an armchair and sat him down. Bent double, Summerfield wheezed like an old man, desperately fighting for breath.
Still obtrusively holding the fly swat—Summerfield flinched, imagining through tearful eyes that it was a stick or something—the lieutenant came forward with a glass of water. ‘This might help,’ he offered, feebly. ‘Sergeant—fetch the forms. I’m afraid you’ll have to share with the natives, Mr Summerfield. Lack of space…’
Barely ten minutes later, Summerfield found himself on a foul-smelling earthen floor, worn as hard as concrete by successive years of occupation. He was conscious of two other people in the cell, though couldn’t bring himself to raise his head and look. A long time passed, cut now and then by the low, growling voices and the sound of spitting. A couple of times, the balls of spit hit him on his shoulder and back, involuntarily or not, but Summerfield could only lay still, recuperating his strength.
Finally, he took a breath and with gritted teeth heaved himself up onto his elbows. The pain ebbing, his senses returned—notably his sense of smell and he grimaced at the acrid stench filling the cell. His eyes searched and found the dented and rusty bucket in a corner. Opposite it, their faces empty and their eyes full of resentment, were the two other occupants. Summerfield stared back at them, gave a slight nod of his head and pulled himself first into a crouching position and then upright, immediately thumping the ceiling with his head. This seemed to amuse his onlookers and they broke into a long, high-pitched cackle of laughter, only stopping when the guard cracked on the cell door with his stick. Summerfield stood, hunched in the centre of the silent space. The cell was bare but for the bucket, a bowl full of greyish water for washing, a pile of straw and the two other inmates. He sighed, turned in a full circle—something which brought a hint of curiosity to the two other faces—and gave a cheesy smile.
‘What does one do in such a place?’ he said in English. ‘Eh?’ He looked directly at them. ‘What does one do?’ The two men glanced at each other and Summerfield sensed them relaxing. He wasn’t French—or Spanish. And had no quarrel with them. ‘Salaam allikoum,’ he said finally, placing a hand on his heart and bowing slightly.
‘Allikoum salaam,’ they said in unison, tied, by their tradition, to do no other than reply to the greeting.
Summerfield gave them a wry smile, once again looked around the cramped space and chose a spot as far away from the bucket and its rank content as possible. He tapped the ground with his boot, tested the wall and sat down. It was like this, in total silence, that the next two hours passed.
Prayer was said towards midday. It broke the monotony. Summerfield looked on, a spectator to the ritual, which still seemed so complex with its flurry of robes, bows, kneeling, standing up, kneeling again and chanting. There was almost something artistic in it, artistic and military in its well-defined execution. He nodded respectfully as one of the inmates caught his eye, though was thinking how wonderfully simple and pragmatic the Christian way of prayer was. And perhaps, how also devoid of commitment.
Prayer finished, the sound of keys clanged against the iron locks on the doors. Lunchtime. Presently, the door to the cell opened and an old Arab, flanked by an enormously gangly gendarme brandishing a truncheon, shuffled in and placed a bowl of rice on the floor followed by a large, tin mug of fresh
water. The door closed again.
Much to Summerfield’s surprise, and with a shocking disregard for the decorum of just a few minutes before, the two native inmates lunged forwards and began scooping out fistfuls of rice as though their lives depended on it. Any second thoughts on hygiene rapidly disappeared and Summerfield too stuck in, plying out wads of the gluey substance and cramming them into his mouth. Before the bowl was completely wiped clear, Summerfield deftly snatched away the tin mug and, looking steadily at the dumbfounded looks of his fellow inmates, was the first to gulp down the cool, fresh water to the halfway mark. Summerfield sat back on his haunches, feeling like a victor in the 100 yard dash, and in a majestic gesture, held out the mug to the others.
Sleep. He hadn’t eaten in any great quantity, but the consistency of the rice (held together, it had seemed, by some sort of fatty paste), together with the heat, made his eyelids drop like a stone in water. Just a matter of time, he heard himself saying. Patience. In the evening, he’d be free of this terrible mix up. A loud fart started him, mid-afternoon—his own, involuntary and the result of having gulped the rice earlier on. The two others in the cell didn’t stir, sleeping deeply. Summerfield’s eyes closed once again.
At five o’clock, another clanging of keys, squeaking of doors and the faint waft of exterior air reaching them for a few, relieving seconds. Bread—luckily cut into three slices. At least they wouldn’t have to grapple for it. More water. Which seemed to give the sign for the inmates to relieve themselves into the bucket. This they did in a most discreet fashion, squatting on their haunches, backs to Summerfield, pulling up their jellabas and deftly slipping their members from under their pants. When it came to Summerfield (he’d been holding it in for almost an hour now), the fact that he was wearing trousers made urinating seem the most obscene and flagrantly voyeuristic act. He had to stand up, of course, head bent, unbutton and then unleash his loud, sloppy jet into the nearly full bucket. The looks on the others’ faces seemed to confirm the generally held local belief that the Westerners were a crude and rather barbaric race. Summerfield did not feel very proud and tried to make up for this by rapping on the door in order to empty the bucket. To no avail.
‘The window,’ said one of the inmates at last—the first words exchanged since the beginning of the day. Summerfield frowned and again the word was repeated, followed by a gesture of throwing.
Summerfield picked up the bucket with outstretched arms, making it all the heavier and more cumbersome to carry to the window. It must have contained a full five pints of urine and luckily for now, nothing else.
The window was set high, just below the ceiling and just above his shoulder level. He would have to give the container a mighty swing to get the contents out—and well-aimed too. He practised the gesture, taking great care not to spill any of the contents. The two other inmates prudently stepped back into the opposite corner. One-two-three—Summerfield launched the bucket—which immediately slipped out of his grip, thudding against the bars with a WooOingg as the contents slapped crazily around the circular surface, shot towards the bars and the open air and then decided to make a u-turn and flood both the cell floor and himself. ‘Fuck, bollocks and fucking bollocks!’ thundered Summerfield, stepping back. Too late. A wave of the foul-smelling brew slapped full force into his chest. The inmates once again howled with laughter, but immediately fell silent upon observing the rage in Summerfield’s eyes. He gave the cell door an almighty kick. ‘Let me out of this fucking hole!’ There was no answer. Again he shouted, and again he gave the door a kick followed by a diatribe against the French, which finally resulted in the sound of footsteps in the corridor. The slit in the door snapped open. Summerfield found himself staring into the mad eyes of the sergeant, something that immediately silenced him. Neupont’s upper face cracked into a hideous grin. A moment’s silence and then a foul, gelatinous spray of phlegm hit him full in the face. Summerfield remained silent, in utter stupefaction, while the sergeant glared back at him with eyes filled with the utmost hatred.
‘Sergeant?’ It was the lieutenant’s voice, in the corridor.
‘Sir!’
‘Is it our British fellow?’
‘Yes, sir. One of the wogs attacked him.’
‘Oh, dear.’ The lieutenant’s face appeared nervously behind the slit, sweating. ‘Urghh—the animals. They’ve covered him in—and what’s that awful smell?’
‘They chucked the piss pot at him too, sir.’
‘You’re a liar, sergeant,’ said Summerfield, in a hoarse whisper, too dumbfounded by the man’s dislike of him. ‘Lieutenant—I need to change. Wash. And I demand access to a telephone—contact a man called Jim Wilding.’
‘Quite,’ said the lieutenant, glancing to his side and the sergeant. ‘Um—sergeant thinks it’s too dangerous to open the door. Might make matters worse. Wait for a bit and let things calm down.’
‘I want to get out,’ said Summerfield, controlling his anger and forcing out his words. ‘Now, lieutenant. You’re not going to torture me—not like the others. I’m a British citizen. I need to contact Wilding. You see—I saw the winch.’
‘Winch?’ The lieutenant looked away, probably towards Neupont and pulled a face. ‘A touch of heatstroke,’ he murmured. ‘Listen Summerfield, if there’s anymore trouble meantime, call and I’ll send a squad. I’m sorry—’
‘I want you to let me out!’
‘Monsieur Summerfield—’
‘Now, you fluffy-chinned, useless idiot. Don’t you realise?’ shouted Summerfield. The lieutenant seemed frozen by sheer panic of indecision before the sudden outburst. It was the sergeant’s voice, barking a reprimand, that made the young officer start. He gave a little shake of his head and shut the slit. ‘Now!’ repeated Summerfield, but there was no reply.
He had never felt so enraged, so humiliated in his life. For an hour, he paced to and fro the length of one wall, demented with anger, a continuous stream of obscenities growling from his throat and occasionally erupting into fits of shouting. He failed to notice the token gesture of sympathy from his two cellmates who, extremely nervous, huddled together in the opposite corner, but who at one point tentatively rose to push the water basin towards Summerfield.
Food was not served. One by one, the other cell doors opened and closed but not theirs. The two Arab inmates wailed in protest.
‘And what about us?’ shouted Summerfield.
‘Too dangerous,’ came the reply. ‘When you’ve calmed down.’
‘I have calmed down.’
‘Not enough! That’ll teach you.’
And then night came. The smell in the room was unbearable. Occasionally, a ripple of hot wind blew in from the south, a nauseous wave swelling the stench into the very depths of Summerfield’s guts so that he gagged. His fellow inmates stared at him in disgust and resentment—it was his fault they hadn’t eaten—until they finally turned their backs on him and huddled down to sleep on the straw. Summerfield lay awake in the dark for a long time. His last thoughts were a question that kept nagging at him over and over—would Badr rescue him from the nightmare as he had done for Abrach? There came no answer.
5 a.m. prayer woke him up, an awful collective droning from the cells, far removed from the hypnotic, snaking chant from the city minarets. And then the door opening. A corporal was there, holding a bucket of water. Which he instantly threw over the supine Summerfield.
‘You pong,’ said the corporal, masking his nose.
‘And you fuck off,’ said Summerfield, weakly.
The corporal tutted melodramatically—he must have seen it done in a film—and shook his head. ‘No breakfast for you, I’m afraid. Manners is important.’
Another half-day of stench, monotony, near-vomiting from the smell and the now constant murmurs of protest from the two other inmates. But towards mid-afternoon a sudden scurrying, a sudden sound of boots on the earthen floor. The cell door opened and the corporal re-appeared, this time holding two buckets full of clear water. Next
to him, a native, who bent down and laid two neat piles on the floor—one made up of a towel, a jellaba and a bar of soap; the other, two army billycans filled with food, bread and a mug of water.
‘Get washed quick. There’s a visitor. And you two—’ he stared fiercely at Summerfield’s fellow inmates. ‘If you touch that grub—’
The door slammed shut and immediately Summerfield grabbed for the soap and plunged his arm into the water. But then he stopped dead. No, he wouldn’t wash. Let whoever it was breathe in the filth as much as he’d done. He wouldn’t cover it up. So he ate, looking steadily at his two downtrodden inmates.
Ten minutes later the cell door opened, the corporal frozen to the spot, his eyes threatening to bulge out of their orbits. To Summerfield’s surprise, in stepped Jean Bassouin who immediately let out a cry. ‘Bon sang! C’est quoi cette puanteur!’
‘C’est moi,’ replied Summerfield, standing up and grinning cynically. ‘I’m at the origin of this stink. Or maybe it’s them,’ he added, glaring at the corporal. Bassouin automatically offered his hand. ‘No—don’t shake it. You might catch something. I even revolt myself,’ said Summerfield. ‘And these poor bastards,’ he said, turning to the two native inmates. ‘They’ve had to put up with this for almost two days.’
Bassouin frowned, lost for a moment and then seemed to wake up. ‘This is shameful! An insult to France and the Republic—who the hell is responsible for this?’ The corporal’s upper lip began to shake, but he remained silent. ‘Clean this filth—immediately!’ added Bassouin, roaring despite his slight size. ‘And inspection of all the other cells, while you’re at it. Get the officer in charge.’
‘He was on night duty, sir. He’s sleeping.’
‘Then wake the idiot up!’
The corporal ran off, leaving the cell door open and without guard. Bassouin seemed quite unperturbed, only stepping back into the corridor to gulp in a breath of clean air. ‘Out you come, Summerfield,’ he motioned. ‘I most sincerely apologise.’ And then, in Arabic, his words directed at the remaining inmates. ‘You will have to stay here, I’m afraid. The cell will be washed clean presently.’