The Guillotine Choice

by Michael J Malone

  She placed a hand on his hip so she could clean the end of his wound. This was the first time he had been touched by another human being since leaving Algeria, where the touch was not with the intention to harm. The skin on her hand was soft and warm. And electric.

  With alarm, he felt himself respond. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, hoping the pain from this would cause his excitement to subside.

  She made a little noise of recognition. ‘Oh.’

  He felt his face burn. Closed his eyes tight against his embarrassment and willed the insistence of his arousal to fade. So lost was he that it took a moment to realise that Marie-Louise had stopped moving. He opened his eyes to see that she was looking over his shoulder with alarm bright in her face and a scream frozen in her throat. Someone else was in the room.

  ‘You little bastard,’ Marc Villiers screamed. ‘You little…’ He was holding a gun in his hand. He was pointing it at Mohand. Looking at how his trousers jutted out with his arousal. His erection there, like an accusation.

  Marie-Louise shrank against the sink. ‘No, Marc, no.’

  Villiers turned the gun to his wife. His face was white. His mouth a thin line of determination. ‘Slut,’ he shouted. ‘Whore.’

  ‘It was me,’ shouted Mohand. He couldn’t bear the thought of harm coming to Marie-Louise. ‘I fell and cut myself…’

  Villiers stepped towards him and crashed the barrel of the gun across his forehead. Mohand slumped to his knees. Blood obscured his vision. Fear jackhammered in his chest.

  ‘Don’t lie for her convict. I saw everything.’ His eyes were red, bulging. Tears sliding down his cheek. ‘She was loving it. She was begging for your little Algerian cock.’

  ‘No. I… it was me.’ Mohand fought against the pain in his head to speak out. Villiers lashed out again. This time with his foot.

  ‘I love you, Marie-Louise,’ said Villiers, his voice thick with self-loathing. ‘What kind of fool am I?’

  ‘Marc, there is nothing. This is nothing.’ Marie-Louise was weeping too now.

  ‘I don’t want to hear your apologies, slut.’ The gun was still pointing at Marie-Louise. Mohand needed to get it away from her. On to him.

  ‘Shoot me, Villiers. Take me out into the garden and shoot me. No questions will be asked. You can say you caught me stealing. You can…’

  ‘Shut up, convict.’ Again he brought the gun down on Mohand’s head.

  ‘I should drag you down to the docks, Marie-Louise. Make you spread your legs for every criminal that comes off the next boat.’ His voice quietened. He slumped onto a kitchen chair, looked down at the shirtless Mohand and across at his wife. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t dared. Terrified to provoke her husband into action.

  ‘Marc. It’s as Mohand says. Nothing happened. I love you. I’m sorry. I’m begging you to put the gun…’

  ‘You called him Mohand.’ Villier’s voice was thick with a terrible truth of his own devising. They were clearly friends. More than friends.

  He stood. Towered in front of them, his mind following the parade of his own fears and insecurities. His wife in love with a prisoner. The things he had seen and done since he arrived in the bagne. The things he had been made to do, until they became second nature. All of this passed across his face in seconds. Realisation hit Mohand. If you were the wrong personality, the bagne could be as hard on the guards as it was on the prisoners. It brutalised everyone and Villiers had just splashed hard, down at the bottom of his well of self-loathing.

  His eyes clouded, he brought the gun up.

  A shot rang out.

  It was followed quickly by another.

  EIGHT

  Jungle Fever

  Mohand was forced into consciousness by a vicious slap. Sensations assaulted him. Pain. He was in a chair, hands tied at his back and ankles secured to the leg of the chair. He was naked. Pain throbbed with every beat of his pulse on every part of his body.

  This hurt was nothing. A beautiful woman he had begun to see as a friend was dead. He would never see his family again. He would rather they just killed him.

  A man was standing over him, his hand drawn back as if prepare to strike another blow.

  ‘Enough, Fournier,’ a voice said. ‘We will get nothing more from this prisoner.’

  With a look of disappointment on his face, Fournier stepped back. The other man stepped into Mohand’s vision. It was the director of the bagne.

  ‘Will we, Prisoner 51240?’

  Mohand shook his head and then nodded. Pain made him confused as to which response was required. The movement of his head caused some blood to drip from his nose onto his thigh.

  ‘For the record, let me repeat what has gone on today. Marc Villiers shot his wife and then turned his gun on himself. You were working in the garden when you heard the shots. You immediately called for help, but both of the Villiers were dead before the medics arrived.’

  The director stood up, dabbed the sweat from his forehead with a square of white cotton and then brushed his long fringe back from his eyes with his fingers. He nodded at Fournier. ‘You may go.’

  Fournier stayed where he was.

  ‘Monsieur Fournier, the prisoner is bound and naked. He has also been beaten to exhaustion, do you seriously believe I am in any danger?’

  Fournier grunted to show his reluctance and left the room.

  The director pulled up a chair and sat facing Mohand.

  ‘You are a very lucky man, 51240. My interest is in protecting the mindset of my guards. The collective ego would prefer a finding that describes a man whose mind has turned because of some jungle illness… to one where a man is driven to madness because his wife was fucking a prisoner.’

  ‘But I didn’t. We didn’t…’

  ‘Don’t offend my intelligence, young man. I know what goes on in this camp. My problem –and your good fortune – is one of proof. If I could demonstrate that this lovely couple were killed by a prisoner then that would suit everyone and you would be lying prostrate before the guillotine. However, the proof is unquestionably clear that Villiers shot his wife and then turned the gun on himself.’

  He leaned back on his chair and crossed his legs. He pursed his lips in thought.

  ‘Madame Villiers was evidently a lonely woman. This camp has many lonely women and I am worried that others might fall prey to your… questionable charms. I can’t legally kill you, 51240, but I can send you to a living death. It is for good reason that the bagne is called ‘the dry guillotine’. You will be transferred to a logging camp in the morning, 51240.’ He stood up and brushed some lint from his trousers. ‘May God have mercy on your soul.’

  * * *

  The guards came for him in the morning and took him to join a dozen other men who were being sent out to the same camp. Mohand didn’t bother to look at any of these men to see if he recognised anyone. What did it matter? He would surely be dead within a month.

  In single file the men were escorted through the town of St Laurent. Mohand could barely lift one leg beyond the other he was so tired, but from somewhere he managed to find the strength to keep walking. Only when he passed a group of convicts working in one of the town gardens did he look up from his feet. There, in a corner, kneeling before some shrubs was his friend Simone. The older man looked along the line of prisoners being escorted. His eyes slid from Mohand and then back. From where he was standing, Mohand could judge the old man’s reaction. His face was battered and swollen. He must look a sight.

  Knowing that verbal acknowledgement would only get him on report, Simone lifted a hand in greeting. Mohand stretched his face almost into a smile and walked on, feeling certain that he would never see the old man again.

  At the edge of town they joined a well-marked trail. Here at least, under a canopy of trees, there was some shelter from the sun. Birds squawked a continuous warning. Monkeys howled. Insects buzzed around them, looking for a landing spot on their skin.

  The heat made it difficult to breathe. Sweat ran from
every pore. And still they trudged through the forest.

  From time to time, the guards gave the men leave to rest. Each time, Mohand walked to a spot away from the others. He wanted to be alone. He knew the other convicts would be aware of who he was, and he was determined not to give them any more reason to gossip about Marie-Louise.

  A butterfly moved as if swimming through the moist air. It was a deep blue. Mohand looked around himself for the first time. Plants grew over plants, shedding blooms of vibrant hues. Birds hopped among the branches. He had never seen so many colours before. How could such a vivid place provide such torment?

  They were soon back on their feet and on the march.

  For most of the day they walked until, nearing exhaustion, they came across a clearing. Here, five small huts were built in a circle. The earth between them was bare and as hard-baked as the surface of a clay pot.

  A small man, hunched over and shrunk by his endeavours, was evidently the bookkeeper for the camp. He noted down the details of the new arrivals and told the men to make sure they had all their belongings as he was now going to take them to their barracks.

  What belongings? All Mohand had was a hat, trousers, tunic, shoes and a battered tin mug.

  He was shown into one of the huts and was able to pick a bunk for himself near the door. There were a dozen other men in the room when he walked in. No one stirred from whatever activity they were engaged in. Why would they want to? There was an excellent chance that some of them would die over the coming weeks, so why waste time making friends, it was less painful that way. He shrugged and sat down on the bare board that was to be his bed. From there he could look around him.

  An oil lamp burned in the centre, spilling weak light over the men arranged on the two rows of bunks. Some were on their own, bent over butterfly nets, picking at sores on their feet or attempting to mend their clothing. Others were in groups playing with what looked to be a home-made sets of dominoes.

  A bell clanged. Someone announced that everyone was present and the light was turned off.

  Welcoming the darkness, Mohand lay back on his board, exhausted. Before he had done a moment’s work, he was tired to the bone. He couldn’t ever remember feeling this tired. How on earth would he feel tomorrow? And the day after?

  Despite his tiredness, he could not sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, his brain filled with the image of Marie-Louise. Her head at that strange angle. Her beautiful black hair layered over the white cotton of the pillow. And the blood that bloomed like a giant flower from her chest.

  How many more people would he see die? What had he done in his life that Allah could punish him so? Marie-Louise was so beautiful. How could someone like her die in such a way? He thought over all of the times he had visited her and all of the conversations he had had with her husband. Was there ever a time that he had given a hint, made any suggestion that would cause such jealousy? Had he unwittingly betrayed his lover?

  While the other men snored, coughed and snuffled in their sleep, he continued to search for answers. None came.

  He closed his eyes. Two minutes later, or so it felt, a loud voice ordered the men outside. The day had begun.

  They were each given a half-pint of unsweetened coffee and a chunk of bread. As they ate, he noticed that some men were checking the condition of their feet and ankles.

  One man saw him looking.

  ‘Vampire bats,’ the man explained.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Mohand was sure these creatures lived only in books.

  ‘Its bite is painless, but they like to drink convict blood. Where they bite, the wound doesn’t close. If you get an infection here, your leg swells, you die.’

  After they had eaten, the men were taken out into the forest. They came across an area where trees had been felled. A series of knee-high stumps stood up from the forest floor.

  Mohand was given an axe and told what was expected of him.

  He had a quota to meet. He had to clear one cubic metre of trees per day. The trees that he cut down were to be stacked in the middle of the clearing, which was several hundred yards from the tree line.

  At this instruction, Mohand looked at the trees and assessed his ability to chop them down. From there, he looked to where the trees had been stacked. He was to carry a tree all the way over there?

  If you don’t meet your quota, he was told, then your food ration is reduced and you spend the night in a punishment cell.

  He looked around himself at the other men in his group. Many of them wore no shirt. Some were completely naked, apart from a wide-brimmed grass hat. No one wore any shoes.

  Mohand felt the weight of the axe and then, gripping it in both hands, he swung it at the wood. He pulled it free and swung again. And again. After a few minutes of this, his hands were blistering and his skin was awash with sweat. He turned to watch the other men at work. The successful ones seemed to have a rhythm and an economy of movement that made the task easier. He attempted to match one man’s movements and was pleasantly surprised to see bigger chips of wood flying and the mark on the trunk of the tree growing. Sweat poured freely from him now and insects clouded before his skin. He heard wood splinter and crack as the weight of the tree pulled it to the ground. Despite himself he felt a small surge of triumph. As directed, he pulled this log to the pile and then moved back to resume his chopping.

  By the end of the day, Mohand’s hands were raw and he wondered how he could ever hold an axe in his fingers again. But he knew he had no choice; no quota meant no food and a night in a punishment cell. That night, by the light of the oil lamp, he tore some strips from the legs of his trousers to act as a kind of bandage. He was very careful to wash them in the stream first as he was well aware of what might happen should infection set in.

  As he worked on his trousers, he listened to the other men as they gossiped about events in the colony at large.

  One man had heard of an escaped convict who had been returned by the Dutch in Surinam. This fellow had been a libéré who, tired of the thought of doublage and the lack of ability to make a decent living in the colony, had taken matters into his own hands. He had saved whatever meagre earnings he could and bought a small boat from one of the Chinese traders. He got stuck on the sand bars where the Maroni river emptied into the sea. By the time he was spotted by the authorities he was half-starved and fully insane from dehydration.

  ‘They call that part of the Maroni the Frenchman’s graveyard,’ one man looked up from his dominoes to say.

  ‘But he was Moroccan,’ the storyteller said.

  ‘Fucking idiot,’ someone else butted in. ‘What does it matter what his race was? The idiot got stuck.’

  ‘Who are you calling a fucking idiot?’

  ‘The fucking idiot who got stuck.’

  The man who asked the question paused to work out if this answer was enough to mollify him. Every man there held his breath. Violence had broken out for less.

  ‘I hear you should aim for Trinidad if you want to escape and stay free,’ someone else added. Apparently escaping from these logging camps was not the issue. The guards could be fairly relaxed in their attitudes, knowing that the jungle and the sea did a far better job than they could. The jungle held any number of terrors – snakes, spiders, crocodiles, big cats – and even the sea itself was mysterious to most of these men. But still the convicts persisted in trying to escape from French Guiana.

  ‘Brazil. Go for Brazil,’ another said. ‘A huge country. Easy to get lost.’

  ‘Surinam used to be the best place until that bastard Coutancot ruined it,’ an older man joined in. Every one stopped what they were doing to listen. This was the only entertainment they had and any story about escape and the dangers thereof would earn their immediate interest.

  ‘It was back in ’24. Before then, many men escaped to Surinam to work in the mines ran by the Americans. Coutancot had escaped years before and married a local girl. On one of his days off he went mad on a drinking spree. When he ran out of mone
y, he demanded the shopkeeper give it to him for free. Of course, the fellow refused him, so Coutancot lifted a bottle from the shelf and broke it over the shopkeeper’s head. Then, to disguise what he had done, he poured kerosene everywhere and set it alight. The shopkeeper and his wife and daughter were burned alive.’

  Every man there gasped at the story. For most of them, their concern was not that an innocent family had been destroyed, but that the actions of this man had closed off Surinam as an escape destination.

  That night as he drifted off to sleep, Mohand thought of escaping. Where would he go? How would he do it? Many of the stories he heard involved poorly dreamt-up schemes and examples of colossal stupidity, in his view. Why attempt to escape when you were poorly equipped, half-starved and you knew nothing about how to survive in the jungle?

  One of the speaker’s voices repeated itself in his mind. He was sure he recognised it, but the man himself appeared to be a stranger.

  ‘Fucking idiot,’ the voice echoed. Who was he? He shook his head. None of the men he had been working with had been known to him. They were all so skeletal, it was doubtful that even their mothers would recognise any one of them.

  Just before sleep could claim him, a face added itself to the voice.

  Zaydane.

  NINE

  Blue Morpho Butterflies

  The jungle was filled with noise. Macaws and toucans advertised their presence, howler monkeys bellowed into the trees. It all made a welcome change to the curse and grunt of the convict.

  Mohand had now been working in the jungle for nearly eighteen months and one of the first things he had learned was to finish his tree-clearing quota by mid-afternoon, as that would give him some time to try and make some money. The only way open to do that in this part of the jungle was to hunt for butterflies. The convicts caught them and sold them to the guards. The guards would then sell them on to collectors.