The Guillotine Choice

by Michael J Malone

  Mohand could hear Armand’s words follow him as he walked outside. He could almost see the pain in the little man’s expression as he tried to bring conciliation to his friends. But he was having none of it.

  Anger burned in his chest and tightened the line of his jaw. So focused was he on this, that he didn’t hear the song of the insects or feel the heat and moisture of the humid air. It was only when he almost tripped over a man’s foot that he realised he had company.

  ‘What the…’ He stumbled back a pace or two, righting himself. ‘Armand, what are you…?’ He looked into the other man’s face through the gloom of the evening. He had a familiar outline, the same soul-less smile.

  ‘Hassan, what the hell are you playing at?’ he asked. Hassan’s chest was rising and falling as if he had run to be in this position.

  ‘So, you have fallen out with your friends?’

  Before he knew it, Mohand’s fingers were around the other man’s throat.

  ‘Don’t test me. Not tonight, or I swear by the thimeshrats I will tear your throat out and leave your sorry carcass for the insects.’ He pushed Hassan away from him before he did any harm and stalked off into the night, looking for a degree of peace that he knew would evade him until his feet were on Algerian soil once more.

  TWELVE

  Welcome News

  The night of Mohand’s argument with Simone was quickly forgotten. The next day the two men hugged each other and laughed at themselves.

  ‘Here,’ grinned Simone, pretending to fumble at the waist of his trousers. ‘Let me piss on that dream of yours one more time.’

  Mohand gripped his friend on the shoulder. ‘And I will take that coin of yours and shove it up your arse.’ Both men collapsed on each other, laughter ringing in the air like a shower of new pennies.

  Armand simply stood by watching them, completely at a loss as to how the same words issued in anger could cause such offence and yet here they were laughing like a pair of village idiots.

  ‘You should have seen your face,’ giggled Simone. ‘The way you pulled back your shirt…’ and off they went again.

  Mohand read the look of confusion on Armand’s face. He patted him on the back. With his other, he reached across and gripped Simone’s shoulder. Affection for the older man caught in his throat.

  ‘This man…’ He coughed, releasing the knot of emotion. ‘I love like a brother. And you should know, Armand, that the day a man can’t laugh at himself is the day he should run into the jungle and jump into the mouth of the first caiman he sees.’

  ‘Right,’ Armand nodded, unconvinced but, unable to avoid the contagion of his friends’ good humour, he joined in.

  * * *

  Some days later, Mohand arrived at Lacroix’s bar after twelve hours bent over a desk to find Simone standing at the front door. His hair had been cut and combed. His face was clean-shaven. A smile hung warily on his cheeks.

  ‘I heard this morning,’ he said, shuffling his feet nervously. To Mohand, he looked like he was about to jump out of his skin. And yet he was holding back for fear of upsetting his friend. ‘My sentence is over. I’m a free man.’

  ‘Allah be praised.’ Mohand rushed to him and gathered him in a hug. Then he kissed him on both cheeks.

  ‘Simone, I couldn’t be happier for you.’ He felt like his grin would split his face in half.

  ‘You’re not…’ Simone looked at him, his expression torn between joy and concern.

  ‘Jealous? You were worried I might be jealous?’

  Simone nodded.

  ‘This gift to you costs me nothing, Simone. Why would I be jealous?’ Mohand asked.

  ‘I never thought this day would come, Mohand.’ Simone’s eyes shone with tears. ‘I thought I would die in this place. I was convinced of it.’

  Inside the bar, Lacroix set up the jug and the tumblers. ‘Bugger me,’ he said when he heard Simone’s news. ‘I might be doing a roaring trade at the moment, but I’m losing one of my best customers.’

  ‘You’ll just have to go back to France and make an honest living, Lacroix.’

  ‘I can never go back to France, Saoudi,’ Lacroix replied. The light in his eyes dimmed for a moment, darkened by a moment of memory. ‘Besides, some of you poor bastards will never be able to leave this place and you’ll need somewhere to drown your sorrows.’ The smile was back in place.

  He turned and walked over to a group at a neighbouring table. Mohand watched his retreating back and felt shame that, despite all the time he had spent in this bar, he had never thought to hear the man’s story.

  ‘…Are you not listening, Mohand?’ Simone was tugging at his sleeve.

  ‘Sorry, I was thinking of you in Paris, pimping yourself under the Eiffel Tower.’

  ‘Ha,’ laughed Simone. ‘I can’t imagine any self-respecting woman wanting to pay to go with this bag of bones.’

  ‘I thought you were…’

  ‘A pederast? No, Mohand. Some of us just needed comfort and a human touch and were less choosy than others where they found it.’

  ‘So. You were saying while I rudely imagined you in Paris?’

  ‘Right. Paris. I’ll be there very soon, my friend.’

  ‘Seriously? Soon?’ Mohand was astonished. Although the authorities were giving Simone his freedom, there was still the practicality of how he might return home. There would be no return voyage paid for by the penal colony. If freemen wanted to go home, they had to find the ways and means on their own.

  Mohand had heard of charitable organisations that had stepped in to help some of the men return to Europe. As this thought entered his mind, Simone mentioned one of them.

  ‘The Salvation Army has arranged passage for me on a boat that leaves next week.’

  ‘Next week?’ Mohand fought to hide his feeling of disappointment. He was going to lose his friend so soon?

  Simone nodded fiercely. ‘It seems I am just such a Christian gentleman who is deserving of their help and… who am I to say no?’

  ‘Fantastic news, Simone.’ Mohand turned away from his friend to allow him a moment to arrange his features into an expression of happiness. He was going to miss Simone terribly but he couldn’t let this spoil the man’s moment. ‘Another jug, Lacroix.’

  ‘But you haven’t finished that one yet, Saoudi,’ bounced back the big man’s reply.

  ‘And your point is?’ demanded Mohand.

  The evening passed in a fog of smoke and tafia. A crowd gathered round their table and Simone, more animated than normal, took centre stage. He spoke of his life in Paris before he had been sent to French Guiana.

  ‘I was innocent, of course,’ he said, to much laughter. ‘After all, there are no guilty men in a prison such as this.’

  While his friend regaled them all with tall tales of his youth, Mohand studied him and considered the man he might have become had he not been sent across the ocean to such a place. He seemed brighter, sharper, clearer. There was more of him somehow, and only now that home was just a week away was he allowing the real Simone to the surface.

  ‘Right, you bunch of reprobates, time you were all crawling into whatever ditch you call home,’ roared Lacroix. ‘I need to tidy up and get my beauty sleep.’

  A few men grumbled. It was too early for the night to be over, they thought. But no one argued. Lacroix was too big and too handy with his thick stick.

  The men stumbled out into the dark, humid air. As a crowd, they walked in the direction of their accommodation. Simone was so drunk he was walking one step forward, one step back and then one step to the side.

  Mohand was also affected by the alcohol but not to such a great degree as his friend. They fell behind the larger group while he tried to help Simone travel in the direction of his cell.

  Although there was not much of him, he was a dead weight as Mohand tried to steer him along the dark path. He was tempted to leave him to sleep it off at the side of the road, but he let this thought pass. This was the man’s party night. He should wak
e safe in his own bunk, not covered in insect bites at the side of the road. He was bound to have a monster of a headache. Let that be all that he suffers on this night of all night.

  ‘You are a good friend, Mohand,’ Simone mumbled. ‘I’ve never really told you that I love you, have I? He took a half-step to the side. ‘You never judged me. You just… you were my friend. A good friend.’

  ‘I know, Simone.’ Mohand was warmed by his friend’s admission. He tried to deflect it. ‘Someone other than me would just leave your drunken carcass at the side of the road.’

  ‘Drunken carcass. Drunken carcass. Drunken carcass,’ Simone stumbled over the sibilant note at the end of the phrase. ‘S’easy for you to say.’

  Mohand laughed at his friend. He’d never seen him quite so drunk.

  He heard another note of laughter coming from the near distance, further along the path. At first he thought it was the larger group of men they had been with earlier. Then he realised the sound was moving closer to them.

  Mohand peered through the darkness trying to work out who it was.

  ‘Armand? Is that you, Armand?’

  ‘And here we are yet again,’ a familiar voice said. Hassan.

  ‘What do you want?’ Mohand felt his head clear as adrenalin surged through him. His convict sixth sense was instantly on full alert.

  ‘This is how you celebrate your freedom, Saoudi. How ordinary.’ As the man talked, he moved closer.

  ‘What are you talking about, you halfwit. It’s Simone who’s been freed.’

  ‘He doesn’t even know,’ the man laughed and moved closer. ‘How delicious.’

  ‘Hassan, what the hell are you talking about?’ Mohand demanded.

  ‘I salute you who are about to die,’ Hassan said, his voice hard. He moved another step closer and Mohand could see that his arm was outstretched. Just then a cloud cleared from the moon and its silver light shone on an implement that Hassan was pointing in his direction.

  Jutting from the clench of his fist was the long, silver barrel of a gun.

  THIRTEEN

  Fight and Flight

  ‘Harrrummm,’ sang Simone and held a clumsy hand to his forehead. ‘I salute you,’ he repeated. He tried to click his heels together, the result of which didn’t please him, judging by the way he then stared at his feet. ‘Dust. Need concrete. Shoes would be good, too.’ He giggled, completely oblivious to the danger they were in.

  While Simone mumbled, Mohand dared not take his eyes off Hassan and the gun.

  ‘Where did you get the toy, Hassan?’ Mohand asked. He chose his words carefully. He didn’t want to alert Simone to the truth of the matter; drunk as he was, he might do something stupid. He also thought that the word ‘toy’ might irritate Hassan. Mohand had learned by now that the man who kept his cool in a fight was usually the one who won.

  ‘From the same source that I found out about your freedom.’

  ‘Free,’ sang Simone as he performed a little drunken dance. ‘I’m free.’ He waved his arms in the air and danced towards Hassan. Mohand’s heart lurched until he saw Simone dancing back and away.

  ‘A very important man told me, Mohand. He then fell asleep… and I managed to get my hands on his… toy.’ Hassan raised his eyebrows. ‘I can’t bear the thought of you being free. I can’t bear the thought of you doing anything while I’m in this hell.’

  ‘Hassan…’ Mohand took a step closer.

  ‘Don’t move any closer. Do you realise how much I hate you, Saoudi? Before you die, you need to realise how much I hate you.’ His hand shook as he spoke.

  Heart hammering at his chest, Mohand thought frantically about what he should do. How could he get out of this situation alive? He needed to get the gun off Hassan. He needed to get in close before he had time to pull the trigger. One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t let Hassan kill him without putting up a fight.

  ‘If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be in this hell.’ With his free hand, Hassan knocked on the side of his head, his expression wild with self-loathing. It was clear that the hell he referred to was not the bagne. ‘You fought off Zaydane on Le Martinière and he turned to me. The things that man made me do.’ Saliva sprayed from Hassan’s mouth. ‘But then he protected me. Other men, more dangerous men, wanted me and Zaydane fought them off… and you killed him.’

  ‘That’s not true, Hassan. He fell into the creek. A caiman got him.’

  ‘The only thing I know is that the two of you went into the jungle and only one of you ever came back. And from that moment on I was anybody’s.’ Hassan had control of his emotions now and the gun was trained at Mohand’s chest.

  Simone continued to perform his little dance, backwards and forwards. He picked up the odd word from the other men’s conversation and sang it repeatedly. As he watched him move, Mohand realised that there was a purpose to the seemingly random movements of the older man. Wherever his dance took him, it appeared that he never moved in front of the gun, but each time he moved away from Hassan and moved back, he was closer to the object of danger. Perhaps he wasn’t as drunk as he was making out.

  Mohand had sobered immediately at the sight of the gun.

  ‘Anybody’s and everybody’s until Simone came along.’ Hassan’s eyes shifted from Mohand’s face to Simone’s and a brief look of affection flitted across his eyes. ‘But I never stopped hating you. You were the golden boy. Everything you touched worked out well, yet before I met Simone I was…’ He fought to control himself. ‘It all comes down to you, Saoudi.’

  As he was speaking, the arm holding the gun had drooped until the weapon was pointing at the earth. His eyes dark with the heat of his resentment, he again lifted the gun and pointed it at Mohand’s chest.

  ‘It’s such a happy coincidence that I get to kill you just before you become a free man.’ He smiled and delayed the moment of his gratification.

  This gave Simone his chance. He danced in closer to Hassan and made a grab for the gun.

  ‘Run, Mohand, run!’ Simone shouted.

  Mohand had no such intention. Hassan fought to re-train the gun on Mohand while Simone clung on to his arms, pushing them towards the earth. Mohand jumped in closer to Hassan and aimed a punch at his chin. He felt his knuckle connect and aimed another one. Hassan managed to duck and the punch sailed past his ear.

  Both Simone and Hassan now had their hands on the gun. Mohand had to get it away. He too placed his hands on Hassan’s and, when he was close enough, butted his nose with his forehead.

  Hassan grunted. The pain and the surprise of it was enough for him to lose his grip on the weapon. Simone failed to track the movement and he too lost his grip on the gun. A small thud sounded as it fell to the ground.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ Simone fell to his knees. ‘I’ve lost the gun.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Hassan, blinking against the pain that flared across his face. ‘I’ll kill the bastard with my bare hands.’

  ‘You’re welcome to try,’ said Mohand, facing off to his adversary.

  Another thing that Mohand had learned during his years as a convict was to get in fast, cause maximum damage and then get back out again. Mohand leaped towards him and aimed a punch at his nose. He felt it connect. Before Hassan could shrug off the pain he let out another. He aimed for Hassan’s gut. The man took it and threw a punch of his own.

  He caught Mohand on the side of the head. The impact stunned and slowed Mohand’s movements for a moment. This allowed Hassan to get in a few more punches of his own. Mohand was surprised by the other man’s strength. He looked like nothing but a collection of bones, yet he was giving as good as he got.

  Mohand’s breathing was now ragged. His head hurt. His knuckles hurt. He was struggling to hold up his arms. The long night of drinking was beginning to take its toll. He had to finish this off quickly.

  He could still hear Simone scrabbling about in the dark for the gun and judging by his grunts of frustration he was getting nowhere.

  Getting the
strength from somewhere, Mohand threw a punch at Hassan’s gut. Then another one. He was rewarded with a satisfying groan and the sound of air being expelled from the other man’s lungs.

  ‘I can’t find the fucking gun,’ Simone cried. Mohand turned to where his friend was rooting about in the undergrowth by the side of the path.

  This moment was distraction enough for Hassan. He had his hands around Mohand’s throat. His breath hot and foul on Mohand’s cheek.

  Hassan brought his head forward with a sharp crash onto Mohand’s nose. He felt the shock burst across his face and the blood spill metallic on his lip and down his chin. The pain must have been almost as bad for Hassan as the two men reeled apart.

  They stood facing each other, struggling for breath, adrenalin trembling through their limbs, each trying to clear the pain from their heads. Hassan recovered first. His kick caught Mohand in the gut, and he fell forward. He tried to get up. Hassan wouldn’t give him the space. Kicks and punches rained down on his back.

  From the ground, Mohand kicked out so that his heel crunched into Hassan’s shin. He howled with the pain. Pushing up, Mohand came to his feet and launched himself afresh at Hassan.

  Both men fell to the ground with Mohand on top. He clawed at the other man’s face, his eyes. Hassan did his best to throw him off, but Mohand was desperate. He could feel himself tire even more. He had to end this.

  From his position, Mohand straddled Hassan and hammered punches down on the other man’s face. One after another he aimed at Hassan’s nose. He became an automaton. All he could do was form a fist and punch. He was completely unaware that the other man’s struggles had all but ceased.

  He felt Simone tugging at his shoulder.

  ‘Enough, Mohand. Can’t you tell he’s had enough?’

  ‘No. Never.’ Mohand grabbed Hassan by the throat and began to squeeze.

  ‘Go on, Saoudi. Finish me…’

  Mohand’s grip tightened. Hassan’s eyes bulged. His heels scuffed at the earth as he fought for oxygen.