Escape by Paul Dowswell Page A

thugs. Not ideal companions, but handy if you’re in a spot of bother. We all put up money we’d managed to smuggle in, or make while we were there, to buy this boat from a local fisherman. Another man joined us, a Parisian villain called Pascal, and his young friend who was only about eighteen. Then this fellow, Silvere, who was a sailor, joined us. He didn’t put up any money. He said his sailing skills would pay for his place on the trip.
    So one December night, after we’d been there less than a year, we all made our escape. We slipped away from a work party and hid in the jungle ’til nightfall. Then, before the evening roll call, when they’d notice we were missing, we sneaked down to the Maroni river and into the boat. It was a good boat – well equipped, and with food for the journey. The first bit of the trip was easy. The current was strong and we just slipped away from St. Laurent. The river got wider and wider. The closer we got to the Atlantic Ocean, the stronger the smell of the salty sea. It smelled like freedom, and I just couldn’t wait to get away.
    But when we got there, things went very, very wrong. The estuary out to the Atlantic is full of sand banks, and we got stuck on one. Dedé went crazy and stabbed the sailor to death. René and I, we knew we were finished from that moment onward, but the Longuevilles were such terrors we didn’t like to say anything.
    The boat was grounded, and we knew the guards would be out looking for us as soon as they discovered we’d gone. We had a brief, bad-tempered argument about what to do next, and all decided we’d have to head into the jungle. We got out of the boat, and started to wade towards the shore, waist deep in water. I grabbed the box full of food, but a huge wave came in from nowhere and knocked me over. All the food got washed away and Dedé wanted to kill me then and there, but Marcel talked him out of it.
    The next few days were a nightmare. We couldn’t find a thing to eat in the jungle, apart from a few small crabs on the riverbank, and we were starving. Then Pascal said that he and his friend would head off inland to see what they could find. We all waited by the riverside, hoping they’d come back with something tasty.
    The next day, Pascal came back alone. He said he’d lost his friend, but he didn’t seem that bothered about it. The Longuevilles would kill you on the spot if you fell out with them, but they had this odd sort of loyalty. They set off to look for the boy. Pascal got really fidgety, and kept telling them it wasn’t worth it.
    We found out soon enough why Pascal didn’t want them to go. The Longuevilles hadn’t gone far when they found a corpse. The boy was dead and parts of his body had been eaten. Any fool could see Pascal had killed him. They came back and killed Pascal on the spot, but that night we were all so hungry we cooked up bits of him ourselves. Yes, I did feel guilty, but he deserved it. Besides, if I hadn’t eaten him, I wouldn’t be talking to you now.
    After that we lost heart. We wandered around for a few more days wondering what to do, until the local police caught us and we got sent back to the camp.
    Then I went through the worst two years of my life. Escaping was so common, you didn’t get sent to the guillotine for it. What you got was worse. They put you in a solitary confinement cell. Four out of five there went crazy or died. The guillotine’s quick. You get your head cut off in less than a second, but solitary confinement kills you slowly, second by minute by hour by day. It’s the worst kind of torture you could imagine.
    You get sent to the island of St. Joseph and stuck in a block with row upon row of tiny cells. They’re barely wide enough for you to stretch out your arms. There’s a hinged plank for a bed, and an iron door with a hatch big enough for you to stick your head out of. There’s a