Place de la Révolution
20 Prairial Year II, the deadline
Acrisp, chill sky sprawled over the guillotine in the middle of the square. Across the river, the model mountain for the Festival of the Supreme Being rose in carved tiers with real grass and moss spread over its contours, leaving a winding path to the summit exposed. Al stood next to Ada, hands tucked into his sleeves. He was hungover, but he’d moved swiftly that morning, dressing and refusing the coffee in the pot.
A solitary tumbril was being led to the guillotine; a crowd had gathered in anticipation of the later festivities. It was a day of celebration, but Revolutionary execution duties still needed to be carried out. They had crept out early, long before anyone else was awake, and waited in the rawness of the morning for the prisoners to arrive. Four men were already on the dais, one hauling the rope to lift the blade, one ready with a basket to catch heads, and another with a pike to lift them for the crowd to see. A fourth stood by the stairs, watching as the cart rumbled towards them, its standing prisoners huddled close.
There were only a handful due to die today. A tall man with Al’s fair hair and a woman next to him with Al’s pointed chin. Then two more young men, echoes of their parents, and Al beside her. Ada grasped Al’s hand tightly. He didn’t shake her off.
Someone read out the charges, but they were too far away to hear. Al’s father was led up to the guillotine first. He went without protest, chin held high, a sneer curling his lip. He kneeled without being told, but the executioner had to put a hand on his shoulder to manoeuvre his neck into the headlock. The top was lowered and secured. Ada had always thought the position looked uncomfortable. Leaning so far forwards, while trying to keep your weight on your knees and off your throat. She could feel the ache in her lower back just imagining it.
The crowd fell silent as the final moment came close. Al was a tense line of muscle and sinew, fingers twisted tightly into hers. She thought about putting her arms around him as she had for Camille when they’d watched her parents die, but it wouldn’t do much good. There was nothing that could make this moment any better.
The blade dropped with a faint whistle through the air, and Al flinched. His father’s head thumped into the basket and a roar went up around him. The guard held up the head by its fine blond hair. His father’s grey eyes still looked out over the crowd, an expression of confusion in them. Ada could feel Al shaking.
His mother was next, forced to her knees and held in place by the headlock. Anotherwhistle-thunk, and then they were looking at only her head held up by her long honey-coloured locks. The brothers, shirt fronts stained with vomit and groins dark with piss. Ada could tell they were crying as they were bent beneath the blade. A few more lanky, blond people added their heads to the basket, and then the tumbril was empty.
A shudder passed through Al, then he turned on his heel and strode off through the crowd. Ada caught up with him as he bent over the embankment and threw up into the river.
This time she did hold him, taking greater care of cleaning him up than she had hauling him home the night before. She rubbed his back as he folded in on himself, cold and still as stone.
Ada passed him her handkerchief. ‘Oh, Al, why didn’t you tell us? We could have done something.’
‘That’s why I didn’t,’ said Al, wiping his mouth. ‘You would insist on trying to save them and bother me about my feelings and I couldn’t,okay? I couldn’t risk you all for their sake. It’s not a trade I’m willing to make.’
Ada was silent. He offered her the handkerchief back but she shook her head.
‘Please don’t tell Cam.’
‘I have to,’ said Ada. ‘She would understand, you know.’
‘Exactly. I can’t bear the idea of being pitied.’
He patted his mouth daintily, swaying on the spot.
‘It’s not pity, Al. It’s empathy.’
‘Cam hates me.’
‘No, she doesn’t.’
‘She does a pretty good impression of it.’
Ada sighed. ‘You remind her of herself. She hates that. No one likes looking in a mirror.’
Al snorted. ‘Speak for yourself. Unlike Cam I have cheekbones to die for.’
‘I’m serious, Al. She doesn’t hate you. But you make her feel a lot of complicated feelings she doesn’t know how to deal with.’
‘Lucky me.’
‘Hate isn’t the worst thing someone can feel. The opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s apathy.’
Al didn’t reply.
As the sun rose in the sky, the crowd in the square grew, clustering around the path of the upcoming parade. The bells rang.
‘It’s time.’
