My ragged jacket Jean had acquired for me was taken and thrown out amongst the garbage in the street, a clean officer's jacket being firmly placed in my hands. "You don't need that ratty thing anymore," Allard assured me. I nodded tersely.
A medic was called out in the middle of the night to tend to my arm, regardless of how much I assured the men around me that it was just a scratch.
"It's a bullet wound?" I was asked by a faceless man clad in blue, concern wrinkling his brow.
"Technically, yes, it is," I answered, ready to launch once again into my speech about no one needing to worry about it, but it was too late. The words 'bullet' and 'gun' and 'hero' rocketed around me and I had to excuse myself from the crowded room. The guilt gnawing at my gut was beginning to become unbearable, and once outside it was all I could do to stand with my eyes shut and just breathe.
Valjean was locked in a cell inside. The girls had been escorted to a room within the building and it was currently a debate over what to do with them. 'Workhouse' was thrown around so often I'd had to leave the room to stop myself from screaming. I didn't know when I lost the ability to be around my own kind, the black-and-white men of the law, but the way they talked about deciding someone else's whole future without really caring was grating on my nerves. It sounded like madness.
The medic arrived and I was ushered back inside, only to be told the wound was healing fine on its own and there was no sign of infection. As I thanked the doctor who had been dragged from bed to attend to me I had to fight to keep from rolling my eyes: even as an Inspector, no one had listened to me telling them it was a waste of time.
I needed to get this feeling of sickness out of my chest.
"I need to talk to Valjean," I found myself saying out loud. I cleared my throat, "Bring me to prisoner 24601." The room went silent, and in slow motion, as though I was going to tell them I was joking, I was led through the building to stand before the row of cells.
Piles of rags, dilapidated men, crouched in the small barren cells, encircled in a ring of iron. As we passed they all looked to the ground, desperate not to draw attention to themselves. One began hurriedly whispering a prayer under his breath, another began to weep and rub at his sunburned face. It was almost pitiful, until I reminded myself each of these men were paying the price for criminal activities. They had brought this upon themselves.
Amidst the wailing and shuffling wretches sat Jean, irritatingly calm and leisurely leaning against the wall of his cell. He looked almost at home.
"Inspector," He greeted through tight lips, and I saw his previously relaxed form tense at the sight of me.
"Your time is up, Valjean," I told him, looking down into that cell, "And your sentence has begun."
I didn't know why I was here, antagonising him. I didn't know what my goal was – if he were to keep his word we would always have ended up here. Because I didn't keep mine we're early, but what was the point in telling him what was in store for him? We both knew, this was a waste of our time. And yet, here I was, talking to him.
"You know what that means," I prodded, waiting to pull a response from him.
He barked a hollow sound that sounded like the shadow of a laugh, "Yes, it means another twenty years of my life behind bars."
"No," The officer beside me said, startling us both. "It means you get your one way ticket to the gallows."
This stopped me cold, and as I stared at Jean he mirrored my reaction of shock. The gallows? Of course it's understandable, he skipped parole for all those years, and had assaulted an officer – several times – but these men who have sentenced him did not know why Jean had done what he had done, who he was and what had motivated him.
Could I blame him for how he had acted?
But, at the end of the day, the law is the law.
I excused the officer, making it clear I wished to talk to Valjean alone. The man's eyes quickly flickered to Jean's still form, but he bid a hasty retreat.
I leaned against the bars to his cell, my senseless guilt working its way up into my throat. "I…I'm-"
I don't know what I was trying to say, if I was going to apologise for what was happening or tell him I wish it wasn't the gallows. Either way it didn't matter – before I managed to get another word out the man was on his feet before me, hands gripping my new officer's jacket as he slammed me against the bars of his cell.
"Are you happy now?" Was all he asked, hissed, his face inches from mine. I suspect the only thing stopping him punching me were the iron bars he had me pressed up against.
"You are a thief," I spat, reasoning more with myself than him
"I stole a loaf of bread!" He raised his voice as high as he dared: around us, the crouched figures were turning to stare and in a bid to stop drawing attention to us he let my jacket go. I stumbled back, but he remained where he stood.
"You robbed a house," I accused.
He sighed. "I only stole a loaf of bread. Broke one little window pane."
I rubbed a hand across my face, feeling defeated. "I know," I said, keeping my voice quiet. Yet he managed to catch what I said, turning to look at me in surprise. "Your sister's child was going to die, you were all going to starve…"
"I just wanted to save them," He turned from me, leaning against the bars and sinking down to the ground. "And look what good I did: as if one loaf of bread would have helped. If we didn't starve that day, we would always have had plenty of opportunities to starve again." We were silent for a moment, the only noise that incessant prisoner's praying.
"It was wrong," Jean said, looking back at me over his shoulder. "What I did, stealing from another poor family, it was wrong. I understand the meaning of the law now, I understand all of those nineteen years, all that time spent as a slave. Time I should have used to protect my family."
"Five years for what you did," I muttered, "The rest because you did what any sane person would do and tried to run." I shook my head – the time he spent a prisoner, half a lifetime, and no matter how much he paid he was always expected to remain under the thumb of the law. I had to wrestle my mind from going down the path of asking 'how is that fair?'. "Jean-"
"I'm not Jean anymore," his head fell forwards into his hands as he said with a slight shake in his voice, "I'm just 24601."
"Your name," I said softly, crouching down to lay a hand on his shoulder through the bars, "Is Jean Valjean."
"And what is yours, Inspector?"
"Javert," I say with the ghost of a smile.
"Trust me, I won't forget that," He said with a quiet chuckle. "But what is your first name?"
My name, like his, was something I felt I lost when the law seized my life. Something I associated with my checkered past, and had tried my best to forget and leave behind.
"What does it matter?"
He nodded solemly, "A fair question. I suppose it doesn't, now. You will finally have your way, and I will see the gallows swing before me." His defeated admission of his death struck a chord within me, and suddenly tears welled in my eyes.
"Doesn't this all feel strangely familiar?" I asked him, trying to pinpoint the source of my déjà vu.
"We've chased each other around like cat and dog for long enough, we're bound to replay some of our scenes together."
I would be more inclined to compare us to cat and mouse: we never chased each other around, it was always I pursuing him, ruining any hope of freedom from his mistakes. "I'm sorry, Jean. I need you to know that – all of this, it's not something I wanted. At least, not anymore."
He didn't reply, and I had to press further, had to make sure he understood this, although entirely my fault, was an accident. Something I did not wish. "You asked me where I would most like to be, remember? At the time, I just answered in a way I thought would get you and the girls off of my back. But in all honesty, I would have loved to see the beach and the sea, to see the look on the girls' faces as they marvelled at the view, to have the opportunity to marvel myself."
Still no answer, and after a few tense moments I took my hand away and stood, ready to walk away.
"You, and the girls," Came his voice through the gloom, "You won't forget me, will you?"
I shook my head at the thought, "I don't think that's possible."
With our final conversation at a close, I walked from the room, the heel of my boot clacking my departure. The convicts whom had paid such close attention to Valjean and I refused to look me in the eye, all staring down as I passed.
I returned to a mass of police officers talking animatedly, discussing the upcoming execution. The man may as well not have a trial, I thought. His future was already certain.
"A slave to the end of his days!" One man yelled.
"I wonder how it feels," Another approached me, attempting to start up a conversation, "To be standing in your grave?"
And in that moment, I decided it was not a feeling I wished to ever experience. Nor would it be one I would allow Jean to endure.
I would not let him die here.