And my tongue is twisted and more dead than alive.
And my feelings, they've always been betrayed.
I was born a little damaged man,
And look what they've made."
– THE VERVE, "Velvet Morning"
Enjolras had lived on the top floor of the Rougemont – six levels up. The door to his apartment was at the end of a short hall with creaking floorboards and cracks in the walls and ceiling, and had the number '40' scratched and inked into the panelling in lieu of a brass plate. Grantaire stood before this door as he had so many times before, reflecting that he had absolutely no idea what lay beyond it. It had been locked – much as he expected it to be – but unlike his own, as well as many others he'd passed in the halls of the Rougemont, it had not been boarded up. He knocked on the door, then hammered with his fists but there was no response. If someone new lived here, they weren't home.
"Whoever took over probably wouldn't like their door broken," he said to the crow on his shoulder. "So why don't you pull the same trick you did at the Musain, eh?"
already done
Grantaire took hold of the doorknob and turned. So it was.
And what he saw within froze him on the threshold.
For a dizzying, half-mad moment it was as though it was still 1832 and Enjolras was expected home within minutes.
The moment passed, and Grantaire was able to stumble through the doorway and close the door behind him. The crow fluttered across the room and perched on the back of the chair behind a large desk. It watched its charge closely as his pale face grew even paler.
Grantaire stared wildly about the room, willing his trembling legs not to give way beneath him. He could think of no rational explanation but not only was No. 40, Rougemont tenement still vacant after five years, it still looked virtually the same as when Enjolras had lived there.
Enjolras held the door open as Bossuet and Grantaire entered. "As you can see, contrary to popular belief there is no cause for concern. I'm hardly shivering in a garret."
Bossuet stared around the room. "How much did this cost again?"
"I've got a few payments to go, but eight hundred and fifty francs all up. That's including the furniture. All things considered, I think it will do very nicely indeed."
"So this is yours, now."
"For as long as I want it."
Grantaire shrugged. "Well, I suggest you make a brand new resolution to try and live past thirty. Really get your money's worth."
Enjolras gave him a withering look and crossed the floor to the bookshelves. Bossuet followed him, but Grantaire remained where he was, looking around. The large room's furnishings were nowhere near as luxurious as his own, but they were nowhere near as dilapidated either. The door to the adjoining room was closed, presumably this was where Enjolras slept. The bare floor would probably make the room somewhat chilly during winter, but the iron stove squatting in the far corner of the room would warm things considerably. Grantaire also noted that the walls within No. 40 looked a damn sight better than they did in the rest of the Rougemont.
"Did you get this done yourself?" he asked.
Enjolras glanced up from a sheaf of paperwork and followed Grantaire's gaze. "The walls? Yes. I had them re-plastered when I moved in. Maybe one day I'll get some carpets for the floor, too. There were some when I came, great Persian things, but they were moth-eaten and I think the one in the bedroom had bloodstains on it."
He turned back to Bossuet and continued talking about a new arrangement being negotiated with the printers in the Saint-Antoine. Grantaire, uninterested in the conversation, continued strolling around the room.
There were two arched floor-to-ceiling windows which opened onto some thing that failed to qualify as a balcony but was definitely wide enough and sturdy enough for a man to sit upon in the open air. Grantaire supposed that on a clear day, the view might even be pleasant. He noticed something sitting curled up before one of the windows and felt obliged to comment. "Does the cat have a name?"
Enjolras looked up again, and so did Bossuet. The cat, a small grey creature, seemed aware that it had attracted attention. It sat up and yawned, showing a small pink tongue and a set of sharp little teeth.
"It must have run in through the door as I was leaving this morning." Enjolras didn't look exactly displeased at the sight of the creature. "I don't know if it has a name, it's not exactly mine. I think it must have belonged to the previous tenant, I feed it most days. Remind me to put it out when we leave."
So Grantaire did.
Grantaire crossed the floor to the desk. Perhaps Enjolras had conducted an evidence-destroying tidy-up before he left on that morning in June; the desk and its drawers were empty. The bookshelves were still lined with the same books, but a veil of dust and cobwebs had fallen across them. Using his index finger, he wrote Enjolras' name on the surface of the desk, then wiped it out again leaving a smear of dark ebony wood standing out against the pale grey dust.
"He should have made that resolution," he said quietly. "No one else moved in here after all."
The crow cocked its head. The air in this room was as alive as it had been in the back room of the Musain, just as full of memories and muted echoes, but the boy did not seem aware of it, attuned to it. The crow felt its skin prickle with energy, or maybe that was just a reaction to the smell of cat in the room. It had been attacked by a cat once, and although it had given that half-grown feline sufficient reason to think twice about attacking a bird that big again, it remained alert to the scent and wary of the potential presence of its source.
Meanwhile, Grantaire had picked a slender volume off the top bookshelf, where it left a book-shaped outline in the pale dust. Candide by Voltaire. He opened it and read the hand-written note on the inside cover, penned in Courfeyrac's slightly flamboyant scrawl:
Lucky for us you're in it.
Salutations and birthday greetings,
COURFEYRAC.
Grantaire smiled faintly and held the book up for the crow to see. "For his twenty-fourth birthday. He said he might even get around to reading it one day. Wonder if he did."
He flicked idly through the pages, then stopped short and took a closer look. The History of the Old Woman may as well have been a complete and total mystery – the first three pages of the chapter had been ripped out of the book, leaving only thin paper strips running down the length of the spine. Grantaire frowned at that – Enjolras had never struck him as the type to handle books carelessly. But this couldn't have been sheer carelessness. Whoever had ripped the book had done it deliberately. The tears looked too neat.
Puzzled, Grantaire ran his finger down the jagged strips. As his finger was about halfway down the length of the page, the paper suddenly became searing hot to the touch, the world tilted sideways, and he was looking at something different.
The book was no longer in his hand but sitting open on the desk amongst other books and papers. A candle had been knocked over, extinguished. A tall heavily-built man was standing by the desk, grinning as he wiped his bloody right hand clean . . . on the pages of the open Candide. Grantaire tried to turn and see what the man was looking at, but could not.
"Haven't got much weight on you, boy," the tall man remarked, his harsh voice distorted, echoing. "Maybe you should be more careful how you throw it around."
WHO THE HELL IS THAT?
The crow cawed. The apparition vanished.
Grantaire blinked, looked down at the book in his hand. He had seen the pages smeared with blood, and now they had been torn out. By whom? What had happened? He turned back to the inside cover, ran his finger across the note Courfeyrac had written so many years ago. Placing the book carefully down on the empty desk, he looked at the crow. The crow hopped up onto the desk itself, pecked once at the book's blue cover.
i saw it too
"What the hell was it?" Grantaire whispered, still shaken.
The crow looked up at him, head on one side.
you tell me boy
Grantaire walked slowly across the floor and sat down in a large armchair. He rested his head against the back and closed his eyes. He saw the man's face again for a blinding flash, tried to scrutinise it, failed to recognise it. Whoever the man was, he was a stranger. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the crow had left the desk and was hopping across the floor towards him. Persistent.
something happened and you're not letting yourself remember it
"I've only been here once," Grantaire snapped, "and I've never seen that man in my life. Anywhere."
enjolras did though
Grantaire gripped the armrests and did not reply. The chair was covered with what felt like velvet – faded, wearing thin in patches. It was comfortable and not too soft, the sort of chair it would be easy to doze off in if one was tired. Maybe Enjolras had fallen asleep in this chair, dreamt his strange dreams in this very spot.
He sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, listened to the sound of his beating heart. This was as close to Enjolras as he would ever be, had ever been – until the moment of their deaths. In his mind's eyes he envisioned the room as it would have been when Enjolras lived in it. Would he have been able to walk through that door every night and shrug off the stress and worry of the day? Knowing Enjolras, probably not. He would have worked here – burning candles down to half-inch stubs night after night at his desk, a dreamer with a difference living an anonymous existence amongst the other tenants of the Rougemont.
His train of thoughts broke. Something was scratching at the door.
Grantaire's eyes snapped open and he rose to his feet. The crow gurgled in alarm and flapped up onto the dresser.
Grantaire walked to the door, put his ear to it. Listened.
"Meow." Insistent. More scratching.
He opened the door, and the small grey cat strolled through, barely giving the strange man in the black coat a second glance. It padded soundlessly across the floorboards and sat down beneath a table where it proceeded to wash behind its ears.
"Exactly how many tenants have you gone through?" Grantaire asked it as he closed the door.
The cat was a little bigger, but not much. It was still sleek and healthy-looking. Whoever lived here now had continued the tradition of taking care of it.
Was Grantaire so sure that someone did live here now? The cat seemed perfectly at home, but although the furniture was as it always had been, it was covered in dust and it was obvious that nobody had touched the books for a very long time. There was a water jug and crockery stacked on the shelves, but it too was dusty and disused. The inkwell in the desk had had cobwebs inside it.
He looked across the room at the second door, the one opening into the adjoining room. Wondered whether he would be brave enough to open that door also.
Grantaire crouched down on the floor, held a hand out towards the cat. "Come on out of there," he said. "I won't hurt you."
The cat looked at him with yellow-green eyes then came forward, nuzzled against the proffered hand. It was warm, soft, alive. Trusting.
"Would you like to tell me who's been feeding you all this time?" Grantaire asked. "And if they'll be coming back any time soon?"
The cat only purred and bunted Grantaire's hand with its head. The man obliged, scratched behind its ears.
"Did Enjolras do this too? I must say, he never struck me as the sort to keep a pet. I don't have anything for you to eat, by the way. Sorry. You could have that bird if you like, though."
oh very funny
Grantaire rose to his feet. The cat rubbed itself around his legs, still purring. He nudged it away gently with his foot and walked across to the windows. The glass panes were thick with dust, he couldn't see much of what lay beyond. In early mornings Enjolras would have opened the windows, sat out on the ledge alone with his thoughts as he watched Paris stir and come alive. This place had been home, it had been his, it had been safe.
Until . . .
The crow shifted in the shadows, he saw its eyes glint back at him.
you do remember something don't you
"Something," he replied slowly, linking fragmented thoughts together as he spoke. "But I hadn't thought about it before. It could be nothing. I don't know."
But it could be something, an inner voice whispered. And that was the voice he was trying to ignore, because if it was something, the ramifications were terrifying.
The crow was silent, watching him. So he closed his eyes and began to speak.
"It was in November 1831, the twentieth I think, but perhaps not. There wasn't a meeting called for that night, but a lot of us were there anyway. Bossuet mentioned that Enjolras hadn't been in his medieval politics – something like that – class that morning. He was asking Courfeyrac whether he'd finished his philosophy of religion essay when . . ."
Courfeyrac was just about to reply when he saw Feuilly's gaze switch to a point somewhere beyond his shoulder and his expression change to one of stricken horror. He turned in his chair to see what the other man was looking at, and upon hearing his sharp intake of breath Grantaire turned too. His stomach lurched.
Enjolras had entered the room, supporting himself on a cane.
His face was livid and purple with bruises – one of the ugly swellings had almost closed his right eye completely. There were two or three cuts on his temples and his lower lip was swollen and split. Judging by his limping gait, the injuries extended further. He didn't just look like a man who had been in a violent fight, he looked like a man who had lost a violent fight, against multiple assailants with weapons.
Already Combeferre and Joly were on their feet and by his side, with others close behind.
"What happened?" Courfeyrac's voice was flat with shock.
Enjolras hobbled over to his customary table and eased himself down into his seat before replying. "A gang of thieves broke into my apartment last night." His voice was raspy and almost completely without inflection. "I walked straight in on them."
"How many?"
"Five."
"Have you seen a doctor yet?" Combeferre asked quietly.
"Not necessary." Enjolras jerked away from his friend's outstretched hands. "Nothing's broken, that's all I need to know."
Grantaire was silent and had remained seated – mainly because he was sure his trembling legs wouldn't carry him across the room. He had been in more than the occasional brawl during his life, and knew how hard you had to hit someone to leave marks like that. The thought of someone – five someones – doing that to Enjolras made him physically ill.
And the others all obviously felt the same.
"You're holding yourself awkwardly," Joly said. "Did they kick you in the sides, or in the back? You could have cracked ribs. Does it hurt to breathe?"
Bossuet put a hand on his friend's shoulder, quietening him.
Combeferre took off his spectacles, wiped them with a cloth that lay on the table. Grantaire could see his hands trembling. "You really should tell the police," he said.
Enjolras' good eye flashed with irritation. "Tell them what? 'Was any property stolen or damaged, m'sieur?' 'Yes, Inspector – some money was taken, and some seditious material I'd been planning to print and distribute was destroyed. Yes, actually I'm that Justin Enjolras, I see you've heard of me.'"
Bahorel looked up, his steely eyes flashing. "Your leaflets?" he rumbled. "You think this could be political?"
Enjolras looked up at the large man, then looked away again. "I doubt it," he said in that ugly hoarse voice. "They weren't police agents, I'm sure of that."
"But how can you be sure?" Bahorel persisted. "And they didn't have to be police agents, they could have been hired hands. Less obtrusive activists than you have ended up getting hurt." He ran a hand through his hair, obviously more than worried. "For God's sake, man, I offered you protection after the riots last year. You should have taken it."
"Would you like to move in with me" Combeferre asked. "Just for couple of weeks, at least?"
Enjolras shook his head. "Changing my routine would just draw attention, don't you think?"
"You've been hurt," Combeferre returned. Grantaire was mildly surprised to hear anger in his voice. "Sorry if this comes as a surprise to you, but we care."
"I was unlucky, that's all." Enjolras' expression was unreadable beneath his bruises and his tone was distorted. But his left eye was as cold and stern as ever. "And even if it was political, what of it? We were all clear on the inherent risks when we started this." He struggled to his feet once more. "I only came here to say that I'm cancelling next week's meeting. Aside from that, it's business as usual. I won't tell you all to watch out for one another – you should be doing that anyway."
"Where are you going?" Bahorel demanded.
"I'm going home. To continue cleaning up. It's a mess."
"I'm going with you."
He placed a large hand on the other man's shoulder, and Enjolras flinched back. "Thank you for your concern, but it's not necessary. I'll take a cab."
Bahorel had to be satisfied with that, and everyone watched in silence as Enjolras exited in much the same style as he'd entered.
"And the winner of the Quasimodo, Hunchback of Notre-dame look-alike competition is . . ." Courfeyrac said shakily. Nobody laughed and it was obvious he hadn't expected them to. He passed a hand over his face. "God, he looks a mess."
Combeferre rose, resettled his spectacles on his nose and looked at Bahorel. "You're thinking something," he said sharply. "What?"
Bahorel shrugged uneasily. "I don't know. I suppose I'm thinking that whoever administered that beating knew what they were doing." He paused. "But if he says it was a matter of plain bad luck, I'm prepared to go with that. We have good relations with the other factions, I can't think of any reason why anyone would have it in for us. I just wish he wouldn't be so, well, Enjolraic about it."
"You're not the only one." Combeferre turned back to address the room in general. "My advice is that we follow his directive and leave well enough alone. He won't take help if he doesn't want it, and he'll talk about it when he's ready to. And, horrible as this sounds, let's be grateful that it was just a case of wrong-place-wrong-time."
"I'm glad Prouvaire wasn't here," Feuilly said quietly. "Maybe someone better give him advance warning before he sees for himself, yes?"
Bahorel nodded. "And I'm going to ask around, see if anybody's heard about this, or other break-ins on lone students. If anybody sees Gavroche, tell him to do the same. But the chief's right, everyone should just take a little care from now on."
"You think he will talk about it?" Bossuet looked doubtful.
"Oh, I hope he does," Bahorel replied furiously. "Just tells us what they look like, at least. So I can find them and break their fucking legs."
"I'll help you," Grantaire said, almost before he realised the words were out.
The others turned and looked at him.
"Since when did you care?" Bahorel asked shortly, before stomping out of the room.
The others looked collectively apologetic for the retort, but Grantaire knew they were thinking the same thing.
"I know, it's a terrible thing to happen," Combeferre said in his most diplomatic of tones.
Grantaire felt obliged to legitimise his outburst. "Surprising, at least. I didn't know marble could bruise like that."
It was perhaps twenty minutes before everyone began making their excuses and their goodbyes. Grantaire waited until everyone had gone and then ordered another bottle of wine from Louison, who was close to tears over what had happened to the "handsome young monsieur". He sat alone in the back room, wishing that the wine would begin to work its old magic and buzz pleasantly through him, helping him to forget. But it didn't work, that night at least.
A look had passed between Enjolras and Grantaire before the former had left the room, and it was a look Grantaire had never thought he'd see on the other man's face.
It was the look of an animal that had been trapped, terrified, and wounded beyond any hope of healing.