CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Who's that yonder laughing at me
Like I were the brunt of some hilarity?
Who's that yonder laughing at me?
Up jumped the devil – 1, 2, 3!"
– NICK CAVE, "Up Jumped the Devil"

The tavern was almost empty, hardly surprising at this hour of night. Even if it had been full though, it would be almost impossible for the hubbub to penetrate this room where Mardisoir held office. He sat perfectly at ease, looking across the table at the man sitting opposite him. Garbonne was trembling and trying his hardest to control it.

"I'll know in a week or two if I can keep my job," Garbonne said. "Then I'd be able to pay you, I swear it."

Mardisoir spread his hands and smiled in a mockery of sympathy. "If only it were that simple," he said. "But your debt doesn't lie with me alone."

He didn't need to spell that one out any further. Garbonne's face grew even paler.

"Do we understand each other clearly?" There was no need for Mardisoir to raise his voice.

Garbonne looked up at him with the eyes of a man who is completely without hope and completely aware of the fact. Mardisoir was familiar with that look. "Yes," he said in a whisper. "But –"

There was always a "but", wasn't there? He raised his hand and the other man fell silent. "I seem to hear nothing but excuses from you people. I sometimes wonder if there's one in the world I haven't heard yet. You can leave now, or I'll have some of my friends escort you off the premises."

Garbonne drew himself up as well as he could. "I'll leave alone," he said in weary defiance as he turned and left. As he watched him go, Mardisoir thought idly about the fact that there was no way Garbonne would be able to make the payment. He thought about the pretty doe-eyed wife that his men had described to him, and the way she had huddled against her husband as he faced them during their first visit to his home.

They had taken Garbonne's silverware – it was only a couple of plates and cups, but it was collateral enough. Mardisoir crossed the room to the chest where he kept most collectables of that kind until it was time for them to be transferred on. He was surprised to find several bundles of money in the chest too. He had completely forgotten about that.

The door behind him opened again. Mardisoir stiffened with annoyance. "You will have the money for me by Thursday," he said without turning around, "or you and your wife will have to just face the consequences."

"I don't owe you any money."

Mardisoir turned quickly. The man standing in the doorway wasn't Garbonne, it was a stranger. He was dressed in a red waistcoat and black overcoat but wore no shirt, and wore one of those masks that actors wore, painted gold. He stood perfectly still, with his hands in his pockets. A large crow hunched on his right shoulder.

Mardisoir himself leaned back against his desk – seemingly relaxed but poised to spring forward should the need arise. The man had obviously calculated to surprise and had succeeded, but he was smaller than Mardisoir and alone.

"Can I help you?" he asked the masked man calmly.

"I rather think you can."

The man's voice was equally calm. Judging by the timbre, the man was younger than he was. He sounded educated, he definitely wasn't of the lower classes. Mardisoir scrutinised his unusual get-up and wondered if he was perhaps an acolyte of one of these bizarre cults or collectives the upper crust seemed to take such a delight in. The crow was obviously a tame pet – a mascot maybe? He'd certainly never encountered it before.

"Come in," Mardisoir said to the masked man.

Grantaire hesitated on the threshold. The crow shifted on his shoulder and he heard its voice echo quietly in his mind.

there's a loaded pistol in the top drawer right hand side

Bearing that in mind, Grantaire entered the room and shut the door behind him.

The man called Mardisoir looked to be about forty, maybe a little younger. His complexion was dark and he wore the jewellery of the Andalusian gypsies in his ears and on his fingers, but his harsh accents were entirely Parisian gutter. He was almost handsome, but heavily built and beginning to run to fat, much like a prize-winning bull soon to be consigned to pasture. He cracked his knuckles as Grantaire looked at him but intimidation was obviously not aforethought, it was just a long-standing habit. Mardisoir's hands were large and powerful. Grantaire thought of them balled into fists and slamming repeatedly into Enjolras.

"What can I do for you?" Mardisoir asked him. If the mask was unnerving him, he certainly wasn't showing it. Grantaire had to give him that.

"I've been asking around after someone like you," he replied. "A man named Bichot gave me your name."

He chose not to add at this point that Bichot had given him the name between ear-splitting screams and was now trembling and whimpering in some dark corner of Paris nursing four broken fingers.

Mardisoir tilted his head to one side, making a show of consideration. "I see. And what could you possibly want that Bichot would refer you to me, friend?"

The masked man too tilted his head, almost an uncanny mirror reflection. He was still standing near the door, at least ten feet away. "I want to ask you about getting a piece of work done. The term in use is, I believe, 'intimidation job'?"

The large man relaxed visibly and Grantaire could almost read his thought process as it happened: He's obviously a member of some group, been sent by the Great High Lord of Whatever to see about getting a rival slapped down. And he'll have plenty of money behind him, that's for sure.

Mardisoir smiled the smile of a man who understands precisely what is going on – a business deal – and where all parties concerned stand. "I could help you," he said carefully, "but it depends on exactly what needs to be done . . . and whom it is being done for."

"This won't be what you're expecting to hear," the masked man said, "but I represent no one but myself. This job . . . it's rather a personal affair."

"Nonetheless," Mardisoir shrugged, "I'll need some information on the target and what needs to be done exactly. So I can provide a price quote for you."

The man spread his hands. "That's precisely what I'm looking for, yes. A price quote."

Mardisoir grinned again. "I take it this is a lone target, then."

Grantaire nodded. "That's right. He's a student. One of those uppity young politicals who needs to be taught when to step down and shut up. If I can give you his address, would you be able to have someone pay him a visit?"

"That's generally how we handle such affairs." Mardisoir nodded and turned to pick a notebook and pencil up off the desk. They had been sitting next to an ornate snuffbox, obviously old and obviously expensive.

The crow was looking at it too.

that belonged to a writer named guillaume poitier fallen on hard times he borrowed money from mardisoir and wasn't able to repay it so mardisoir cut his throat and kept the snuffbox as a souvenir

Yet another damaged soul sitting alone and afraid, dreading the pounding on their door in the middle of the night. One out of hundreds that Grantaire had never met, who were far beyond help now, but perhaps they all would receive a little compensation tonight. He felt that bitter burning hatred rising in his throat again, forced it back down.

"Do you get many jobs like this?" he asked, making his voice as casual as he could.

Mardisoir shrugged. "From time to time. Could I have the address, please?"

"No. 40, Rougemont tenement. On the rue de Coutard. Do you know it?"

"I'll find it." Mardisoir was concentrating on writing the address, taking time to carefully spell out each letter. "And the man's name?"

"Justin Enjolras."

Mardisoir began to write again and then stopped. Frowned. When he looked up at Grantaire again, his eyes were suddenly suspicious.

"What is it?" Grantaire asked calmly.

"That name sounds somewhat familiar," Mardisoir said slowly.

"Oh." Even behind the mask, Grantaire's face eased into a complete blank. "Can you think why?"

Mardisoir shrugged. "If he's a political, maybe he's left his fliers lying somewhere on the street. I don't know. I hear a lot of names in this business, you understand. Now. Does he live alone?"

"Well, he did."

He looked up sharply. "Did? What do you mean?"

"He's dead now, actually. Been dead for five years."

Mardisoir's heavy brow furrowed as he frowned. His eyes, though veiled, took on a dangerous glint. He straightened, placed the notebook and pencil down on the desk again. Grantaire was aware of the crow's claws digging into the fabric of his coat.

careful boy

"Is this some sort of joke?" Mardisoir asked at last.

"Is it funny?" Grantaire returned. "You tell me."

. . . the men moved around him . . . they seemed so big, so strong . . . one of them pinned him against the wall . . . hot breath in his face stinking of garlic and bad brandy . . . he could hear furniture being overturned, books cascading on the floor, crazed drunken laughter . . . was he the only one this was happening to? . . . the very thought of Combeferre or Pontmercy or Prouvaire being treated like this made him feel even sicker and more afraid . . . Why are you doing this? . . .

Mardisoir looked at the man standing before him and for the first time in the interview really sized him up. He had been able to get past his men in the main room of the tavern so he had obviously been able to drop the right name. If there had been a fight he would have been alerted, and although this man looked strong he wasn't large. And God only knew what was going on behind that damned mask.

The crow cawed suddenly and flapped across the room . . . to the large chest. It perched on the edge of the lid and looked between the two men.

The masked man still did not move.

"What are you talking about dead men for, friend?" Mardisoir growled. "I rather think it's time you told me what you really came here for."

"Exactly what I said," Grantaire replied. "I came here to find out about the 'job' you did on Justin Enjolras. You and your four friends."

. . . they were so strong . . . their hands were clumsy and savage . . . their boots were hard and heavy . . . they hurt . . . one of them, the bald one, muffling his cries, making him choke on his own blood . . . then the hand slipped and he was able to gasp "What do you want???" . . . more laughter and another savage blow were the only reply he received . . .

"I don't hold with bookkeeping," Mardisoir said dryly. "Too much like real work. And I can't remember anything about a Justin Enjolras off the top of my head save for the name. If you want details, you'll have to give me details."

Grantaire kept one eye on the crow and one eye on Mardisoir.

there's a sword of some kind in the corner next to the empty barrels but i don't think you'd have to time to get to it before he realised what you were up to

Thanks for the tip, he replied in silence before saying aloud: "So you remember nothing, then."

Mardisoir took a step forward. "Isn't that what I just said?"

Perhaps he was expecting the smaller man to flinch back. But he did not, and all of a sudden Mardisoir was aware of the hairs rising on the back of his neck and arms.

Grantaire allowed Mardisoir to step towards him – away from the desk and the drawer with the pistol. "Well, I'm not entirely sure how I should take that," he said quietly. "I'm hoping you won't correct me, but I sort of just assumed that violating young men wasn't one of your usual pastimes."

Mardisoir stopped short. "What?"

The masked man tilted his head up and looked straight back at him. "Are the memories flooding back yet?"

. . . he staggered back into the arms of one of them, the dark one with rings in his ears . . . all of a sudden he was stumbling, flying . . . smashing against the wall . . . his swimming sight was tinged with red and everything hurt so much . . . then the largest one had him, dragged him up . . . held him so he couldn't run, couldn't even fall . . . the dark man stood by his desk, wiping his bloodied hands on the pages of a book on his desk, it was Candide, the book Courfeyrac had given him . . . "Haven't got much weight on you, boy," the man was saying to him with a cold savage grin, "Maybe you should be more careful how you throw it around." . . . what did he mean? None of this made any sense . . . PLEASE JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT . . .

"Justin Enjolras." The masked man whispered the words as though they were sacred. "A living light. An angel stepped from a pedestal, pure in body, mind and soul. Beautiful, brave and bright . . . and all too fragile. Alone in his apartment one dark November night."

Mardisoir would have taken another step forward, but he discovered that he couldn't force his legs to move. The room had suddenly become very cold, but he could see the stove out of the corner of his eye, the red coals glowing through the grate. He looked back at the masked man. Almost wished that he would move.

"If you knew him, I'm very sorry," he said as levelly as he could. "But it was a long time ago, I'm sure you understand that –"

"You think that time is the only chasm that separates me from him?" The masked man threw his head back and laughed. The sound was terrifying and Mardisoir very nearly brought his hands up to cover his ears. Then the crow began cawing again and the two sounds collided, combined, obscenely loud in the silent room.

Mardisoir pointed a trembling finger towards the man. "Know this," he said, striving to make his own voice louder than the masked man's laughter. "We were just doing a job. We were hired hands, bought and paid for, that's all. It was nothing personal."

The final bitter laugh was wrenched from Grantaire's throat. He looked at the man shaking before him and knew that he was not only afraid, he was angry. Almost ready to spring at him and attack to kill. He almost wanted Mardisoir to try it - the sooner the better.

"Maybe it wasn't," he said in a voice thick with hate. "But this is."

He wanted to move towards him then, but the crow's voice held a sharp warning.

wait

. . . the bald man was holding him down on the floor . . . blood was trickling into his eyes from the cut on his brow and he couldn't blink it away . . . the bearded man was by the desk knocking books off the shelf . . . they sounded so loud when they hit the wooden floorboards . . . "Bloody typical," the bearded one was growling, "Montparnasse prances off after some petticoat leaving us to do the heavy work, and what do we get? Little fucking rich boy and all he's got is forty francs and a pocket watch." . . . Who was Montparnasse? . . . he jerked in the man's arms and was rewarded with another heavy blow . . . the largest man was sprawled in his large armchair drinking from his bottle . . . looking at him with something in his eyes that Enjolras wasn't sure he understood but it made him so afraid . . . "Might not be all we get out of it," he said . . .

Mardisoir took a step backwards, jumped when he felt the desk behind him. Then he remembered the pistol. He glanced to his right, the drawer was right there.

"Do you actually want something?" he said, stalling for time. "Is there some sort of compensation you expect to get out of this? Because you won't get any. I advise you to leave now before you get hurt."

Grantaire shook his head. "You damaged my friend so completely you couldn't hurt me further if you tried."

That's what you think, Mardisoir thought to himself as he opened the drawer and withdrew the pistol in one swift motion. He aimed it at the man and fired. The report echoed sharply in the air.

He lowered it, blinking from the smoke. It was as though the man hadn't even realised that he had been shot until it was too late. He looked down at the wound then back up at him again. Mardisoir had perhaps three seconds to gloat before he realised that the man was not stumbling backwards, not bleeding, not crying out.

For some strange reason he looked at the crow, only to find that it was looking right back at him.

Grantaire waited until he was sure had Mardisoir's undivided attention once more. Then he slowly reached into the wound and extracted the bullet. He held it between two fingers and watched Mardisoir's face was Mardisoir watched the wound close up in on itself leaving only a round dimpled scar.

He held the bullet up for Mardisoir to see. "Oh, look – you tried," he smirked.

The pistol clattered to the ground, dropping noisily from Mardisoir's suddenly nerveless fingers.

"Oh God . . ." he whispered.

"No use praying now," Grantaire said coolly. "No one's listening. Just like you told him that no one was listening that night."

. . . everything had changed . . . their bloodshot bleary eyes were half-mad . . . there was a new and terrifying edge to their taunts . . . he was on the floor trying to drag himself away from them but there was nowhere to go . . . "He very well could be a girl." . . . "He's as pretty as one, that's for sure." . . . "Bet you reel the petticoats in a dozen a time, eh, boy?" . . . then the large one's hand against his bruised cheek . . . "What do you know about life in the real world, lad? You have no fucking idea." . . . and the others closing in behind him . . . only one of them, the bald one, was hanging back . . .

Grantaire surged forward. All of a sudden his hands were around the man's throat, he had him slammed up against the desk. That hated face was an inch away from his, shining with cold sweat and eyes bulging with fear.

"I know," he snarled. "You've never done anything like that to a man before, and never have since. The next morning you could barely remember doing it and certainly didn't want to. But you did do it – because he was helpless and because you could."

"We were drunk!" Mardisoir's voice was a low, strangled shriek. "One thing led to another, it all just happened!"

. . . the men were on top of him . . . NO!!! . . . he tried to fight them but they were so strong . . . OH GOD, PLEASE NO!!! . . . a rough hand grabbed his head and wrenched it round . . . STOP IT!!! . . . ugly laughing faces leering down at him . . . a shard of broken glass . . . "Give us a smile, boy, or shall we cut one into your face for you?" . . . one of them was standing back, the bald one . . . STOP THEM!!! . . . but he didn't say a word . . . that deep ugly voice behind him . . . "Me first." . . . oh God, he was so afraid . . . SOMEONE HELP ME!!! . . .

Grantaire struck the man then, and the flesh felt good stinging against his knuckles. Mardisoir gasped beneath the blow. His nose began to bleed.

"Atrocities don't just happen," he told the man. "He never recovered from what you did to him."

"D-did he die from his wounds?" Mardisoir gasped. "We weren't supposed to hurt him that badly!"

Grantaire threw the larger man up across the desk then, as easily as Mardisoir had thrown Enjolras across the room. There was a letter-opener –

her name was marie aimery she was a widow and grandmother who lived alone it was a wrong address but they killed her anyway

– on the desk and he grabbed it up, held the tip against Mardisoir's throat. Not as sharp as a proper knife, but sharp enough to do the necessary damage. Mardisoir appeared to realise that, he stopped struggling.

"No," Grantaire said in a low voice. "He threw himself onto the barricades in the riots of June 1832. Nothing else could get rid of the filth that you and your friends left on him, so he tried to wash it away with his own blood. But as for what I came for . . ." He grabbed a handful of Mardisoir's hair and brought his head up. ". . . About these friends. I want their names."

Mardisoir was silent, save for his ragged breathing. Grantaire cocked his head, smiled benevolently behind the mask. "How do you think I got Bichot to give me yours? Here's a clue – it involved fingers."

The man fought beneath him, but only for a moment. Grantaire brought the blade of the letter-opener towards Mardisoir's right hand and by pressing lightly pinned it to the table top.

"You can tell me your friend's names now, or lose some appendages and then tell me. It's up to you."

Mardisoir swallowed. "I-it was six years ago," he whispered pleadingly. "I'm not sure I can remember."

. . . obscene pain . . . jeering drunken laughter all around him . . . "Hold him still!" . . . that hand across his mouth . . . stifling his screams . . .

The blade pressed down into the back of his hand. He felt it pierce the skin, felt the warm blood well around it.

"Alright!" The pressure lessened.

The mask looked down at him. He could see the man's eyes behind it, and oh how he wished he couldn't.

"I'm not sure where you'll be able to find them. But they're all here in Paris. Brujon. Gueulemer. Laveuve. That's who they were. It was Gueulemer who . . ." he closed his eyes, "who started it."

Grantaire nodded. "Plus Mardisoir makes four. What about the fifth man? The one who came later. The one with the knife."

Mardisoir only looked up at him. "I can't tell you that," he said at last. Before the masked man could speak, he continued. "You see that chest over there? There's silverware, jewellery, and about six hundred francs. You can take it all. I'll never speak of you to anyone."

The masked man looked down at him in silence for a long moment. "No thank you," he said. "Which finger shall we start with? You choose. I'm not that fussed."

Mardisoir said nothing, so he decided to start from the outside and work his way on in. He was not looking at Mardisoir's face when the man spoke next.

"He didn't give in without a fight, I'll give your friend that. I can't speak for the others, but I certainly had a few bruises of my own the next morning."

He looked up then. Mardisoir's face was the colour of ashes, but his eyes were bright, lucid and malevolent. The blade hovered just above the finger where it joined the hand.

The crow hopped up onto the desk, looked at him.

don't listen to him

"And the noise! I thought we'd have to gag him."

His voice when he came back to the Musain, Grantaire realised. It was a moment before he could collect himself and look at Mardisoir once more. His nose was broken and blood was oozing down his face, but Mardisoir was smiling.

"Of course, that's not all his mouth was good for. But Brujon's the one you'll have to ask about that."

And then Mardisoir twisted beneath him and Grantaire stumbled. A heavy boot kicked sideways, striking him, making him fall. Mardisoir rolled sideways and landed awkwardly, but on his feet. He seized up the pistol, half-remembering that it could prove useless. The crow flew from the desk to the top of one of the barrels.

"If he hadn't made such a fuss, we wouldn't have made such a mess of him," Mardisoir snarled.

Grantaire sprang to his feet following the crow with his eyes.

the sword boy

The sword was propped against a barrel, its sheath lying nearby. Already Grantaire's fingers were closing around the handle. Deciding not to give Mardisoir time to let off another shot, he lunged forward, using the blade to twist Mardisoir's firing hand to the side, across his own body. Then he kicked, making solid contact with Mardisoir's crotch. Once upon a time he would have frowned upon such things as dirty fighting. Oddly enough, now he didn't give a damn.

Mardisoir buckled to his knees. Grantaire brought the blade up to his face, then traced slowly across to his right ear, filled with golden loops.

"The name of the fifth man."

Mardisoir said nothing. So Grantaire gave the blade a flick and one of the golden loops tore out of the gypsy man's ear and hung glimmering dully on the end of the blade. Blood poured from the wounded ear and Mardisoir's hand went straight to it as he huddled whimpering on the floor.

"His name," Grantaire repeated.

The word was muffled but discernible. "M-montparnasse."

Grantaire lowered the blade. "Two more questions. Firstly, how much money were you paid?"

Mardisoir still did not look up at him. "A hundred francs," he muttered. "For each of us. Fifty before, and fifty after."

"And who was it paid you?"

"We never found out," he said. "Montparnasse came to us with the proposition. The transaction was done through him."

His ear hurt so much . . . everything seemed so far away. He closed his eyes and for a dizzying moment the student was standing before him, clothes ripped and bloody, but his gaze burned. He opened his eyes again and it was the masked man looming above him – and the crow hunched on his shoulder once more. There was something closer to him, and it took him a moment to recognise it as the barrel of his own pistol.

"Rape this," he heard the masked man say.

There was a loud noise. The world turned red and spun away. Mardisoir was surprised to find that he was almost glad to let it go.