I exist on the best terms I can.
The past is now part of my future,
The present is well out of hand."
– JOY DIVISION, "Heart and Soul"
Unsurprisingly enough, the dream involved the student. Laveuve rarely dreamed – even as a child his slumber was usually deep, dark and completely silent – but when he did dream he dreamed of monstrosities even greater than those he saw in his waking hours. The fair-haired young man was a recurring figure in Laveuve's dreams, even all these years later, and it was unsurprising because when Laveuve thought about it, that was where all of this had begun. Laveuve had hurt people before, that was undeniable, but when he dealt the first blow to that boy – a hard right that sent him spinning to the floor – his understanding of the difference between wrong and right became blindingly, shatteringly lucid in a way it had never been before or since.
He walked through a street he did not recognise and into a tavern with what looked like a Latin phrase of some kind painted across the facade. He could smell gunpowder in the air. The tavern was completely empty and he knew to walk across the floor and straight up the stairs to the second room, just as he knew who would await him there.
The young man was leaning against the far wall, arms folded. His face was calm and his eyes were cold. Laveuve could tell that the young man was dead and even in his dream he realised that he had known this all along. I'm sorry, he tried to say, but the words stuck in his throat as they often did in his dreams.
I'm beyond harm now, the young man replied in a voice that somehow was not his own. And I'm beyond help. What's done can't be undone. He seemed to speak without rancour but his words sent chills down Laveuve's spine.
The young man – this Enjolras – stepped slowly towards him. Laveuve might have fled except that his feet were suddenly as heavy as stone. So instead he waited in this strange room, suddenly aware of a dark figure sitting at a table in the corner. He did not actually see the stranger – he kept his eyes on the fair-haired man – but he was aware of him nonetheless.
There's always a choice, Justin Enjolras told him. Always a chance.
And then one of his hands flew out and seized Laveuve's. Laveuve stood rigid as the icy fingers forced his hand to open, palm upwards, and placed something in it, wrapping his fingers tight around it once more. He retained his grasp on Laveuve's wrist and although the look in his eyes suggested that the young man was trying to help him, Laveuve knew in the depths of his soul that this was anything but the case.
It usually comes at a cost, Justin Enjolras said in that same strange, flat voice. But this one's for free.
And then he turned away and was gone.
Laveuve slowly opened his right hand to see what the young man had pressed into it, and stared down at the bullet cupped in his palm. Then someone somewhere began pounding on a door and Laveuve opened his eyes and returned to the waking world.
He began to sit up slowly and quietly, as not to rouse his wife – but then remembered that she was long gone. As always the remembrance came bitterly but he had no time to dwell on that now because the hammering at the door persisted.
Dragging his clothes on as he went, Laveuve made his way to the door and opened it as far as the chain would allow. Corinot stood in the hall, rainwater dripping off his overcoat and low peaked cap and pooling on the floor. His eyes were steely and his thin-lipped mouth set in a taut line.
"Something's happened," Corinot said. "You better let me in."
There's been another fucking crisis, was Laveuve's first weary thought; quickly followed with a resentful And he had to come to me, didn't he? Aloud, he grunted in affirmation and held the door open for the other man.
There were still dull red embers glowing in the fireplace, and Laveuve stirred them up before throwing another piece of wood over them. Corinot was seated at the table, his cap now in his hands as he twisted and tugged at the thick coarse material.
"What's happened?" Laveuve asked brusquely, still half asleep and annoyed at the fact.
Corinot looked up quickly and met his gaze without flinching. "Mardisoir's dead."
It took a few seconds for the words to make their way through the mist enshrouding Laveuve's mind. When they did, the mist rapidly dissipated. He knew better than to question his man – if Corinot said it, it was indisputable fact.
"When?" he asked flatly. "How?"
"Less than an hour ago." Corinot exhaled a long breath of air and for the first time Laveuve saw just how shaken up he was. "Someone walked right into the Scylla and Charybdis and shot him. I was there when it happened, in the front room, along with Briel and that new man. When we heard the shot, Briel and I ran into the room and saw the man standing right there, with Mardisoir at his feet."
"You were there," Laveuve repeated. "Then why didn't you stop it?"
His tone was sharp and Corinot winced at it. "He told us that Mardisoir was expecting him, that Bichot had sent him there. He knew the password and everything."
Numbed, Laveuve nodded slowly as he sat down. He became aware that he had broken out into a cold sweat – or was that from the dream?
"Where's the man now?"
Corinot blinked as though he hadn't quite caught the question. "He got away," he said at last.
"Got away?" Laveuve blinked furiously at the other man. "You and Briel were there, and you couldn't hold him between the two of you?"
"He had a gun," Corinot muttered.
"Right." Laveuve nodded slowly again, processing this as rapidly as he could and feeling sicker by the moment. Mardisoir dead, just like that. And it had to happen now, of all times. He passed a hand over his face and felt the stubble prickle beneath his fingers. He must have forgotten to shave again. "Well, what did the man look like?"
Corinot opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.
"Speak, man," Laveuve snapped.
Corinot spread his large hands. "I – I'm not sure," he said at last, sounding as close to helpless as Laveuve had ever heard him. "I didn't get a good look at his face, neither of us did. He was wearing a mask."
That wasn't entirely unheard of, Laveuve had to admit. "What type of mask? Was it one of the, what do they call themselves these days, the Banditos?"
"No, it wasn't black, it wasn't one of the Banditos. It was a gold mask, like you see the actors wearing in the theatre plays." He frowned. "I've never heard of that before."
"Neither have I." Laveuve closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that that horrible dizzy sick feeling would go away. It didn't. When he reopened his eyes, Corinot was looking at him and his usual stolid countenance was returning. Laveuve was more or less grateful – Corinot could usually be depended upon.
"He was working for someone; he asked for you by name."
"Just me?"
"No – all of you. Including Montparnasse."
"Montparnasse."
Corinot nodded, obviously as taken aback as Laveuve was himself. "He didn't strike me as a local – he said he was after Montparnasse, but the way he said it, I don't think he quite grasped the ramifications of it all."
"Whoever sent him probably didn't either." Laveuve almost had to laugh. "Otherwise he wouldn't have sent a single man, he'd have sent an army."
"That's what I thought. But there was something about this man. I can't put my finger on it, but I could imagine he'd be worthy of much consideration in a fight, weapon or no weapon."
"That may be. But what was his message?"
"He said that your sins have been remembered and that he was here to collect a debt of some sorts. And he said that Justin Enjolras sends his regards. Does that mean anything to you?"
Justin Enjolras sends his regards.
Laveuve died a hundred thousand deaths in that very second. But he kept his countenance guarded and his voice level as he replied, "Not right now, no. I'll have to think about that one."
Thankfully Corinot didn't suspect anything. "I think he wanted me to pass that message on to all of you. But I'll just leave it with you, will I?"
Inwardly reeling and grasping for any solid thought to cling to, it took Laveuve a moment to realise that despite the seemingly careless tone, Corinot was almost pleading with him. He did not want to be the bringer of dark warnings to Montparnasse or any of his associates. Laveuve really couldn't blame him.
"What did you do with the body?" he managed to ask at last.
"I got Briel and the other man to dispose of it, what do you think? I'm not entirely stupid."
Corinot's voice was bitter and Laveuve knew that he was ashamed of being shaken so.
"I know you're not," he replied. "And thank you for coming here so quickly, you did well."
He rose to his feet and Corinot did the same, looking steadier for having shared the news and passed on the designated message.
"Is there anything else I should do?" the man asked him.
Laveuve considered for a moment. "Ensure that there are no signs of a struggle at the Scylla and Charybdis. As far as you and the other two are concerned, Mardisoir was gone from the tavern by midnight. Do you think any of Mardisoir's men had anything to do with this?"
Corinot did not even need to pause to consider. "No. Definitely not. Since '35 they've all been as loyal as you could wish for."
"That's what I thought. In that case, inform them. From now on they will report to you, and you will report to me. And I want Bichot found."
"I don't think he'd be behind this."
"Neither do I – the man's got the impetus of a damp dishrag. But he's talked to this masked assassin and that's the best lead we've got. So have him found, and if he won't come forward then drag him out yourself."
Corinot nodded again, brisker this time. Laveuve extended his hand to clasp Corinot's, but when Corinot looked down at it his expression changed. "Your hand," he said sharply.
Laveuve looked down at it. He had dug his nails into the flesh of his palm while sleeping, deep enough to draw blood. Now that he noticed it, he began to notice the discomfort – faint, a stinging buzzing sensation that resonated deeper within him.
It usually comes at a cost but this one's for free.
He withdrew the hand hastily and was glad when Corinot declined to comment further. Instead, the other man donned his cap and made for the door - and hesitated.
"Will you be telling Montparnasse?" he asked carefully.
"No." Laveuve shook his head. "He'll be back in Paris next week and this might very well be cleared up by then."
"You think the man will show himself again?"
Laveuve shrugged and covered his unease with irritation. "I'm no clairvoyant, Corinot. Go."
As Corinot strode out into the rain, no doubt finding security of sorts in his new status as well as being given an immediate task to focus on, Laveuve remained sitting at the table with his right hand clenched tightly into a fist – not caring that his nails were biting even deeper into the shallow crescents burned into his palm.
Justin Enjolras sends his regards.
Back then he had had a wife and child and no job. Montparnasse – even he had been something less than a major player back then; a petty cut-throat who either ran with some sly old fox of a trickster (Tavernier, was it?) or slunk about the back streets and ragged velvet bordellos of the city alone with his tailored waistcoat and bright blade gleaming. He did most things for the right fee and men who knew Montparnasse also knew that if they approached him at any given time, chances were he would be aware of a job that somebody wanted done and was more than happy to share the work around.
The first time was in 1829 and he hadn't approached Montparnasse himself, a friend had been the go-between. The job had been a simple one, all he had to do was take care of box of jewellery for a few days until somebody else came to transfer it on. He hadn't dared to ask where the necklaces and rings had come from but it had kept a roof over his family's head for another month. But the longer Laveuve looked for honest work and found none, the easier it became to go to Montparnasse, virtually holding his cap in hand, and shamefacedly ask if there was anything going. Handling property soon became acquiring property but every time Laveuve walked out of a stranger's house with a laden box under his arm, leaving a shaken man or weeping woman behind, he told himself that it couldn't be helped. If he hadn't done it then somebody else would have and God knew he needed the money.
He had received offers for more ambitious jobs – the first had been in the spring of '30, some poor brave fool fighting tenant eviction in a building on the rue Saint-Jacques needed, as Brujon put it mildly, to be made an example of. The job would have paid well but Laveuve turned it down, almost disgusted . . . even more disgusted because he had caught himself seriously considering it. But by November 1831 his eldest son was ill and his wife was eager to leave their ill-appointed rooms for something better now that they could – he never told her what he did that brought the money in, she thought he had become foreman at the factory – and he just needed a little more to make the first payment on the new apartment.
He received word from Brujon one day and with an uneasy churning sensation in his stomach he showed up at the designated tavern at the designated time, to find Montparnasse there, with Mardisoir as well as Gueulemer, whom he did not know so well at that time.
"What's this about?" Gueulemer asked.
Montparnasse deliberately adjusted one of the cuffs on his fancy new coat. A dark purple material, Laveuve noted, with a sheen to it. "There's a student who lives in a building on the rue de Coutard," he replied.
"So?"
"I've been asked to find some friends who'll go pay him a little visit."
Laveuve shifted uneasily in his seat. "A visit? What for?"
"To deliver a fruit basket and our fondest regards. What do you think?"
Mardisoir smirked. "What's his name?" There was no need for him to further express his contempt of the fine young gentlemen they all saw traipsing around the city, often walking through streets where they had no right to be just as if they owned them.
Montparnasse sipped his wine before replying. "Justin Enjolras. He's a political – part of a group that call themselves the Alphabet Lovers Society, or something like that."
Brujon nodded. "The Friends of the ABC." He spoke the words mockingly and they were greeted with derisive snorts from around the table. "Schoolboys for the most part, playing at changing the world. You know the type."
Montparnasse shrugged an elegant shoulder. "I try to stay out of politics."
"Most of these students are harmless enough, though. What'd he do – he owe someone money?"
"Stepped on the wrong set of toes."
Already Laveuve had decided that he did not like this. But he remained silent.
"He's another Beaulieu, then," Gueulemer grunted. "So what's the story? Who wants him dead?"
"You know I exercise a policy of absolute discretion," Montparnasse replied coolly, "and they don't want him dead – just shaken up a little."
"Shaken up." Gueulemer looked dubious. "That sounds inexpensive."
Montparnasse smirked. "That was my exact same thought. But there'll be a hundred francs in it for each of you."
The silence hung heavily in the air. Brujon finally broke it with a long whistle. "Why so much for just a beating?"
Montparnasse shrugged. "Ours is not to question why. Ours is to pay this Monsieur Enjolras a visit and do our best to persuade him to consider a change in hobby."
"How far do we take it?" Gueulemer asked.
"We shouldn't have to do too much damage. He's just a schoolboy remember, probably never gone toe-to-toe with the likes of us in his life. Slap him around a little, mess up his nice papers, show him what a sharp knife can do in the right pair of hands . . ." Montparnasse smiled radiantly at them all and Laveuve felt almost physically ill. "And there you have it."
"When do we do it?" Brujon's hazel eyes were as mild as always.
Montparnasse finished his wine. "It needs to be done by the day of the Fernier trial. You all up for it?"
Gueulemer laughed. "For a hundred francs? That's the most I've ever been paid not to kill a man, I must say."
"Mardisoir?"
The gypsy man grunted. "Do we get the money all at once?"
"Fifty before, and fifty after. The deal's being done through me."
Montparnasse seemed to take Mardisoir's second grunt for affirmation. He looked over at Laveuve, eyebrows raised. "Laveuve?"
All eyes turned to him and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't do these jobs," he said at last.
Montparnasse stifled a laugh. "These jobs have never paid a hundred francs before."
"Look." Laveuve stared down at his hands and avoided the young man's eyes. "Will you need a look-out? I'll do that for you."
Mardisoir shook his head, half amused and half bemused. "This is the rue de Coutard, man. Everybody there who knows what's best for them knows to keep out of other people's business. We won't have to worry about neighbours stepping forward, trust me."
Gueulemer, never subtle, just shrugged. "If you're not game, that's fine by me." He looked over to Montparnasse. "Do we get to split his hundred between us, then?"
Montparnasse waved him down, still looking straight at Laveuve. His smooth brow creased with a mockery of concern. "How is your oldest brat, Laveuve? Still unwell? Medicine's so expensive, isn't it? These doctors are worse than highway bandits."
Afterwards, he had tried to tell himself that he wasn't like the others. He had needed that money. And it wasn't as though he had done – that – the way the others had. But every time he tried to convince himself that he had only done what was necessary for himself and his family, he remembered the dizzy sickened look in the boy's eyes as he tried to lift himself up from the floor, seemingly unaware of the blood already dripping down his ashen face. He remembered how afterwards, Brujon and Mardisoir had congratulated him on being the first to deal a blow. He remembered how thin and frail the boy's shoulders had seemed beneath his large hands, and how he had continued to fight and struggle even as they pinned him to the floor. And Laveuve remembered standing surrounded by a torrent of noise and raw animal pain, knowing that things had gone completely out of control, and just standing there eyes closed and inwardly screaming I don't care if they fucking kill him, just please God, please PLEASE make him be quiet . . .
One hundred francs. One hundred reasons why.
The pain in his hand still gnawed dully but he didn't mind that, it gave him something to think about. Something other than his life undone and a wife who called him a murderer and looked at him with eyes of hate and the nightmares in which he was surrounded by the people he'd damaged over the years and how they never responded to his pleas for forgiveness, only stared. Now he could hear cries and sobs echoing in the rain that drove down against the roof. And why was there a strange uncertain fear rising and creeping round him, brushing against him as softly as black feathers?
There's always a choice. There's always a chance. It usually comes at a cost, but this one's for free.