"You know me! You know me! I'm a con just like you!"
George Smillie
Blood spilled in to the vile, dirty sink, staining the sides slightly. A damp cloth was added to the wound on his neck, as so to keep infection to a minimum. The young man winced in pain as the water stung his flesh. Jean Valjean removed the cloth and gently pressed his fingers against his neck, examining the full extent of the cut. He felt weaker than usual, and sat down on the mattress. Not that the mattress brought comfort, it was only a little softer than the stone floor. He reached for the side of the sink and wrapped a bandage around the wound. Before he could even begin to think about how badly he was hurt, his thoughts were broken by the familiar sound of a nightstick slamming against metal bars.
"Numbers 24600 to 24610, I want you all out in the work yard in one minute!" The voice disappeared.
"Damn . . ." Valjean sighed, and stood up. Moving over to the other mattress, he reached out a hand and shook the body lying in it. "Rupert . . . Rupert!"
The head looked up in to Valjean's face. "Whaddya want Jean?"
"Work yard . . ." Valjean reached out to the man and helped him up. The man had cuts and bruises all down his leg, and long, stringy, brown hair. His face was scrunched up, like a rat's.
"Alirgh' alrigh'." The two men stood together, and waited for the key keeper to unlock their cell.
Outside, the air was stale. Valjean was totally unaware of the time; all he could tell is that it must have been late, for it was dark. He had lost count of the time and the days. The months now, were starting to slip.
A barking voice echoed through the air. "Right! Two people to a group! If not cellmates, people the same strength and size! Now!" The rabble quickly organized themselves. A man dressed in an inspector's uniform, looked the men up and down angrily, as if staring at a new form of plague. "Do you know why I've brought you out here?" The majority of the convicts shook their heads. "I'll tell you! Yesterday, 100 Francs were stolen from inspector Touissant's office! I am here to find out who it was! I only have two main suspects . . . You two! What are your numbers?" He pointed an accusing finger at Valjean and his cellmate.
"24601," muttered Valjean. "24602 m'sieur," added the second.
"24601 and 24602 . . ." The man flicked through a notepad. "Jean Vajean and Rupert Thénardier . . ." A malicious smile crept over the man's lips. "You, 24601! Come here!"
Valjean stepped forward. The policeman gripped him by his hair and held him up to his height. "You remember me don't you 24601? The one who caught you trying to run, every time." Before letting him continue, the man smacked him in the chest with his nightstick. Valjean fell to the ground.
"Inspector Javert," Valjean moaned.
"Correct! Empty your pockets 24601." Fumbling through the holes in his rags, Valjean turned them inside out, revealing nothing.
Javert frowned. "And you! 24602! Step forward!" Trembling, Thénardier stepped forward. "Empty your pockets, immediately!"
"M'sieur-"
"Inspector!" Barked Javert. "How dare you address me?"
"I have nothing . . ."
"Show me then!"
He did so. Nothing except scraps of paper and leftover bits of food fell out. Javert's face turned an angry shade of red. This was not what he had been expecting. "Very well!" He spoke, regaining his composure. "You may return to your cell! The rest of you will undergo the same process as these two ingrates!" His search continued as Valjean and Thénardier returned to the cell block.
"Got it hidden under me mattress, the dear inspector'd never stop to check there. 'Ow stupid does he think we are?"
Valjean waved his head. He was tired. He still had 7 years to serve in the chain gang . . .
End
George Smillie
Blood spilled in to the vile, dirty sink, staining the sides slightly. A damp cloth was added to the wound on his neck, as so to keep infection to a minimum. The young man winced in pain as the water stung his flesh. Jean Valjean removed the cloth and gently pressed his fingers against his neck, examining the full extent of the cut. He felt weaker than usual, and sat down on the mattress. Not that the mattress brought comfort, it was only a little softer than the stone floor. He reached for the side of the sink and wrapped a bandage around the wound. Before he could even begin to think about how badly he was hurt, his thoughts were broken by the familiar sound of a nightstick slamming against metal bars.
"Numbers 24600 to 24610, I want you all out in the work yard in one minute!" The voice disappeared.
"Damn . . ." Valjean sighed, and stood up. Moving over to the other mattress, he reached out a hand and shook the body lying in it. "Rupert . . . Rupert!"
The head looked up in to Valjean's face. "Whaddya want Jean?"
"Work yard . . ." Valjean reached out to the man and helped him up. The man had cuts and bruises all down his leg, and long, stringy, brown hair. His face was scrunched up, like a rat's.
"Alirgh' alrigh'." The two men stood together, and waited for the key keeper to unlock their cell.
Outside, the air was stale. Valjean was totally unaware of the time; all he could tell is that it must have been late, for it was dark. He had lost count of the time and the days. The months now, were starting to slip.
A barking voice echoed through the air. "Right! Two people to a group! If not cellmates, people the same strength and size! Now!" The rabble quickly organized themselves. A man dressed in an inspector's uniform, looked the men up and down angrily, as if staring at a new form of plague. "Do you know why I've brought you out here?" The majority of the convicts shook their heads. "I'll tell you! Yesterday, 100 Francs were stolen from inspector Touissant's office! I am here to find out who it was! I only have two main suspects . . . You two! What are your numbers?" He pointed an accusing finger at Valjean and his cellmate.
"24601," muttered Valjean. "24602 m'sieur," added the second.
"24601 and 24602 . . ." The man flicked through a notepad. "Jean Vajean and Rupert Thénardier . . ." A malicious smile crept over the man's lips. "You, 24601! Come here!"
Valjean stepped forward. The policeman gripped him by his hair and held him up to his height. "You remember me don't you 24601? The one who caught you trying to run, every time." Before letting him continue, the man smacked him in the chest with his nightstick. Valjean fell to the ground.
"Inspector Javert," Valjean moaned.
"Correct! Empty your pockets 24601." Fumbling through the holes in his rags, Valjean turned them inside out, revealing nothing.
Javert frowned. "And you! 24602! Step forward!" Trembling, Thénardier stepped forward. "Empty your pockets, immediately!"
"M'sieur-"
"Inspector!" Barked Javert. "How dare you address me?"
"I have nothing . . ."
"Show me then!"
He did so. Nothing except scraps of paper and leftover bits of food fell out. Javert's face turned an angry shade of red. This was not what he had been expecting. "Very well!" He spoke, regaining his composure. "You may return to your cell! The rest of you will undergo the same process as these two ingrates!" His search continued as Valjean and Thénardier returned to the cell block.
"Got it hidden under me mattress, the dear inspector'd never stop to check there. 'Ow stupid does he think we are?"
Valjean waved his head. He was tired. He still had 7 years to serve in the chain gang . . .
End