Prologue
Wafts of caustic smoke billowed from a cigarette in the corner of Jean-Paul’s mouth. The fumes bounced erratically in the blustery night air, before amalgamating in a hazy symbiosis with the smog of pollutants that sat perpetually over the dark Parisian streets.
He turned the fur collar of his trenchcoat up, trying and failing to counter the misty drizzle that seemed to be coming in sidewards and upwards so much as downwards. He pushed on with head down along old cobbled roads, the glow from the spotlights on the rooftops above penetrating through the fog just enough to cast the quiet streets in an almost spectral glow.
The part of Paris where Jean-Paul lived was around what used to be called the quatrieme arrondissement, where the river Seine split on its path around the Île de la Cité. Nestled within the bullet-pocked Renaissance revival architecture of this district, known now just as the Jewish district, was the Hotel-de-Ville. Once a local administrative building, the once ostentatious old hotel was now crowned with barbed wire and drone jammers; a makeshift town hall of sorts. It was where the locals would catch up with friends, buy cheap food and drink from a bustling market, as well as a range of other wares, some not so strictly legal.
Heading North in that direction, Jean-Paul crossed the bridge of the Seine from the Île de la Cité, the bitter breeze strengthening as it funneled down the natural channel the river cut through the city. As he crossed the bridge, he left behind the island which had one held the Notre Dame cathedral and its well-manicured gardens in the middle of the river.
The cathedral was a burned-out shell now, and the gardens had become a shantytown of shipping containers and inflatable domes; self-constructed hovels for the very poorest with nowhere else to go. The Jewish district was one of Paris’ darkzones; collective pockets of the city where religious or moral repugnance for the growing unity of man and machine had forced people together in economic and social castration.
Steadfast rejection of the cybernetic enhancements and Artificial Intelligence programming so common elsewhere had cast these people asunder from the ever-accelerating society just outside their door. In doing so, it continued to squeeze them together in high unemployment and squalor. They built upwards where they could, reclaimed any unused space, just to find a small plot of land to call their own.
Entering the cobbled square of the old Hotel-de-Ville, Jean-Paul finally braved the biting wind, eyes watering in the wind as he found his destination. The square was quiet. A few locals gathered around a fire in an old drum, chatting away in a huddle. A few of the windows in the grand old buildings around the squares showed signs of life, having long given themselves over to habitation.
Nestled in the ground floor of one such building across the square was a bar, the Crimson neon sign over the door for which advertised it as ‘La Cachette’. It was here Jean-Paul entered, the humid condensation from the chattering bodies and cigarette smoke a welcome embrace from the cold outside.
Walking into the vast old room, he was met by the familiar sight of candlelit tables and dancing couples surrounding a dimly lit stage, where a jazz band backed a chanteuse halfway through a mellow number under the spotlights. Paying little heed to the entertainment, Jean-Paul instead pushed left through a crowd of bodies towards the bar, seating himself on a red stool in the far corner, away from the other patrons.
Pierre was tending bar, and like the bar itself was a welcome anachronism from the outside world, in a pressed white shirt, bow-tie, and braces. The music and the dress code all harkened back to simpler times, at least in the eyes of the patrons, and La Cachette regularly drew a good crowd of locals who took comfort in the escapism. Tonight was no exception.
Pierre noticed Jean-Paul and nodded sagely. Within a minute a Whiskey Sour slid across the mahogany, coming to a stop in front of Jean-Paul with consummate ease.
‘What brings you around tonight, Monsieur?’ Pierre asked, once the crowd at the bar had eased. He slid a long, thin cigarette into his mouth with his left hand, flipping and striking a light with his right almost instantaneously, in a well-practiced fluid back and forth motion.
‘A little business, Pierre.’
‘Ahhh. With Monsieur Goddard? He doesn’t normally arrive until later on.’ Pierre informed.
‘That’s not a problem. Happy to wait. Just keep them coming until then.’ Jean-Paul nodded towards the half-empty drink on the bar, acknowledging internally quite how well the friendly barman was able to keep a tab on just who knew who, and who spoke to who, in a bar as busy as this. Nothing got past him, it seemed.
Pierre was up to the task. Acknowledging the unspoken request for peace, he returned to drying glasses and serving other customers, keeping the drinks coming as the late evening fell away in a haze of smoke, piano solos, brass, and sax. Jean-Paul contented himself to rest, propping himself on his elbow on the bar, the rest of the world evanescing into the background as he welcomed the familiar warm glow the alcohol bought on.
After a couple of hours, and numerous drinks, a figure sat on the stool right next to him. Tall and handsome, clean-shaven, with chestnut hair slicked back, the figure in a dark olive peacoat cut a sharp antithesis to the baggy-eyes and five o’clock shadow sported by Jean-Paul. Before he could properly awake from his reverie, he felt the man slide a heavy package subtly into the outside pocket of his coat.
’The little present you requested, mon ami’.
‘Taken your time, Luc.’
‘These are not such an easy thing to find, JP. No ID lock, no database tagging. A rare and expensive antique these days.’
‘You’re telling me, my friend. That’s why you had me pay up front.’ Jean-Paul winked at his friend, grasping his shoulder in unspoken thanks. Luc was well known for his resourceful ability to obtain certain goods of value to the local community. His main racket was Chinese branded whiskey and cigarettes that were considerably cheaper than the local alternatives, a skill of which La Cachette no doubt availed, but this was something else entirely.
’Perhaps now you can share with me why you need such a thing, mon ami. I hope you have nothing silly planned?’ Luc enquired, a look of genuine concern on his face as he stared intently at Jean-Paul.
‘Nothing for you to worry yourself with Luc. In fact, I hope not to have to use it. But it behooves oneself to have a little protection these days. Can you stay for a drink?’
‘Afraid not. Big shipment coming in, someone has to rally the troops. And be careful my friend. She is loaded, so no foolishness, OK?’ Luc added, tapping the outer pocket of Jean-Paul’s coat.
‘Of course not, Luc’ Jean-Paul lied, standing up to hug his friend before watching him disappear as quickly as he had arrived into the haze of bodies and smoke.
Resisting the temptation to reach inside his coat pocket, Jean-Paul turned back to the bar. As he settled once again into his reverie, a woman caught his eye at the far end of the stools.
She seemed to be staring at him intently. He turned to look behind him, but no one was close by. He had never seen her in La Cachette before, a young redhead with a faceful of piercings and a baggy black hoodie under a denim jacket. She wasn’t a regular patron of the bar, and it struck Jean-Paul with the way she was dressed that it didn’t seem like her usual haunt, her fashion sense more akin to the techno-crowd out in the Neon District.
Her stare seemed to cut right through Jean-Paul, as though she could sense what was bubbling underneath his well-practiced vacant exterior glaze. He wondered if she had seen Luc pass the item into his pocket, but quickly supposed it didn’t much matter. Writing her off as a lost young adventurer from the City brave enough to see how the other half lived, Jean-Paul turned back to Pierre and nodded for another drink.
Taking the opportunity to light up another cigarette, Jean-Paul settled back into his rhythm. He took his time over this drink, swirling the amber foam in the light of the bar with an unusual melancholy that he hadn't reserved for his previous refreshments. When he did look back across the bar, the girl was gone.
Savoring the last drops, Jean-Paul stubbed out the cigarette, and placed a fistful of notes on the bar, thanking Pierre. It was a bit old school, paying with physical currency. Looked a bit silly too, having to pay with a thick wad of notes, the fault of the rampant hyperinflation - but Pierre didn’t seem to mind, and Jean-Paul supposed it felt more authentic to him in the old bar. Turning his coat up once again, he took a last look around and headed for the door.
The cold outside hit him like a freight train. He welcomed the age-old trap, sitting at a bar for hours without moving, knowing that when you do stand up, the drink comes to meet you like the proverbial freight train, the numbing thumping of the alcohol taking over the senses. Stumbling out of the light of the bar, Jean-Paul headed towards home, reaching greedily into his pocket and pulling out the package as soon as he was safely in the shadows.
Unwrapping the fabric, he pulled out a revolver. It was old-school. Third model Smith and Wesson revolver, chambered for .44 caliber and fully loaded. Original nickel finish, dark wooden grip.
These days most guns that came by more legitimate channels were ID tagged, meaning you couldn’t fire them without your ID registered on a database, confirmed by a fingerprint scanner on the gun. That was more trouble than it was worth. So Jean-Paul had to turn to the relics - harder to find and more expensive, but in this case, well worth the wait.
Rewrapping the weapon and tucking it back into his pocket, Jean-Paul fought his way home through the wind and rain, as well as his own unsteady legs. The wide boulevards of the Île de la Cité, which had once been busy night and day with traffic and people, once housing sprawling street cafes and patisseries, was deadly quiet.
The trees that lined the street were long since dead, choked from bloom by the toxic smog that sat over the city. The buildings had long been requisitioned for more housing, the old shop fronts boarded up. It was into one such building that Jean-Paul entered, making his way up an old set of stairs lit only by a single filament bulb to the top floor.
His room was sparse, one long narrow space with a small window at the end that barely saw any light. Even just four floors up, the fog of the city sat outside the window, cloying and oppressive. Bare wooden floors, running the length of the room, were punctuated only by a bedframe and small set of drawers in the centre of the room, a single chair by the window, and a small kitchen unit by the door. The single bulb hanging from the ceiling added to the overall ambiance with its halcyon phosphorescence; casting a glow over the last refuge of a man with very little to live for.
Throwing his coat onto the bed, Jean-Paul took out the gun and headed to the window. The top of the drawer set held additional prizes; a barely touched bottle of cheap Chinese whiskey, and a single photo frame, within which was a photo of Jean-Paul and a woman in what appeared to be much happier times.
Putting the bottle under his arm, Jean-Paul picked up the photoframe and stumbled into the chair, allowing himself a gallows chuckle at what a cliche he had become. He took large drags from the bottle as he stared at the picture in his hand. Lighting a cigarette once more, he allowed the memories of her to wash over him.
The guilt of what happened to her had never left him. Sometimes it just sat in the back of his mind like a distant phantasmagoria, a cheap facsimile of the pain he had once felt, lingering just enough to keep him awake at night, or seep into his thoughts when he awoke, knowing he would not drift back off. But now, given free reign by the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, it tore at him with a rot that felt as fresh now as it had done ten years ago.
Since then it had slowly abraded his psyche, like a dripping tap in the night that he could hear, but not turn off. Now it was time to end it. To turn it all off.
Taking one last drag of his cigarette, Jean Paul unwrapped the gun and closed his eyes. He pushed the gun barrel into his mouth. The metallic taste of the nickel reminded him of blood. Bile rose in his throat as he put his finger on the trigger, tears falling freely down wind-torn cheeks as he let the photoframe tumble to the floor. His hand was shaking, his whole body was shaking, as a sea of memories swirled by in a flash. The man he had once been. The man he had become. He took in one large breath, summoning his final courage.
No good.
The bile rose again. He ran to the sink, just in time to empty the contents of his stomach. The smell of whiskey and bile burnt at his nose and eyes, as he cursed his own cowardice.
He didn’t hear the door open as he collapsed on the floor. But even in his drunken stupor, he sensed a presence at the door. Looking up, he saw the outline of a body standing in the dim light of the hallway. As it came into focus, he made out the shape of a woman.
She was speaking to him, but he couldn’t hear the words. It was as though he was underwater. The copper glow from the spotlight reflected off piercings and auburn hair as the figure moved to stand over him. His mind struggled for a moment to place the features, his mind gripping for a thread like a wet bar of soap. Then he had it.
The girl from the bar?
Not sure if he was seeing things, Jean-Paul made a last grunt, and rolled onto his back, relieved as a dark and welcome unconsciousness washed over him.
