บท 3: Chapter III
Summer past into autumn with lazy ambiguity. The windy Parisian streets crowded with umbrellas and stoles, and people donned their winter coats. The frontal stairs to the entrance of Fernes Prison on Allée des Thuyas resembled a cascade; the mosses growing through the crevices were drowning and greasy, and the dank, wet atmosphere was suffocating for those who were used to a more gentle environment.
So it was claimed, by a certain young student climbing those steps, that the draught reeked of sorrow, desolation, and delightful retribution. Weeks prior he had been sighted on the gravesite of Père Lachaise, delivering his eulogy. Today, the young man was here to visit another, whom he considered lost.
Richard Crawford was overwhelmed with dejection as he recognised James Guillory make his way across the long slate-grey room with its dense stone floor and ominous grille, behind which the inmates of Fresnes Prison were allowed to share a few moments with their visitors. Guillory was dressed soberly as befitting of the sombre situation. He had forsaken the lavish suits he habitually wore and instead donned a solemn grey ensemble with matching coat. His gloves were too loose on his hands and his hair was combed down severely. James sat down in front of Richard but declined to meet his gaze, preferring to rivet his eyes upon the green paint-peeling counter instead.
Something very akin to exhaustion clothed to his person.
"I won't be keeping you long, Richard," he said. "People are waiting on me downstairs."
Richard did not reply for he couldn't think of anything to say. He had not expected a sign of warmth or sympathy, and so Richard was not surprised when he found none. Secretly, he had always allowed a small part of himself to hope that James might yet forgive him, but in truth, Richard knew James never could. Drawing deep breaths, he gripped tight the chain that linked the greasy cuffs round his wrists to those at his ankles.
"How are you?" He asked Guillory at last.
The muscle in the young man's jaw slid and clenched. "I am well."
"I am very glad to hear so."
James shifted in his seat, crossed his legs and carefully, deliberately, folded his hands. His eyes darted over the crevices of the counter and Richard regarded his wan complexion with weary assessment: James looked fordone. Richard's whole being clenched in self-awareness.
"How is Elaine?"
"Did you contact your father yet?" James said.
"Yes. He said he'd make some calls."
"Ah."
Another moment of silence. The hushed bickering of a couple two steps from them intermingled with the far-off thud of heavy doors and the faint tones of a mother consoling her child in the corridor. Richard's clothing felt suddenly restrictive, his face was growing hot and he'd broken out in a faint sweat at his hairline. He cautiously pulled his collar; it was damp and seemingly made of wet cardboard.
"That was three weeks ago," Richard added.
And that made James finally meet his eyes. He appeared pale yet determined, frightfully aware of his position and the facts at hand. Something in Richard was glad to see Guillory overcome with such resolve— and yet, despondency was all that filled Richard's chest as he heard James remark with a vile overtone:
"Do you seek my pity by saying that?"
"I wouldn't want your pity."
"Oh! You're too proud to expect any pity—" The bitter sarcasm masked James's pain but Richard saw the tears form in the corners of his eyes. "Don't insult me, Richard. You're the very embodiment of self-pity."
Richard regarded him. He was sweating now, hot runnels down his back. The tight band of anxiety around his heart contracted. His throat was tight and coarse. His expression vacuous.
Guillory took a faltering breath. "You're pathetic—" he said under his breath as if to bolster himself. James pulled a handkerchief from the inside of his coat and blew his nose. "You're utterly pathetic."
"I didn't mean to upset you."
The words sounded unexpectedly apathetic.
James shook his head in grim exasperation; disbelief at Richard's audacity clouded his visage in menace:
"Try again."
"I don't know what you expect me to say, James. And I'm running out of ways to apologise."
"No, I have only heard excuses— no apologies."
"I don't know where to begin."
"Improvise."
"You were there. You know what happened."
"I know what you did. And I know what you want me to tell you. That it wasn't that bad. That it was an accident. But it was that bad. And you know it—" James's voice hitched. A hoarse cough. He grew calmer in a moment and whispered, more to himself that to Richard: "you know it was."
Richard Crawford didn't say it aloud. But greatly agreed. He didn't dream about that day. Not often. But sometimes — sometimes…
Sometimes Richard awoke with a stiffness in his limps and the taste of blood in the air. His heart would ache and rouse him from sleep, and Richard would be convinced the blood was still seeping between his fingers, still coating his lashes. He woke with terror on his tongue and a name in his throat and with a gasp he would rise up, gripping the sheets in his hands and panting.
"I know you think you don't deserve this. But I stopped caring for what you deserve," James fisted the handkerchief as his eyes focused from the grooves of the stone tiles to the creviced counter to the slip iron bars that separated them, "I stopped asking whether you deserved this and started asking whether I deserved this. I decided I did not. I do not deserve to be consumed and broken by what happened—" A heavy sneeze from the guard by the door broke through the expanse. Guillory tensed and cast a shaken look back.
"So... I want you to stop expecting anything. Please— stop calling me. Stop writing Elaine," he regarded Richard with a stern but pleading look, "she's terrified. What did you expect, — Richard?" Guillory sniffed and hid behind his hands as he rested his elbows on the counter, "—and we're all so horribly tired."
Richard himself felt as if he could close his eyes and fall asleep right then and there. But he couldn't. If he did, he would inevitably rouse again, and James would be gone. That was perhaps the hardest of it all. And so his heart tore from his chest when James spoke those vile words:
"I doubt we shall speak again."
He had anticipated them. Had dreaded them and imagined them countless times ere this visit. Richard felt empty. He wished to be enraged, he wished to be absolutely incandescent, but knew it would be nothing more than another desperate appeal against the reality that he was the one to blame; he was the one who caused all of this. And so Richard underwent the dismissal with the same anguish if someone had reached inside him and mutilated half his soul. Humiliation, self-disgust, and misery all churning into something that felt like retribution designed by the devil himself. Because wasn't it always his fault? Didn't he bring it all upon himself in the end?
"I'm not going anywhere," Richard said.
He wanted to hear James state it plainly: he would not come here again. They both knew that for a fact and Richard wanted James to look him in the eyes and say those words aloud.
"Perhaps if I find the time."
Liar. Richard screamed in silent soliloquy— Liar. Liar. Liar.
"Very well," he said.
Guillory rose abruptly. His eyes were fixed on where the iron bars disappeared into the counter. He appeared utterly lost with himself.
"Goodbye," Richard said, cautiously. James's eyes sprang up to him. Two seconds. A tiresome breath. The young man looked away. Richard did not expect nor receive an answer. Only the resounding of James's heels through the corridor and towards the staircase, growing fainter as they distanced themselves.
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