Conversation · Jean Vicquemare

"You can't be a cop. You're a child. And you say 'f****t' every four seconds."

"But I didn't promise anything."

"You gonna lie after what we just been through? Let Cuno refresh you: Cuno said he'd take your crippled ass to the island, if you take Cuno to Jamrock. Boatman Cuno."

I'm quite sure it wasn't like that, sire.

Perhaps it was an unspoken agreement between you and the junior officer?

"Guys. Cuno's enrolling in a junior officer program."

"No, he's not. He's twelve."

"Cuno's fuckin' nineteen."

"You have to be fifteen for the junior officer program -- you're not even that."

"Hey, f***t! You don't get it. Cuno's got pig all over him -- Cuno smells of bacon grease. Been seen with you. Fuckin' informant shit. You think no one sees* this?" He spreads his arms.

"They're gonna hang me by the nuts if you leave me here. You want that on you? A dead kid?" He narrows his eyes. "Or you want Cuno at your station, solving shit? Like we just did."

"No, he's not. What is he, ten? Eleven?"

"Honestly -- anything that ends this trial is okay with me." A quick nod.

But he's been drinking, she thinks. This is exactly how he gets out of this every time. It's bad for him, but...

"No." There's a silence. "Sure, you got the case together -- you can do policework -- in bouts. That's not a surprise to me."

"Even the insect -- I don't care. But you're an alcoholic. And you've been drinking -- again. I won't let my life unravel because of this."

"Jean -- I think he hasn't. I can see it on his face..."

The bloating has gone down since you woke up that morning...

"Okay, so he's stayed clear for what? A week?" He sighs.

"It's tough. One of the toughest addictions to overcome. Comparable only to heavy synthetic opiates. Even morphine is easier to kick than alcohol -- statistically. The odds are against him. Especially at his age."

He nods. "He's too old. He's been like this for too long. I've seen him try many times. It's a farce by now."

They're leaving. They're all turning away from you.

No. You can figure it out. Replace it! Replace the alcohol with amphetamine. Or GBL! Fuck it -- morphine! Graffito removal agent! Anything. It'll buy you time. All you need is time.

No. You can stop. Just wade through the hell. Month after month. Year after year -- you against the nothingness. It's possible, because time is possible.

If you declare your life forfeit; if you declare yourself a doomed man... A doomed man does not need comfort. From anything. He can go on without drink, or help. Like a clockwork.

For the world.

For Revachol.

Compared to the intersection, in front of Video Revachol 24 -- it's nothing. Compared to that, everything is possible.

Think! You can detect. In Jamrock. Boogie Street. Couron. Le Royaume, underground. Coal City. On the 8/81-- it will all be yours to sieve through when the last snow has melted.

Stop and you can go to the Burnt Out Quarter. And meet me there -- wafting above the burnt ruins. Like the smell of caramel -- Le Retour is waiting.

And Station 41 and the glow of its desk lamps, the clicking of coffee mugs, clouds of cigarette smoke and the ringing telephone... your youth. There is still a way back.

The houses, the streets, the motorways singing. Hold on. This is a fight we can win.

"I cannot. I cannot live without this job... fuck you then! And fuck me! I'll go."

"Listen to this shit, man..." He throws up his hands.

"Detective." She looks at Vicquemare. "I just don't want this trial to go on any longer. It's cold outside, and... let's just go."

"Fucking Harry... Fuck you for bringing this kid with you. It's only because he's defending you -- it's the only reason you're not staying here to die."

It's more than that. He just can't. One final time...

"You manipulative son of a bitch..." He shakes his head and sniffles. "It is cold, and we have vehicles in the square. The perp needs to be taken into custody. Let's get a move on."

"Detective." She looks at Vicquemare. "I just don't want this trial to go on any longer. It's cold outside, and..."

He slowly nods.

"You manipulative fuck... Fine. It's cold and we have vehicles in the square. And the perp needs to be taken into custody too -- let's get a move on."

"No. We're done, Harry. You're drunk. You'll get a station call once you've sobered up."

"..."

"..."

No one knows what to say. But they agree. Keeping you on the force endangers civilians.

The farce needs to end. Everyone sees that.

"Okay then. Fuck it. I have a shack here. I don't need you all."

"Don't pity yourself. You've managed not to die thus far. You'll manage now."

"Wait. I have a few questions before you go. About who I am..."

"About who you are?"

"I'll just go back to the island and live there. I don't care."

"Good bye then. I'll just become a bum now. A bum cop."

"My life is forfeit. All I'm good for is this work. I will quit."

"I will win, Jean. I swear to god and to Revachol, I will win."

"I need to be the greatest, Jean. I was born for this. I will stop. To be better."

"I can -- I will just pass time until my mind reconfigures from the abuse it's taken. I can do that now. I've taught myself."

"I'm not that person anymore. I became something else and that something else will quit."

"I'm not that person anymore. I became something else. And that something else has quit."

"I know it's difficult to believe, but I will do it. For the white banner of the Commune."

For the planetary proletariat.