Wolf’s heart sank as the hooded man lifted the Sword of Justice off the wall. He wrapped his long fingers round the golden hilt and slowly unsheathed the weapon to the scrape of metal on metal. He paused to admire the long blade for a moment.
‘George Eliot said that,’ he continued thoughtfully as spots of reflected light flickered in and out of existence across the dark wood panels. ‘I believe that she would have liked you.’
Masse raised the priceless piece of history above his head and then swung it down into the desk in the centre. Although blunted, the weighty length of metal embedded itself deep into the wood, quivering gently as he took a seat.
Wolf’s nerve was wavering the longer he spent in Masse’s presence. He knew that, beneath the hood, Masse was just a man: a proficient, ruthless and ingenious killer, no doubt, but a man all the same, yet it was impossible to ignore the fact that he was the terrifying truth at the heart of whispered urban legends, to ignore the universal enthralment that his latest work had demanded from a chronically apathetic world.
Masse was no demon, but Wolf had no doubt that he was the closest thing to one he would ever encounter.
‘A real sword,’ Masse gestured to the weapon. ‘Hung above the judges’ heads in a room guaranteed to contain at least one suspected murderer at any given time.’ He raised a hand to his throat, suggesting that the monologue was taking its toll on him. ‘You have got to love the British. Even after what you yourself did within these very walls, they regard pomp and tradition far more highly than they do security and common sense.’
Masse broke into a fit of painful rattling coughs.
Wolf used the break in proceedings to unthread his shoelaces, hoping that he would never find himself within close enough proximity to Masse for them to come in useful. He was just coiling the loose laces around his hand when he froze; Masse was sliding the heavy hood away from his scarred scalp.
He had seen photographs, read the medical reports, but none had fully captured the devastating extent of Masse’s injuries. Rivers of scars meandered over a deathly white surface, narrow tributaries flooding or drying up with his changes of expression. He finally looked up into the gallery.
Wolf had learned from his own investigation that Masse had come from money – public school, family crest, sailing clubs. He had even been quite handsome once. There was still a hint of his upper-class diction mutilated somewhere within his graceless delivery, and yet it was nothing short of bizarre watching this scarred, merciless killer addressing him so eloquently and quoting Victorian novelists.
It started to dawn on Wolf why Masse had isolated himself, why he could never go back to his family’s life of fundraisers and golf clubs, why he had been so desperate to return to the army; there was no place for him back in the real world.
A brilliant mind trapped within a broken body.
He wondered whether Masse would merely have been another normal member of society had events unfolded differently, or if he had simply lost the protection of his aristocratic facade in that bomb blast.
‘Tell me William, is it all that you hoped it would be?’ asked Masse. ‘Can little Annabelle Adams finally rest easy in the knowledge that she has been avenged?’
Wolf did not answer.
A lopsided grin cut across Masse’s face:
‘Did you bask in the heat as the mayor went up in flames?’
Subconsciously, Wolf shook his head.
‘No?’
‘I never wanted this,’ murmured Wolf, unable to help himself.
‘Oh, but you did,’ smirked Masse. ‘You did this to them.’
‘I was sick! I was angry. I didn’t know what I was doing!’ Wolf was furious with himself. He knew that he was letting Masse get to him.
Masse sighed heavily.
‘I will be so very disappointed if you turn out to be one of those: “I didn’t mean it”, “I need to go back on our arrangement” or my personal favourite: “I found God”. Although, if by chance you have, I would sincerely love to know where the little prick is hiding.’
Masse’s wheezy laughter erupted into another bout of tearing coughs, giving Wolf time to compose himself:
‘And I’ll be disappointed if you turn out to be one of those freaks—’
‘I am not a freak!’ Masse interrupted, leaping to his feet, screaming louder than Wolf even thought possible.
The sound of sirens approaching pierced the tense atmosphere.
Frothy blood foamed on the courtroom floor as Masse panted in rage, his terrifying loss of control only encouraging Wolf.
‘… who blames all his darkness and perversions on the voices in his head. You kill for the same mundane reason as everybody else – it makes the weak feel powerful.’
‘Must we pretend that you don’t know who I am? What I am?’
‘I know exactly what you are, Lethaniel. You are a deluded narcissistic psychopath, soon to be nothing more special than another freak in a boiler suit.’
The look that Masse shot Wolf scared him. He remained unsettlingly quiet as he considered his reply.
‘I am constant, eternal, forever,’ said Masse with utter self-belief.
‘You don’t look particularly constant, eternal, or forever from where I’m sitting,’ said Wolf in feigned confidence. ‘In fact, you look as though a mild head cold might take you out before I get the chance.’
Masse ran a self-conscious hand over the deep valleys running through his skin.
‘These belonged to Lethaniel Masse,’ he said quietly, remembering. ‘He was weak, frail, and as he burned in the fire, I claimed the vessel he left behind.’
Prising the ceremonial sword from the wooden desk, he walked back out onto the courtroom floor.
The sirens were right on top of them now.
‘You’re attempting to antagonise me? This is why I like you, William! You are defiant, determined. If the courts say you need evidence, you fake it. Should the jury declare someone innocent, you take it upon yourself to beat them within an inch of their life. They fire you, they rehire you. And even when you come face to face with death you cling devotedly to life. It’s admirable. Really.’
‘If you’re such a big fan …’ quipped Wolf.
‘Let you go?’ asked Masse, as though the idea was entirely new to him. ‘You know that is not how this works.’
The sirens had gone quiet, meaning that the building would be flooded with armed officers at any moment.
‘They’re here, Masse,’ said Wolf. ‘There’s nothing you can tell them they don’t already know. It’s over.’
Wolf got up to leave.
‘Fate … destiny. It is all so cruel,’ said Masse. ‘Even now you believe that you won’t die in this courtroom – and why would you? All you have to do is leave through that door and not come back. You should. You really should.’
‘Goodbye, Lethaniel.’