Mediterranean waters were a slate blackness. Black as Obsidian. So dark, they swallowed all the sickly orange dock lights whole. They didn't lap against the pier. They slapped against it. A loud, wet slap like someone slapping your naked skin with their palm.
Out of the salt-tinged mist came the Mistral Spirit. An ugly freighter that looked like a rusted hulk. Its name was scratched into the side of the hull as "Mistral Spirit", but not much else. There was something ancient and worn about it. It looked like it was carved from stone. A deck that groaned with each movement. Secrets. Secrets upon secrets. Each movement seemed to carry with it another secret. The freighter glided to a stop and into the pier slip with the silent, stalking motion of a shark moving in for the kill.
Adélard stood at the edge of the concrete, just shy of dropping straight into the black water below. He stood as tall and unmoving as a statue carved from salt and coal. The cold steel pipe stuck out of the waistband of his jeans, hidden by the torn denim of his jacket. He could feel the eyes of the dock workers – Men with thick necks, scarred hands, and prison yard scars etched into their faces - lingering on him. They did not see a seventeen-year-old boy anymore. They saw the spirit that broke a mans knee without flinching. They saw a beast in the making, and that type of respect only lasts in the banlieues.
"Lower the gangway!" Adélard yelled across the dock. The sound of his voice was like a whip cracking through the quiet, low rumble of the ships auxillary generator.
They moved quickly. Faster than fear can motivate. Fear is a stronger motivator than money in Marseilles. And Adélard learned fast how to use it like a scalpel.
The sound of the wooden ramp thudding onto the dock vibrated up through the soles of Adélards feet. He backed into the dark space of a massive crane looming over him. He needed a moment to collect himself. His chest hurt, not because it was cold outside, but because of what he had stuffed into his jacket. Slowly, with hands shaking less than expected, he slipped his hand into his jacket and retrieved the box that Hector gave him.
He held it in his palms, and the first thing that registered with him was its odd shape and size. For something roughly the same dimensions as a standard paperback novel, it felt like it was stuffed solid with lead...or possibly compressed to such an extreme state that it resembled a black hole. The brown paper wrapping was coarse, sandpapery, and scratched against his skin, which was hardened from years working outdoors. The twine was tied with military precision. The fibers were stiff and gritty from salt spray and engine exhaust.
Adélard ran his fingers along the edges of whatever was wrapped in the paper. It was not smooth like the plastic bound books he'd seen in market stalls. It was jagged and irregular. The case itself was old, with stiffened leather that felt dry, brittle, almost like sun-dried hide.
That is the Ghost Ledger.
He did not open it. Hector warned him about Marseille's "long arms", and Rourke's reputation for mercy made him hesitate to touch it - but Adélard wanted to peel back a miniscule amount of the brown wrapping. When he exposed a bit of red leather underneath, he knew why Hector said it would draw attention to him. The red was a dark, bruise-colored crimson - nearly as dark as dried blood viewed through an orange street lamp. The leather also carried an odor of decay - old dust, rusty ink, and a metallic tang that burned the back of Adélard's throat.
It was more than a book. It represented every crime committed to strangle the city of Marseille with corruption - bribery after bribery after bribery, until there were lives lost beneath its surface. With his hand holding it, Adélard felt a strange, cold vibration emanate through the leather - a pulse that synchronized with the rapid pounding of his heart.
It wasn't just ink and paper. It was leverage. It was the only form of currency that could buy his mother back from being entombed in some dingy underwater tomb.
"Load on! Load on! The truck is ready!" shouted a man from the pier.
Adélard pushed the ledger back into his inner pocket. The chill radiating through his thin shirt reminded him of a cold compress. He stepped back into view. His expression remained frozen and impassive.
There was something different about this load - even for the docks. The boxes themselves were smallish (about six inches square), reinforced with steel straps to keep them rigid during transit, and were moved quietly. No logo, no shipping company ID's, no manifest existed on any of these containers. Only plain wood and the stench of chemical fumes. As the last box was hoisted onto a flatbed truck parked nearby, Adélard caught sight of a dark liquid stain on one side of the box. It didn't resemble motor oil at all - it was darker and thicker.
He didn't ask questions. In Rourke's world - curiosity is a death sentence with no cure.
"You are finished," Hector's voice arose from the mist like an ill omen.
A gaunt-looking man materialized beside Adélard. His cigarette glowed brightly in the dim foggy air - a scintilla of malevolent intent.
His eyes weren't focused on the ship, however - they locked onto the slightly bulging area inside Adélard's jacket.
"The Old Port." "Bar de la Marine." "You have two hours to deliver this package to 'the Captain.' If you do not bring this package to his hands - I will have no further business with you." He paused then continued, "And find your mother."
Hector reached forward as if to give Adélard a paternal clap on the shoulder. However Adélard didn't move - his gaze became chunks of frost-blue ice - a silent promise of violence that caused Hector to laugh and retract his hand.
"Well kid…you learn fast," Hector muttered while exhaling a cloud of acrid smoke.
Adélard exited without saying anything.
He left behind the cacophony of industry noises generated by the docks - replaced by an oppressive silence hanging above him like an executioner's hood.
Adélard spent many minutes walking toward the Old Port - through narrow twisting alleys lined by crumbling stone walls that leaned inward as if sharing ancient secrets among themselves. He walked past countless other delivery boys who preceded him - their ghosts still wandering those alleys in search of escape from their own horrors. Each step reverberated through cobblestone - creating a monotonous cadence throughout the dark.
In Adélard's mind, war raged on multiple fronts. He thought about Leon - huddled in Sam's cramped storehouse - clutching a tattered piece of silk, hoping for sunrise which Adélard had no idea he would deliver. He pictured his mother trapped in some dingy room somewhere...her eyes searching for her children through an endless expanse of nothingness - she had been trying desperately to protect them both from harm. Guilt weighed upon him like physical burden —more crushing even than the ledger itself.
He made promises to Leon they would meet again at dawn - promises to his mother she would be safe.
But he did not realize Rourke's promises were hollow —just like those boxes on the pier dock.
He did not realize that 'the Captain' waiting for him at Bar de la Marine was more than just a man...but rather, he was merely a guardian at entrance to greater levels of underworld he now inhabited.
When Adélard arrived at Old Port, he sensed an immediate shift in mood surrounding him. Smell of sea changed from industrial waste/rot & diesel fumes from docks to pungent salty ocean smell from open Med Sea beyond pier. Silvery shafts created by masts on rich yachts bobbing gently in marina port hung suspended as if an army of silver spears against pale moon above.
Contrasting sharply to cement cages housing poor inhabitants of banlieue neighborhoods Adélard called home, Adélard halted before Bar de la Marine.
Yellow haze emitted from fog-covered windows illuminated wet cobblestones below.
With hand grasping iron pipe once more and now gripping Ghost Ledger tightly in other hand; he took large breathes and allowed cold sea air to fill his lungs heightening awareness.
He looked down at iron pipe in hand and confirmed it was secure and ready to be drawn once again.
At seventeen years old Adélard felt completely alone - physically and emotionally isolated. At seventeen years old Adélard felt like he bore responsibility for thousands of hidden drownings contained within his jacket pocket.
No matter what price Hector asked Adélard paid; No matter how much pain Adélard suffered...he vowed to fulfill his promise to Leon and to ensure his mothers freedom from watery grave below Mediterranean Sea floor.
However Adélard soon discovered there are debts in Marseille - no matter how much money is owed or how many favors are called due...there are debts which cannot be repaid in full and therefore they must be handed down generation after generation until line is eventually severed.
The bell above the entrance jingled loudly when he entered. It sounded like a lone metal note; it told everyone in the bar that he had arrived. He had been searching for his mother, and now he found himself at the end of an endless trail of nothingness. When the door closed after him, he knew he had made the final step off the cliff.