The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  Edelston had Nadine’s report open on the desk before her, with her own notepad at the side. She looked at them briefly, as if for a prompt. ‘So, when did the dreams first occur?’

  ‘Not long after the Cimpeni orphanage closed and her eleven months rough on the streets of Bucharest. You see, in the winter they slept mainly in the sewers to keep warm.’ Elena looked down for a second, one hand clutched tight in anger at the memory. ‘We blamed ourselves a lot for that…’ Elena covered the details quickly: their not reading the signs earlier that a local developer was after the building, the hasty shipping out of the children to ‘temporary shelter’, a run down hospital on the outskirts of Bucharest. ‘But it was a clearing house for so many other orphanages and fresh children off the street that overcrowding was intense, and food and care was non-existent. A single nurse used to act as daytime warden only, and would just lock the children in and leave them to their own devices at night. It took us ten days to mobilise to get out there; but on one of those nights, two days before we arrived, almost forty of the children broke out, believing – and probably rightly so – that their chances of fending for themselves on the street were better.’ Elena looked at Edelston steadily, taking the opportunity to drive home the silent plea: look what she’s already been through, don’t let her suffer any more now. ‘Lorena was one of those children, and I didn’t see her again until she showed up at Bucharest’s Cerneit orphanage – where we’re also heavily involved with aid provision. It was shortly after then that her bad dreams started.’

  Edelston made a one line note before looking up again. ‘Did she have any psychiatric counselling at that time, or indeed at any time before the Ryalls made their adoption approach?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. It was hardly Frazier country, we…’ Elena stopped herself short. The question struck her as somewhat ridiculous given the problems even keeping the children alive, let alone delving into their psyches. But she might come across as condescending, which would then harm their chances. She tempered her tone. ‘Well… there were nearly always more pressing medical emergencies, and resources were tight.’

  ‘I see.’ Edelston looked uncertain for a second where to head next. ‘So, the implication is that given the resources, Lorena probably would have received psychiatric counselling at that stage.’ Edelston barely waited out the mute nod from Elena. ‘…And so when the Ryalls first met her in Bucharest to start the adoption process – who without doubt would have had such resources and also had a strong vested interest in Lorena’s mental stability from the outset – was psychiatric assessment recommended then?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’ Elena’s voice faded off submissively and she fired a brief sideways glance at Nadine. It was a valid point: why request assessment only now, when apparently the problems with Lorena’s dreams were even worse when she first met the Ryalls. Just before walking in the meeting, she’d been hit with the first positive rush that surely there was strong hope: why else would Edelston ask her along? If it was Edelston’s intention to dismiss the request out of hand, then surely she’d have just had the meeting with Nadine alone and let her pass on the bad tidings. Less confrontation. Now as she felt the first serious assault on that hope, Edelston’s every gesture began to grate. But she reminded herself that this could be Lorena’s last chance, and she was damned if she was going to let it be washed away with a few ingratiating smiles, curt, efficient pen strokes, and now an annoying raised single eyebrow that looked more smugly challenging than questioning. She could almost still feel Lorena quaking in her grasp as they ran… the light at the end of the chine remaining distant, out of reach.

  Elena drew fresh breath. ‘I think with many an adopted child of Lorena’s age, there’s an acceptance that there will be some psychological scars from their past, given what often leads to them being orphaned: abuse by their real parents, death of their parents, or abandonment at birth with all those years to dwell on the fact that unlike other children they don’t have parents, aren’t part of a family. With Romanian children, the terrible hardship and depravation of the orphanages has been so widely publicised – that that acceptance becomes even stronger. Parents know and accept that they might be taking on emotionally damaged goods: as long as the children are physically healthy and have easy, big smiles – they tend to look no further than that.’

  The eyebrow deflated and Elena forced a slightly tired sigh. ‘I think the hope is always that with the child given a better life, all of the emotional problems attached to their past will happily fade into the background. And with Lorena, that indeed was the case for the first year or more. It’s the fact that the dreams and memories of her troubled background have resurged after so long, and the circumstances under which they’ve come back – Mr Ryall visiting her room – that’s now given cause for concern.’

  ‘I know, I know. I understand that.’ Edelston nodded eagerly and turned her right palm towards them. ‘Miss Moore’s report has made a very clear and strong case for that, as I mentioned. But I think the background you’ve given me is also useful. What I wanted to make sure of is that real opportunities for psychiatric assessment hadn’t been ignored out of hand before, and weren’t being brought up now merely as a ruse to dig deeper into this problem of Mr Ryall visiting Lorena’s room – when on the surface it appears nothing is really happening there: just a developing teenager’s awkwardness with a an adult man visiting what she sees as her increasingly private space, her bedroom, with the rest manufactured purely in her dreams.’

  ‘I think the main reason for the assessment is that we really need to separate the two,’ Nadine offered. ‘See where Lorena’s dreams end and reality begins. Probably nothing is happening, but analysis would allow Lorena to also see that. She could lay her fears to rest and sleep easy.’

  ‘I see. Is that what you feel?’ Edelston smiled primly. ‘Remind me to dig out your psychiatric diploma – it must have slipped out of your file.’ As Nadine look down submissively, blushing, Edelston saw Elena’s rising outrage, and held one hand up. ‘I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. But I think it’s important to steer clear of amateur analysis. Now I’m quite prepared to approve assessment if I think it’s warranted and, as I said before, there’s no ulterior motive. The question is – are you both firmly of a mind, without reservation, that that is the case?’

  Elena was caught off guard by the sharp turn-around. A sudden glimmer of light back again. ‘Yes… uh, of course. This is all about Lorena’s welfare, nothing else.’

  Nadine, regaining her feet from her put-down, was slower to respond. ‘Yes, absolutely.’ She proffered with one hand. ‘As I put in my report.’

  ‘So this has absolutely nothing to do with trying to dig up something on Mr Ryall purely because of your failure to uncover anything through conventional methods?’

  Edelston was looking between the two of them keenly, and Elena felt faint alarm bells. Obviously she’d had contact with Ryall, and he’d aired his concerns. But if they simply stood their ground, surely they’d still win the day? ‘No. We’re interested only in Lorena turning her back once and for all on her bad dreams.’ Elena’s tone was firm, resolute. ‘Which is a psychiatrist’s territory, not ours. And hopefully any worries she has about Mr Ryall will evaporate at the same time.’

  Nadine was more hesitant, sensing that her supervisor had the scent of blood on something specific, and gave only a mildly concurrent nod.

  Edelston continued looking at them pointedly, and a thin, smug smile appeared, as if she’d just corralled two errant children after a long chase. ‘I’m glad you’re both so sure about the worthiness of your intentions.’ Edelston reached to a side-drawer and took out a small cassette tape recorder. ‘Because after hearing this, I’m afraid I’m far from convinced.’ With a momentary hover of her finger for emphasis, she pressed play.

  ‘…Elena is right in that we can’t do much with what we have. But at least if all of this is only in your mind, we have the comfort that nothing is really happening. Yo
u’re not at risk.’

  Elena felt her stomach dip as if a trap door had opened. Ryall had taped their last session! Her legs weakened and she felt dizzy, a misty cloud at the back of her eyes threatening blackout.

  ‘At this point you both appear to have given up the ghost,’ Edelston prompted. ‘And then comes the fight back.’ Her eyes settled steadfastly on Elena.

  ‘If something’s happening, you’ve got to tell us. Has Mr Ryall been talking to you, telling you not to say anything?’

  ‘You don’t have to answer that.’

  ‘I’m sorry. She just seems so confused, and I suppose I’m scrambling for reasons why.’

  Marked pause and then a tired inhalation from Nadine. ‘Before we go – is there anything else you’d like to discuss with us, Lorena? Anything which you think might help us…’

  Barely audible, ‘No… it’s okay,’ from Lorena, and Edelston talked over the rest of Nadine’s winding down: ‘Noble early attempt, but no severe rule lines broken so far… and at this stage we’re back on track… until we get to…’ Edelston held one hand up like a conductor.

  Even without the elaborate cue, Elena knew what was coming. She closed her eyes, surrendering the last faint light of the chine as the cloud washed deeper, making her temples ache. And Lorena was no longer with her, but back at her bedroom window looking out over a grey, misty sea: lost, forlorn. Elena’s legs were suddenly unsteady, and she felt herself sway slightly in the self-imposed darkness, nausea rising.

  ‘…If this is all only in Lorena’s mind, perhaps as Mr Ryall suggests even linked to her continuing problem with nightmares – surely at least we should request psychiatric assessment.’

  ‘That’s true. But we just don’t have enough for such an order on what we have now. We could only make the request – it would be left up to the Ryalls to decide.’

  ‘I understand. But if we sold the psychiatric assessment to the Ryalls on the grounds of it being linked to Lorena’s continuing problem with bad dreams, he’d have little reason to object. After all, it’s the dreams that he keeps complaining are dragging him to her room late at night. If he does object, it’s going to look highly suspicious…’

  Elena felt the last vestiges of hope fall away. She wanted to reach out to Lorena, explain: ‘We tried to help you… but in the end our own eagerness let you down. I’m sorry.’ But there wouldn’t even be that chance; after this, they’d be barred from all contact with Lorena.

  Edelston’s expression was challenging, one eyebrow sharply arched. ‘So… no ulterior motive, you claim?’

  Elena didn’t respond; she just looked down, embarrassed, as on tape Nadine pushed the idea of assessment to Lorena. Their position was untenable, no possible footholds from which they could bounce back. Ryall had won the day. There was nothing more they could say that would save Lorena from his grip. And from now she’d never even get close to knowing what went on beyond his high gates: she’d be lucky if she ever got to see Lorena again.

  Roman slotted in the cassette tape.

  He hadn’t got a chance to play the tape earlier with all the panic with Venegas, and only remembered now as he hit the freeway fourteen miles south of Lac Shawinigan. He’d planned originally to dump Venegas’s kit bag in a rubbish tip in Lavalle, but then became anxious about carrying it all the way back to the city: what if the RCs had worked out the car switch and he was stopped on the way? In the end he ran back from the shore and threw the kit bag through the ice hole.

  His nerves were still racing now with it all, his hand shaking as he fed in the cassette. The voices were indistinct at first, could barely be heard above the engine and the thrum of the wheels. He turned it up a bit, then realized it was just the rustling of the bedsheets and Donatiens mumbling. He picked out only ‘No… it’s okay… I’m with you…’ and the rest was lost. Then Simone’s voice came crashing in loudly: ‘Georges… Georges. Are you okay?’ Roman turned it back down a fraction.

  ‘No, no… I promise, I…’

  ‘… You okay?… You were shaking the bed a lot, calling out.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry…’

  Funicelli had told him that the worrying part came just after Donatiens broke out of his dream. Nothing significant so far. He started to get impatient listening through their banter about Terri Hatcher and Roseanne and Simone’s comments about her father, and he was about to wind the tape further on when the words hit: ‘…Look. There was something that happened that night with Roman and Leduc. Something that I never…’

  Roman’s hand pulled back again, his shake now more pronounced. He realized that he’d swayed slightly from his lane as an overtaking truck blasted its air-horn from behind. He straightened up.

  ‘… I never obviously have come to terms with. So maybe that’s why I keep re-playing it in my dreams. The gun firing, Leduc’s body tossed back like a rag dummy. His blood was everywhere… everywhere. I can still feel it sticky against my skin sometimes at night.’

  ‘You poor thing… there only one thing you should feel sticky against your skin at night…’

  With the sound of rustling sheets and kissing, Roman stopped the tape and hastily re-wound. Funicelli was right to have alerted him, but it wasn’t Donatiens talking about that night with Leduc that was most worrying – it was what wasn’t said. Roman found the section again and hit play:

  ‘… that happened with Roman and Leduc. Something that I never…’

  It was all there in the silence between the words: Donatiens was about to tell Simone, then suddenly had a change of heart.

  ‘…I never obviously have come to terms…’

  Roman stopped, re-wound, played it again, honing in keener on the silence in between: a siren wailed its way through the city in the background, a faint rustle of sheets… but Roman was tuned in solely to what Donatiens thoughts might have been in those few seconds.

  He replayed the section again twice straightaway, then once more just as he hit the outskirts of Montreal. There remained little doubt: Donatiens had been only a second away from telling all. He’d been lucky this time, but what about next time and the time after that?

  A weak, hazy afternoon sun flickered through the stanchions of the Anuntsic bridge as he crossed, picking out a faint film of sweat on his forehead. The burden of that night obviously weighed heavy on Donatiens, and at some stage he was bound to break. The problem was that ‘accidents’ had run their course, and he couldn’t get near making a move on Donatiens without Jean-Paul’s consent. How in hell was he going to convince Jean-Paul that his golden boy needed to be taken out?

  ‘No, for God’s sake, noooo….’ Savard’s scream rattled the recorder’s small speaker.

  ‘Three!’

  Georges closed his eyes as he imagined Savard being thrown from the building, sailing free… but hadn’t newscasts said that Savard was shot? Maybe it was one of those cases of the police withholding information so that they knew when they had the right suspect. A soft thud came a second later, followed by another voice.

  ‘That’s just a practice run, Tony. If you don’t tell us where the money is, we’re going to do it for real.’

  Chenouda was staring at him keenly. Chenouda’s eyes had hardly left him throughout, but there were selected moments of the tape playing, like now, when he pressed home a special message: it’s not just that they killed Savard, look at the mental torture they put him through.

  They’d locked horns earlier when it came over on tape that Roman’s BMW had pulled up only a moment after the van with Savard had sped off, and Chenouda had pushed the significance.

  ‘See. Clever. He shows up late, knowing that it would already have gone down – and has the cheek to hold his arms up in a “where is he?” gesture. He knows he’s on camera, so at the same time he gets an automatic alibi.’

  Georges protested that just because Roman was there didn’t necessarily mean he had anything to do with Savard’s murder.

  ‘Then tell me: who else knew about the meet t
o be able to set up a bushwhack like this?’

  Georges didn’t have any ready answers, and fell silent again through the rest of the tape. The sirens, the tension of the chase, the voices bouncing back and forth between Savard’s abductors and the police network, within minutes had Georges’ nerves ragged. He tried to keep a poker face throughout, not let his emotions be too transparent, but it was difficult. The ruse of Savard being thrown from a high building was frightening beyond belief, and now the clawing tension towards the finale: Savard’s abductors discussing whether or not to move Savard before finally deciding to do it there. Then the ominously expectant, time-frozen silence with the guns being taken out, with Georges suddenly aware of every small sound of the squad room: Chenouda’s shallow breathing, his partner, Maury, scratching a doodle lightly on a pad, a clock ticking on the far wall. As the two shots finally came with Chenouda’s scream of ‘Noooo!’, Georges physically jolted.

  Chenouda swallowed slowly, though he waited a moment more for the footsteps crunching on snow to fully recede before he pressed stop. His eyes were still fixed keenly on Georges.

  ‘Quite a boy, your Roman.’

  ‘He’s not my favourite person either.’ Georges’ voice was slightly hoarse as he struggled to regain composure; his stomach was in knots and his hammering nerves seemed to have robbed his breath. ‘But that still doesn’t mean he was involved with something like this.’ It was a bluff: his doubts about Roman were rising hard and fast, but the last person he wanted to share that with was Chenouda. All he wanted to do was get free and clear from this claustrophobic interview room so that he could marshal some clarity to his wildly churning thoughts. ‘Look. I’ve listened to your tape – as promised. Can I go now?’