'Conscious at any time?' Holman asked.
'No. He's been out since we loaded him. Breathing blocked - so tracheal, respirator, plasma to keep up the volume. The normal. But still his blood pressure and pulse dropped the last few minutes in the ambulance. Last pulse reading was forty-eight.'
'Okay. Let's get him up and attached. One... two.' They lifted the boy in unison onto the bed. Holman called over two nurses and a junior doctor, Garvin, to attach the monitors: pulse, respiration, central venous and arterial pressure. Within a minute, the readings and a steady pulse bleep were there for Holman. But he was immediately alarmed: Blood pressure 98 over 56, and pulse only 42 and dropping... 40. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong.
'More plasma infusion!' Holman snapped at Garvin. 'Do we know blood type?'
'O Positive.'
Holman instructed a nurse to arrange a supply for transfusion, then looked back to the boy. The pulse stayed stable at 40 for a few seconds with the increased plasma, then dropped another notch... 38. Holman began to panic. By the early 30s, it was all over. The boy was dying!
He scanned rapidly - the chest bandaged and blood soaked, the face and head bruised with heavy contusions - looking for tell-tale signs. Blood loss was heavy, but the plasma infusion should have compensated. He moved around, feeling the boy's skull, shining a penlight into the eyes. No responsiveness. There was probably internal damage, but no alarming swelling to cause the current problem.
'Thirty six!' Garvin called out with alarm.
Then Holman noticed the unevenness of the boy's chest: one part of his lungs wasn't expanding! Possibly a broken rib puncturing one lung.
He nodded urgently at the remaining nurse: 'Trochal cannula! Set up a plural drainage.'
Holman cut through the chest bandages and then slowly inserted the cannula, a hollow metal pipe with a cutting edge, between Eyran's ribs and into his left lung. He then fed a thin plastic pipe through the cannula, and at his signal the nurse activated the pump. It started sucking out blood from the flooded lung.
Garvin announced: 'Thirty four!' And Holman muttered under his breath, 'Come on... come on!' It had been a good day so far, mostly only minor injuries. He'd been hoping to finish his shift unscathed at midnight. Don't die on me now!
Holman looked anxiously between the cannula pipe and the pump. It was a race against time. Hoping that enough blood could be pumped from the lungs to restore blood pressure and respiration before the pulse dipped too low. But when blood pressure fell to 92 over 50 and Garvin announced pulse at 32 - then after only a few seconds' gap, 30 - Holman realized with rising panic that it was a race he was losing.
Garvin's shout of 'Brady Cardia!' and the boy lapsing into cardiac arrest came almost immediately after. The pulse became a flatline beep.
Holman had already signalled the nurse, and now prompted urgently: 'De-frib!'
Garvin put the electro-shock pads into position, but Holman held up one hand, counting off the seconds... six... seven. It was a calculated gamble. Holman knew that as soon as the heart started again, fresh blood would be pumped into the lungs. Each extra second gave him more chance of clearing the lungs and stabilization. Ten... eleven... Garvin looked at him anxiously, the flatline beep sounding ominously in the background... thirteen... fourteen... 'Okay... Clear!'
Holman stepped back as Garvin hit the charge. The shock jolted the boy's small body dramatically.
But there was nothing. The flatline pulse still beeped... nineteen... Holman's jaw set tight, frantic now that he might have mis-timed it, left the de-frib too long. Twenty-one seconds now the heart had been stopped! He leant across, put one hand firmly on the boy's chest and started massaging. It was thick with blood, and with the cracked ribs and sternum, Holman feared he couldn't apply the pressure he'd have liked. Twenty-eight... twenty-nine...
Still nothing! The beep a persistent, infuriating reminder. He didn't need to look up. He leapt back, signalling Garvin. 'Hit it again!'
Another shock and jolt. But with still no pulse signal, Holman feared the worst. He leant back over for another massage, his hands now slippery with blood on the small frail chest, trying to feel deep with each push down, silently willing back a spark of life. Beads of sweat massed on his forehead. Only minutes since the boy had been wheeled in, and his nerves were gone, fighting now to control the trembling in his hands to hold the massage rhythm... forty-three... forty-four. If he lost the boy now, he doubted he could face another patient the rest of his shift.
But already he knew there was little hope. One more de-frib, and then that was it. By then the boy would have been dead almost a full minute.
Fields of wheat, swaying gently in the breeze.
The incline changed suddenly, without warning. Eyran could see the small copse of woods at the end of the field and ran down the hill towards it, excitement growing as he got closer. Inside the copse, it was dark and damp, the air cooler. He looked for familiar landmarks that would lead him towards the brook, picking his way through the darkness. At one point he thought he was lost, then suddenly the brook appeared ahead from behind a group of trees. He felt uncertain at first, he couldn't remember the brook being in that place before. As he got closer, he could see a small figure hunched over the brook, looking into the water. He thought it might be Sarah, but there was no dog in sight. The figure slowly looked up at him, and it took a second for recognition to dawn: Daniel Fletcher, a young boy from his old school in England who he hadn't seen for years.
He asked what Daniel was doing there, it wasn't the normal place he played, and Daniel muttered something about it being peaceful. 'I know,' Eyran agreed. 'That's why I come here. It's so quiet. Sarah comes down here with her dog sometimes as well.' Then he remembered that Daniel lived almost two miles beyond Broadhurst Farm. 'It must have taken you ages to get here. Do your parents know you're here?'
'No, they don't. But it doesn't matter, I haven't seen them in years.'
'In years! Very funny.' Though Eyran could see that Daniel wasn't smiling. He was looking soulfully back into the water, and some small quirk told him that something was wrong, that all of this wasn't real, it was a dream. Then he recalled with a jolt what it was: Daniel had suffered with acute asthma, he'd died at the age of six after a severe bronchitis attack, over a year before Eyran left for California. He remembered now the service of the school chaplain, the whole school tearful, and how all the boys who had picked on Daniel for his frailty had felt suddenly guilty. He could see Daniel's pigeon chest struggling for breath, hear the faint wheezing. Eyran was startled by a rustling among the trees, preparing himself to turn and run before seeing that it was his father walking through.
He felt nervous because he'd never seen his father down by the copse before. He knew instinctively that he must be late returning home or have done something wrong, and mouthed 'I'm sorry', almost as a stock reaction.
His father looked thoughtfully down at Daniel before waving his arm towards Eyran. 'You must go home now, Eyran, you don't belong here.'
Eyran started to move away, then realized his father wasn't following. He was staying by Daniel at the side of the brook. 'Aren't you coming with me now, Daddy?'
His father shook his head slowly, his eyes sad and distant, and Eyran looked out of the copse to find that now it had become dark outside. The darkness was a solid black blanket, the wheat field seeming to stretch endlessly into the distance, as before, with no hills and contours which he recognized. 'But I could get lost', he pleaded, just before his father turned and disappeared back into the darkness of the woods.
Eyran started to tremble and cry. He sensed that he must do as his father said and try to find his way back home, though he was struggling desperately at the same time to understand why his father had deserted him to fight back through the darkness on his own. If he could just get back home, he knew that all would be well. But the darkness of the field was deep and impenetrable, with no familiar landmarks.
TWO
Provence, A
ugust, 1963
Alain Duclos saw the boy a few hundred yards ahead walking at the side of the road. His figure emerged like a mirage from the faint shimmer of the August heat haze.
At first Duclos wasn't going to stop. But there was something about the boy's tired posture and profile that made him slow down. As he drew close, taking in the boy's curly hair and olive skin, the sweat on his brow and his flustered expression, he decided to stop. The boy was obviously tired and something was troubling him. The side window had been wound down because of the heat. Duclos leant across as he pulled over.
'Can I give you a lift somewhere?'
The boy was hesitant and looked back towards the far ridge of the fields for a second. 'No. No, thank you. It's okay.'
Duclos guessed his age at no more than ten or eleven. He couldn't help noticing how beautiful the boy's eyes were: green with small flecks of hazel, in contrast to his deep olive skin tone. The eyes betrayed the boy's anxiety. 'Are you sure?' Duclos pressed. 'You look as if you've lost somebody.'
The boy looked back towards the ridge again. 'My bike broke down back there just beyond the field. I was walking to my friend's house, Stephan. His father has a tractor with a trailer to pick it up.'
'How far is it to Stephan's house?'
'Four or five kilometres. It's the other side of the village. But it's okay, I've done the walk before.'
Duclos nodded knowingly and smiled, pushing the door ajar. 'Come on, you're tired and it's hot. I'll run you there. It's too far for you to walk'
The boy returned the smile hesitantly. For the first time he looked the length of Duclos' car, the sudden excitement at the prospect of a ride in a sports car showing. 'If you're sure it's okay.'
Again the reassuring nod and smile as the boy got in. Duclos leant across to shut the door, revved twice quickly as he checked the mirror, and pulled out. They both sat in silence for a moment as the car picked up speed. Duclos noticed the boy looking at the dashboard and leather seats, then lifting up slightly to take in the sloping bonnet. Duclos answered his obvious curiosity.
'It's an Alfa Romeo Giulietta Sprint, 1961. Custom colour, dark green. I wanted one of the classic Italian racing colours - red or dark green, but I thought the red was too loud. I've had it just under two years. Like it?'
The boy nodded enthusiastically, now checking out the small back bench seat and view through the coupe rear window.
'What's your name?' asked Duclos.
'Christian. Christian Rosselot.'
Duclos checked his watch: 12.48pm. He'd made good time since leaving Aix-en-Provence. Duclos knew now what had made him stop. The boy reminded him of Jahlep, the young Algerian boy his Marseille pimp had found for him and had become a favourite on his last few visits. Except more beautiful. The skin pallor wasn't as dark as Jahlep's and had a smoother tone like polished cane, and his large green eyes with hazel flecks were striking beyond belief. The boy was wearing shorts, and he found himself looking over at the smooth copper of the boy's legs. They'd already gone a kilometre and a half, Duclos estimated, when he noticed the roadside sign: Taragnon, 1.3km. The friend's house wasn't far past the village. There wouldn't be much time. Duclos glanced again at the boy's legs. His mouth felt suddenly dry. He had to think of a device to get himself alone somewhere with the boy, and quickly. A few hundred yards ahead he saw a roadside farm track. Duclos slowed down and stopped just past it.
'I've had a thought. If we get to Stephan and his father's not there or for any reason can't help out - it's a wasted journey. I've got some tools in the back, I'll run you back to the bike, and if we can't fix it I'll rope it into the boot and run you home with it. Where do you live?'
'Almost three kilometres that way from where the bike is now.' Christian pointed behind them and slightly to the east. 'But it's okay. I'm sure they will be there. Stephan's father is always working on the farm.'
Duclos shrugged. 'The problem is, if they're not there you're going to be stuck.' He backed into the farm track, checked briefly for traffic, then turned out heading back the way they'd come. Just take control, his instincts told him. The boy's protests weren't strong. 'Look, it's no trouble. In any case I've just remembered I should have picked up something at the patisserie back in Varages, so it's not putting me out of my way.'
Duclos wondered if the boy was suspicious. In the wake of his insistence, the boy had finally nodded and smiled, though hesitantly, then hastily looked away through the side window. It could have been his normal awkwardness with strangers, or perhaps he was suspicious. It was hard to tell either way. Duclos was now more concerned of passing anyone who might see them together. After almost a kilometre, a truck came towards them with a company name and MARSEILLE in large letters on the side. With the height of the cab and the speed they'd passed each other, Duclos doubted the driver had paid them any particular attention. For a moment he thought to himself, 'Just drop the boy off, leave him alone, continue on to Salernes.' But the urge driving him on was now too strong. A mixture of excitement, curiosity, anticipation, the thrill of the unknown. He found it impossible to resist. They'd just passed the point where he'd first picked up the boy.
'Is it far now? Duclos asked.
'No, just under a kilometre more - it's on a rough track between two farms.'
The patchwork of green and gold pastures each side were faded with the summer heat. After a long flat stretch, the road curved and they were passing a peach orchard, only part of which appeared to be harvested; uneven grass patches grew between the trees on its far side. Christian lifted one arm to indicate the pathway.
Turning in, Duclos could see that a hundred yards ahead the peach orchard verged into woodland. The track then ran between the orchard and the woods, and the grass was long and unkempt closest to the woods. The boy was pointing to where he'd left his bike.
'Just up there on the left, where the grass is long. I tried to hide it so it would be safe until I got back.'
With the bumpiness of the track, Duclos had changed down to second. Those legs. Those eyes. His pulse quickened with anticipation. Images of what was to come were already forming in his mind. But at the same time he felt nervous and uncomfortable. With Jahlep it was always pre-arranged, the young Algerian boy a willing participant. Now he was facing the unknown. He wasn't sure how to make the first move, that first contact that would break the barrier. Once he'd touched the boy and his intentions were obvious, he knew it would be impossible just to stop there. The only question then was whether he continued with consent or force.
Duclos pulled the car over to the side of the track and followed the boy out. Only after a few paces and prompted by the boy pointing could Duclos make out the bike lying flat among the tall grass.
'What went wrong with it?' he enquired.
'The back brake locked on the wheel. That's why I couldn't move it.'
Duclos knelt down to examine the wheel, moving it back and forth with difficulty against the locked brake. The boy was only a foot to his side, also kneeling and keenly inspecting. Duclos could smell the faint acid sweetness of the boy's sweat mixed with the scent of grass and ripe peaches. It was then that he noticed the graze and bruise on the boy's thigh. It was the chance he'd been looking for. He reached over and touched the graze, gently stroking it.
'That looks bad - you should get some antiseptic on it. And the bruise is going to be a real beauty in the morning. Did you get that when the bike broke down?'
'When the brake jammed, the bike got thrown to the side.' The boy made a dramatic motion with one arm towards the grass. 'My leg got trapped underneath.'
He was so sweet, thought Duclos. The eyes were hauntingly beautiful, green limpid pools in which he could almost swim. The boy had flinched at the initial touch, but hadn't moved. Duclos continued stroking, working slightly higher. It was in that moment that Duclos saw the change in the boy's eyes; the pupils dilated, the eyes suddenly looked darker and more troubled. The boy knew something was wrong. As the boy's body tensed to move, Duc
los reached up and gripped his shorts tight.
'There's no point in struggling, you'll only get hurt. I don't really want to hurt you.' Duclos voice was both soothing and menacing.
The motion was sudden. Christian let out a half scream, half gasp as Duclos yanked down his shorts and pushed him face down in the grass.
Duclos gently stroked the boy's back, lifting his shirt higher and running his thumb up and down the ridge of his spine. The boy's sweat eased the motion, and after a few strokes Duclos lowered his stroking to the boy's buttocks and the cleft in between. Duclos became quickly aroused. The boy's skin was so smooth. He could feel the small body trembling beneath his touch, though after a few moments it became more intense then finally verged into gentle quaking as the boy started sobbing.
Duclos found the noise disturbing, the mood was being spoilt. 'Be quiet. For God's sake, be quiet. It will do no good.'
The crying became more muted. Duclos took off his own clothes. He tried to force in other thoughts to distract himself from the crying as he crouched over the boy. Jahlep was beckoning with one finger, smiling back at him and urging on his increasingly urgent thrusts. The Algerian boy's eyes were dancing with mischief and pleasure. He could feel the sun hot on his back, the sweat in the ridge of the boy's back as he ran his hands slowly up and down. Duclos shook his head from side to side. The wind through the nearby treetops momentarily drowned out all other sound, and Duclos felt himself sailing on a wave of pleasure. Jahlep's brown eyes looked at him soulfully, imploring, willing him on to greater heights of pleasure. But the green eyes of the boy beneath him suddenly superimposed - sullen and haunted, frightened, pleading. He shook his head again to shift the image, but it stayed with him obstinately until his final moment of orgasm, his strangled and guttural cry of pleasure lost among the wind rippling through the treetops.
Past Imperfect Page 2