Past Imperfect

by John Matthews

  Dominic bit at his lip and went back to his desk. He should have bided his time; only the day before he'd reflected on just this reaction from Poullain. But he realized now that the boy's death had changed everything, changed the mood and pace of the investigation, that the keen scent for Machanaud's blood could soon drive a hungry pack; a fast rising tide of panic that said 'cry halt early' and swept away his previous resolve.

  Bauriac’s church bell sounded in the square, calling the faithful to evening mass. It reminded him that there was a memorial service for Christian Rosselot in three days. Flowers. Incense. Candles burning. Monique Rosselot on her knees before him... her heart rending cry seeming to pierce right through him and drift, unheeded, over the fields and hills beyond. Still the memory of that moment sent a shiver through his body. How much longer before that was him, grieving the loss of his mother. Six months, a year? The bell tolled ominously in the background, and he found himself looking towards the window and the sound filtering in with the muted shuttered dusk light. He felt very alone, cold and distanced from the gendarmerie activities around him, and he tried to escape the fast descending gloom that the bell was striking for the inevitable, for that which he would be helpless to change.

  It was almost 6.30 pm when Machanaud called by the gendarmerie. Briant was on desk duty. Machanaud asked to see Poullain and Briant said that he wasn't there and looked at his watch, adding, 'But if you want to come back in forty minutes or an hour, he should be back then.'

  'Or Fornier, Warrant Officer Fornier, is he here? He would do.'

  'No, I'm afraid that he's with Captain Poullain in Aix en Provence.' Briant noticed Machanaud sway for a moment uncertainly as he took in this information. He'd obviously been drinking and mixing this now with deep thought didn't go well together. 'Is there anything I can help with?'

  A slow blink through bleary eyes, then finally, 'Yes, you can take a note for them.' Machanaud shuffled closer and leant on the counter. 'You can tell them I've now remembered the car that passed. You might want to write it down.' Machanaud waited for Briant to grab a pad and pen from the side, then said the words very slowly, the last part in pronounced syllables. 'It was very low, dark green, a sports coupe. Probably an Alfa Romeo. An AL-FA RO-ME-O COU-PE. Have you got that?'

  'Yes, okay. But you realize that this is only a note. If you want to make this part of any official statement, you'll have to return and speak with Captain Poullain.'

  'Okay, okay, I understand. You have your procedures.' Machanaud held up one hand defensively as he stepped back from the counter. 'I just thought it important that they have that note while I remember.'

  'Yes, certainly. I'll make sure they get it.' Briant watched thoughtfully as Machanaud shuffled back out, probably back to the same bar where he'd found inspiration to suddenly remember the car.

  They'd walked for almost a minute in virtual silence through Parc du Pharo before the package was handed over, waiting for the groups of tourists to thin out. It was a large manila envelope. Chapeau looked briefly inside and saw the small bundles of cash.

  'It went well,' he commented. 'Your friend should be pleased.'

  'Yes, he was.' Duclos looked back at Chapeau directly for the first time. It had been his main worry: that Chapeau would have read the papers and discovered his lie. It had been quite prominent in 'La Provencal', but still easily missed for someone only paying half attention, wedged in at the bottom of the front page with no pictures accompanying. He breathed an inner sigh of relief; obviously Chapeau hadn't seen it. Probably was illiterate or only read comics and gun manuals, Duclos thought cynically. 'I think you'll find it's all there.'

  Chapeau walked to the nearest bench, sat down and, partly shielding with the envelope, counted one of the bundles. Then he measured its depth against the others: three bundles each of 2,000 Francs, one half size. Chapeau shut the envelope, folded it over by the flap and stood up with the closest he'd come to a smile in all of their meetings. 'Hopefully your friend can rest easy now.' And with a curt nod, he headed back the way they'd come, leaving Duclos on the bench.

  Chapeau's car, a Peugeot 403, was parked fifty metres back from the main entrance to the park. He'd arrived ten minutes early so that he could see Duclos arrive, get the registration number of his car. It arrived punctually, just two minutes before six: dark green Alfa coupe. A neat compact car for a neat, compact man. Everything in his life was probably neatly compartmentalized, thought Chapeau. He watched Duclos get out and enter the park and then waited a minute before following.

  Chapeau flipped over the newspaper on his passenger seat and glanced again at the report at the bottom of the front page. He'd already read it twice earlier that day, pondering what to do. The last person to cross him so blatantly he'd left with his throat cut in a Marseille back alley.

  But with this Alain he wanted to bide his time, learn a bit more about him before taking any action. At one point earlier, he'd laughed out loud at the double dupe; in return getting payment for nothing somehow seemed divine justice. But he couldn't get out of his mind the bad intent that had been there, the possible repercussions if he had killed the boy: a high profile murder case with a whole station of rural gendarmes with little else to do but catch the murderer, he'd have probably had to move to Paris for a few years until things had quietened down.

  Ahead, he could now see Duclos getting back into his car. He decided to follow.

  THIRTEEN

  '... And in that dream, did you recognize it immediately?'

  'Yes. It was the pond at Broadhurst Farm. It only turned into a lake later.'

  'And you said that Jojo was already there. Could you see him clearly? What did he look like?'

  Stuart Capel tensed as the tape rolled, leaning forward. Lambourne had told him one of the key objectives had been to get a clearer picture of Jojo. Lambourne's notes were in his hand. Headed: Session 4. 28th February, 1995. He knew how the notes and the tape slotted together from the last tape sent.

  'I couldn't see clearly... it was too misty, and he was too far away.' Then, after a second: 'I only saw him clearly when I was closer... looking up through the water...'

  Silence. Background drone of London traffic. Brief cough from Lambourne.

  Stuart could imagine Eyran struggling for a clearer image. Finally: 'His hair was dark, slightly curly, and his eyes were bright - blue or dark green. I wasn't sure.'

  'Does he remind you of someone you know perhaps? An old friend or someone from school.'

  Longer pause this time. Eyran's low, regular breathing came over clearly for a second. 'No. But there's something familiar about him - yet I don't know why.'

  'Note One.' Lambourne's voice came across in a deeper timbre. Stuart dutifully followed the instruction and read the note: An initial assumption was that Jojo might be modelled on an old friend, someone from Eyran's past. If that's now to be discounted - why the familiarity? After the 'Note One' announcement, an eight second silence, then: 'Continues.' In transferring to cassette, Lambourne had put in the break points. It reminded Stuart of linguaphone tapes with gaps left for student repetition.

  'Did Jojo tell you where you'd met before.'

  'No. I told him I was looking for my parents, and that was when he first offered to help.'

  'And you went back because in the previous dream, you'd seen them there.'

  'Only my father.' Another long silence. Faint rustling of papers. 'That was when Jojo wanted me to cross over... told me that he'd lost his parents as well and hadn't been able to find them until he crossed over?'

  'Did he tell you what happened with them?'

  'Nothing then...' Eyran swallowing, clearing his throat. 'Only in another dream... later. But he said it was years ago - he could hardly remember it.'

  'Note two:' Shared grief, yet Jojo conveniently has no memory of his loss. Eyran's loss is the main focus. Crossing over could symbolize to Jojo that Eyran trusts him, is siding with him. Yet we know from a later dream that they are together in their sear
ch - the barrier has by then been crossed.

  Lambourne's voice on tape reminded Stuart. Reminded him of their first meeting: 'When did you first realize there was a problem?'

  And he'd told Lambourne everything. The nineteen day coma. The hospital. The nightmares. Everything except how much he'd resisted finally bringing Eyran to see him. Clinging to the Eyran he remembered.

  Eyran had awoken finally from his coma four days before Christmas.

  When did you first realize…? Had it been when he'd first told Eyran his parents were dead? The hospital staff had been briefed just to say his parents were ill, in another ward - until Stuart arrived. But then Stuart remembered seeing that same look in that first moment of greeting Eyran: something distant and lost in Eyran's eyes, almost as if Stuart was someone he knew only vaguely and couldn't be placed for a moment.

  Yet it remained through those first hours, that split second delay in recognition and response. At first, the explanation in Stuart's mind had been the shock and grief and Eyran struggling to come to terms with the unbelievable, the unacceptable. But by the late evening, as Eyran prepared to sleep, Stuart was keen to know Torrens' assessment. How much of Eyran's slowness of reaction was due to the coma, how much could be attributed to shock and grief, was he under any drugs or medication that might cause such an effect, how long might the condition prevail and, most importantly, might it be permanent?

  Torrens started with the obvious: it's too soon to tell, he's only been out of a coma a day, yes there has been some recent medication, promethazine, to cool his body temperature down - though that shouldn't delay his reaction rate. But possibly the shock of his parent's death could cause such a reaction. 'His mind might be numbed by the collection of recent events. It's just awoken, electrical and chemical connections are flexing their muscles for the first time in almost three weeks, and suddenly it has to deal with the fact that his parents are dead. The numbness, the slowness of reaction, could be a form of protection. I doubt if it's all sunk in yet. Did he cry much when you told him?'

  'Yes, a bit.' But what had struck Stuart the most was Eyran's eyes looking so lost, desolate. He'd hugged Eyran, expecting a catharsis of sobbing which in the end had never come; just the same sad, distant gaze through watery eyes as they broke the embrace.

  'I don't think we should read too much into it for a few days. I'll run some detailed responsiveness checks then.'

  A few days? Stuart had always assumed he'd be flying back with Eyran the next day in time for Christmas.

  Impossible. Apart from the necessary tests and monitoring, there were Eyran's other injuries to consider. 'The cracked rib has a way to go yet, and we'd want to re-strap that and run another X-ray before okaying him for a long flight. Don't reckon on him being able to leave before five or six days.'

  Staying over Christmas? He knew he couldn't possibly leave Eyran alone in hospital over those days, but he wasn't relishing the call to Amanda to tell her he wouldn't be back with her and Tessa for Christmas.

  As it was, it had taken him over a week to talk openly about his grief with Amanda. So many years sparring with Jeremy, fighting over stupid, inconsequential things - it all seemed such a waste now, so pointless. No opportunity left now for amends, except to whisper emptily, 'I love you,' vapoured breath on the chill air as they'd lowered Jeremy into the ground. The only thing to keep them close the past ten years had been Eyran. If it hadn't been for Eyran, he'd have had the same relationship with Jeremy he had with his father.

  It was the nearest he'd ever come to explaining to Amanda his affinity with Eyran. He'd lived part of his life through Eyran, the childhood he felt he had lost, the mistakes and barriers between his father and himself that he could see being repeated between Eyran and Jeremy. But, at times, he'd taken it a step too far, kidded himself he knew better about Eyran's upbringing, tried to be an alternative father. And he felt guilt for that now: in forging his own close bond with Eyran, trying to be honest broker, perhaps he had stolen some limelight from Jeremy; precious years that now couldn't be replaced.

  After explaining Torren's prognosis, brief silence from Amanda. Finally: 'I understand. You have to stay with him.'

  But the silence and the tone said it all: you should be here with us, your family, but how can I possibly protest about favouritism for Eyran, appear heartless by suggesting that you leave him alone in hospital over Christmas.

  'Thanks for understanding. I'll phone Christmas Eve, then again Christmas Day. I can have a long session with Tessa then.'

  Christmas at the hospital was a strange affair. Christmas morning everyone gathered in the canteen for a small show, the highlight of which was one of Torrens' colleagues, Walowski, playing Father Christmas with a heavy Germanic. It was like some exaggerated Robin Williams sketch, with a couple of curvy nurses in short red skirts and black stockings playing his little helpers. Eyran smiled at intervals, but was still too remote and withdrawn for full laughter. Even the first half smiles had only come that morning, opening his presents from Stuart.

  Christmas lunch had been laid on for later, but Stuart wanted something less organized, more personal. He got permission from Torrens to take Eyran into town, and they found a lively restaurant a block back from the sea front. The menu was a curious mix of Tex-Mex and Italian with a sprinkling of Christmas turkey specials. But the atmosphere was wonderfully raucous and joyous, party streamers and cheering, and a small Mexican combo in the corner played a range of Tijuana, Christmas favourites, Tony Orlando, Gloria Estefan and Santana.

  They had Taco dips to start and Turkey for the main course. Stuart finished off with brandy pudding, Eyran with pecan and maple syrup ice cream. They found it difficult to talk above the music and background noise and had to shout Merry Christmas as they'd pulled two crackers. But Eyran enjoyed the atmosphere regardless. At least they could lose their emotions within it, rather than feel obliged to speak to fill a silent void; especially when Stuart knew he'd have to do most of the talking, tip-toeing around such an emotional minefield. He'd already done it for three days at the hospital and was fast running out of safe footholds.

  He noticed Eyran's fingers tapping to the band's version of 'Oye Como Va'. Good, something at least breaking through the barriers built by the coma, a part of him getting back into the rhythm of life. But the smiles were still infrequent, stilted. Stuart had a Southern Comfort with his coffee, Eyran an elaborate butterscotch flavoured milk shake. As they left, half the restaurant was singing along to 'Knock Three Times.' Outside, the fresh salt air hit them, even a block back from the beach.

  'Let's go down there, walk along for a bit,' Stuart suggested on impulse. Eyran merely nodded, a faint smile threatening to escape.

  On the front, the air was bracing. A fresh westerly breeze was struggling to clear some cloud built up, the air warm and moist with salt spray. As they walked, Stuart talked of Tessa looking forward to seeing Eyran. They'd plan something special for New Year's Day when they were all together.

  And it was there, walking with the warm Pacific breeze buffeting them from one side, ruffling their hair, that the dam of Eyran's emotions finally broke and he started weeping. He mumbled, 'I miss my mom and dad,' as Stuart pulled him into an embrace. Then something about remembering Mission Beach where they all used to go for the day together, the words partly muffled against Stuart's chest and then finally lost among the sobbing and the noise of the surf.

  'I miss them too. Terribly.' Stuart said, but it sounded so lame; empty consolation. Stuart felt the small body quaking and trembling against him, and inside he felt his own sorrow rising again, tears welling; but this time it wasn't just for Jeremy, but for the strength of spirit and zest for life in Eyran that now also seemed lost. Bitter tears and silent prayers on the mist of the Pacific surf rolling in, willing that the next days and weeks might see some improvement, bring back the Eyran he remembered.

  Eyran awoke in the middle of the night; eyes blinking, adjusting, consciousness searching in that first moment for a
reason.

  Had he dreamt again, or had a noise perhaps disturbed him? He didn't remember any dream, and no sounds came except the faint swish and sway of trees outside his window as he held his breath and listened intently. He tried to judge if the wind was rising, a storm brewing; but the movement of the branches remained gentle and steady, soothing and swaying, white noise to lull him back to sleep again.

  Was he still in the hospital or at his uncle Stuart's house? He looked at the light coming in through the window and tried to pick out shapes in the room. Faint light from a watery moon: the hospital room had been brighter from street lamps outside, the window larger, and the two large trees his side of the hospital he could never hear moving for the thickness of the glazing. Sometimes the days in the hospital and those in England seemed to merge, then suddenly he would be back once again in his room in San Diego, joy and surprise momentarily leaping inside that everything in between had been a bad dream - before the shapes and shadows in the room slowly fell into place.

  The nightmares and the time awake had sometimes been difficult to separate: the friendly face of his uncle Stuart, voice echoing, telling him his parents were dead; doctors with tests and monitors, smiling faces telling him that everything was going to be alright, his uncle was coming to see him, explain. 'You'll stay with us now, we'll take care of you. Everything's going to be fine, Tessa's looking forward to seeing you.' The rhythm of the band pumping through his body, people cheering, smiling as they clinked glasses; everyone seemed so happy except him. And so the sleep became a welcome release, transported him back where he wanted to be: the warmth of the wheat field where he might meet Jojo and they could look for his parents again.