Past Imperfect

by John Matthews

  Session 6.

  'It's dark and warm inside. Outside I can hear the wind through the trees and the birds... or sometimes my father working in the fields nearby.'

  The session had been under way forty minutes and already Marinella Calvan was exhausted. The start had been slow, the rhythm staccato, heightened by the gap waiting for Philippe to type the translated answers on screen and then pose Marinella's typed questions in response. The only words spoken in the room were in French. While the on-screen version in English would provide a useful typescript, they'd decided to run a tape as well; nuances or possible language mis-interpretations could be gone back over later. David Lambourne was at her side.

  Parts had been rambling, the boy spending a long time describing a visit to the beach at Le Lavandou, the seagulls overhead, making a sandcastle with a rivulet for the sea to wash in and form a moat. She'd been eager to move on, but Lambourne put a calming hand on her shoulder, felt it might be better to introduce a more relaxing tone and mood. Minutes before, when they'd asked him about being separated from his parents, his breathing had become rapid and hesitant. He'd mumbled something about a 'bright light... not being able to see...' then laying flat in a wheat field, his face against the sheaves - but by that time his breathing had become too fractured, words little more than spluttered monosyllables in the gaps. She quickly prompted Philippe to interrupt. Whatever had separated him from his parents had obviously been deeply disturbing. They'd return later.

  She guided him towards fonder, more relaxed memories.

  Recall of the day at the beach had been one, and now describing his favourite hideaway camp in the field at the back of the family farmhouse, another. In between the rambling, in the moments Marinella had been able to impose some structure to the session, she'd been able to find out the names of both his mother and father and how far the farm was from the local village, Taragnon. Jojo had been a nickname; two or three corrections passed back and forth with Philippe before they had it right: Ji-jo, Gigot, then finally Gigio, after one of his favourite puppet characters. Asking Gigio what he heard on the radio at home, they'd also identified the period: early 1960s.

  '... Sometimes I jump up from my hiding place and surprise my father.'

  'Does your father spend a lot of time in the fields?'

  'Yes... and in the garage at the side of the house. All his tools are in there.'

  'Is it a big farm?'

  'Yes. At least forty hectares.'

  Just over eight acres, thought Marinella. Small holding. But to a young boy it was probably large. 'And from your hideaway, can you see the house? What does it look like?'

  'The field slopes down... and there's a courtyard before the kitchen door. Sometimes when it's getting dark, I can see my mother working in the kitchen and I know then that it's time to come in. I know if my father is in the garage, because he always has the light on – there are no windows.'

  'Do you have any other favourite places in the house you like to hide? What about your bedroom - do you like your bedroom?'

  'Yes... but I prefer my hideaway. My sister always comes into my bedroom and plays with my toys... She broke one of my toys once, it was a favourite car...'

  Marinella watched patiently as the tale unfolded on screen: Gigio describing how upset he was, how the car had been for his birthday just a few weeks before. He'd shouted and she started crying, his mother took his sister's side and made him even more upset. She was about to interrupt with another question, felt that Gigio was starting to ramble again - when he suddenly became more thoughtful.

  '... I shouldn't have become so angry with her, made her cry. I loved her really... I always helped her if I could. I missed her so much later, as I did my parents.'

  Marinella's skin bristled. Often with regressions accurate detail could only be gained by taking the person back to a specific time and place - a room, a fond memory, an event that stuck out in their mind. But at others they would jump time frames and generalize periods and feelings. 'Did you become separated from your sister as well - and was it at the same time as your parents?'

  'Yes.'

  Either Gigio had lost his entire family, or he had become separated from them. She asked.

  Eyran's head lolled, his breathing suddenly more erratic as his eyelids pulsed, struggling with the images. 'It was me - I became lost from them... I remember thinking how worried they would be. And my father... my father... why didn't he come and try to find me. There was a bright light... so bright... I couldn't see anything. And the field... I recognized it... I thought I might see my father there looking for me any minute... when... when... I... I' Eyran's head started shaking, beads of sweat on his brow, the words subsiding into guttural gasps on fragments of breath.

  Lambourne put one hand on Marinella's shoulder, but she mis-read the signal, tapped out. 'Did you blame your father for not finding you - think that it was partly his fault?'

  Eyran swallowed, fighting to control his erratic breathing. 'Yes - partly... but it was more me... I blamed myself. I kept thinking how they couldn't face that I'd become lost from them - that I'd somehow let them down... their sorrow. My mother's face, so sad... so, so sad... her eyes full of tears, crying... no, it couldn't be real - it couldn't have happened... no, couldn't... not real... No... No!' Eyran's head started rocking wilder this time, his eyes scrunched tight. His laboured breathing rasped in his throat.

  Lambourne reached over frantically to the keyboard, tapped out (Stop it. Stop it now! Move Gigio on from the incident.)

  Marinella looked up quizzically. They'd arranged a code whereby any message between them should be typed in brackets so that Philippe knew not to translate. She'd pushed for Lambourne's benefit, would have been happy just to ask limp questions about Gigio's background and let him ramble at will, build up her research paper - but Lambourne's objective was to find and exorcize the link of shared loss between Eyran and Gigio. It seemed crazy to give up now, just when they might be on the brink. She was about to tap out (We're so close to proving the link - just a few more questions), when reading the intensity of Lambourne's expression she thought better of it. She typed, 'When you were in your hideaway by the old house - how old were you?' Return Gigio to a calmer, happier period.

  They waited over twenty seconds for Eyran to make the leap, for his breathing to settle back and answer. 'I was ten years old then.'

  Marinella knew that Gigio was nine at the time of his day out at Le Lavandou, his sister four. 'Do you recall any memories from when you were older - eleven or twelve?' Marinella was aware of Lambourne's slight intake of breath and him staring intently at her as she waited for an answer. If she could have spoken, she would have explained that general overviews usually posed no danger, didn't get subjects wrapped up as intently as specific recall of incidents.

  'No... after the light and the field, there was nothing... I... uh...' Eyran's head tilted, as if he was grappling for images just out of reach. 'Everything grey... grey behind my eyes... then another light - things distant... too far... can't hear... can't...' Some mumbling, words and thoughts trailing off.

  Lambourne's nerves tensed. This was the second time that field had been mentioned. On impulse, he reached forward and tapped out: 'Was it a wheat field?'

  Short pause as Philippe translated and the answer came. 'Yes... yes, it was.'

  Marinella sensed that it was significant by Lambourne's sudden urgency, but he just gave her a wide-eyed shrug. An 'It's interesting, but I'll tell you later' look. Now that she knew Lambourne wouldn't expect her to push more on the shared loss link between the two boys, she relaxed and returned to general information, filled in gaps from what they'd learned so far: how often Gigio went to the local village, his full name, his school, the name of the street by their farm, and friends and neighbours.

  At only one point did Gigio start rambling again, describing stopping off from school at the local boulangerie, and how the woman there, Madame Arnand, when her husband wasn't in the shop would often gi
ve him some free 'pan chocolat'. They were stale, from one or two days before and would soon be thrown out, but her husband was too mean to give them away, she confided one day. It became their little secret, the husband probably puzzled why this young boy came in his shop so often and browsed without buying anything, and the wife winking at Gigio as soon as her husband's back was turned.

  Marinella let Gigio ramble: it was providing some useful extra details to check, and for the first time during the session Eyran had actually smiled. She could feel a stronger bond and trust developing with the lighter mood. If she built on that rapport, by the next session they might have more success breaking through the barriers Gigio had erected and could start tackling the core grief that linked the two boys.

  Marinella was aware of David Lambourne checking his watch and nodding at her. She checked the time: an hour and twelve minutes. More than enough for a first session. She gradually wound things down, let Gigio finish his description of discovering an old car tyre one day on his way home from school with a friend, and how they rolled it back to the farm - then brought Eyran back out of hypnosis.

  While Lambourne escorted Eyran out and she heard him talking with the Capels in the waiting area, she scrolled back on the computer screen. Apart from Lambourne's 'stop it' command, the only other item in brackets was where she'd asked Philippe if the regional French was accurate. She asked him now to elaborate on the basic 'Yes' on screen. 'Was it accurate for the time period as well as the region?'

  'Yes, pretty much. As I said to David, it hasn't really changed through the years. Only on the coast has it been corrupted because of the massive influx of visitors and residents from other parts. Thirty miles inland, it's a different world.'

  'Is it the sort of patois that would be easy for someone to copy or effect?'

  Philippe shrugged. 'Not that easy. Perhaps someone from Paris or Dijon could attempt a reasonable mimicry, but they would still be caught out on some words. But somebody English, already struggling with French as a second language - I don't think so.'

  Marinella clicked the print command. The printer was on the second sheet as Lambourne came back in. Marinella asked him about the wheat field. 'I remember you mentioning a wheat field from one of Eyran's earlier dreams. Is that why you thought it might be significant?'

  'Yes, that, and Eyran mentioning that when he first moved to the old house in England, the wheat field at the back seemed somehow familiar.'

  'Well, at least the main prognosis seems to have been supported,' Marinella commented. Earlier she speculated that if a real regression was proved, probably some memory of loss or grief in the past life had been sparked off by the accident and Eyran's loss. In the same way that many PLT uncovered phobias lay dormant until awoken by a similar incident. 'I think we'll find that if there was much memory or link between the two before the accident, that it was mostly subliminal - little more than fragments of déjà vu.'

  'Possibly. But we won't know for sure until we've gone back in more detail through the transcript and compared with the transcripts from previous sessions.'

  Marinella noticed Lambourne glance towards Philippe and picked up on the signal. Either he didn't want to talk openly in front of Philippe, or he wanted more time to consider his prognosis. She too would probably benefit from a few hours to collate her thoughts. 'Of course, we're jumping the gun a bit. The first thing we need to know is if the regression and its main character are real. If not, then we can focus again on the original theory of a secondary character invented by Eyran.' She turned to Philippe. 'How would you like to earn some extra money?'

  Philippe smiled slyly. 'The last time an older attractive woman asked me that, I got into trouble.'

  Marinella explained her problem. They had various names and details from the session, all of which would have to be checked. This would involve a number of calls to town hall registrars and clerks in France, and her French was practically non-existent. Marinella circled the names on the transcript. 'The Rosselots. The boy Christian and his parents Monique and Jean-Luc. Sister named Clarisse. From Taragnon. Early nineteen-sixties. Shouldn't be too hard to find - if they exist.'

  The boy had probably died when he was only ten years old. Everything should therefore start with registration of the death certificate, she explained. Then perhaps they could begin piecing together the details of his life. 'See if those pieces match his descriptions.'

  TWENTY-TWO

  Jean-Luc Rosselot sat on the small stone wall and looked down the slope of the field towards the courtyard and the house. It was summer again, eight months after the trial. The scent of the fields reminded him of the day he'd found Christian's bike, of days they'd spent together working on the farm... of the bleak wheat field with the gendarmes placed like markers.

  Christian's small makeshift camp the far side of the wall he'd dismantled just a few months before. The winter winds had made it look dishevelled, no longer a pleasant reminder of the days when Christian used it.

  The images too were fading. Many times before he'd sat on the wall and looked down, imagined Christian running up towards him, waving, calling his name. Now when he summoned up the image, he could see a figure running, but it was indistinct - it could have been any boy. The features were faded, hazy, little more than a Cézanne impression. He wondered whether it was because his eyes were watering with the pain of the memory, blurring his vision - then would suddenly realize his eyes had slowly closed, the images were playing only in his mind.

  The only images that remained clearly, too clearly, were those he'd fought to blot out: the young gendarme in the courtyard with Monique collapsed at his feet, the photos of when Christian was found which he and Monique had to view at instruction, part of the process of official identification before the almost ludicrous question, 'Is it your wish that charges are proceeded with?' The two days in court, his outrage as the defence tactics became clear, and then the judge's final sentence: six years? Six years for the life of his son: not even a semblance of justice. Diminished responsibility? Metal plates, army doctors and old resistance fighter. The whole thing had been a pathetic sham.

  All that he'd clung to all along had been justice. Everything else had already been stripped away. Pride, hope, some reason to explain the ridiculous, the unacceptable that he'd lost Christian. Was that what he'd hoped for that day in court? Some explanation of why it had happened to lay the ghosts to rest. In the end, reason had been as lacking as justice. What were they saying in the end: that the man had murdered his son, but it was partly excusable because he had a metal plate due to being hit by a Nazi truck twenty years ago?

  Jean-Luc shook his head. He felt tired, very tired. The land, the fight to make the farm work, had been sapping him dry the last few years. Christian's death and the ensuing investigation and court case had taken whatever strength and resolve remained. He felt increasingly awkward in Monique's and Clarisse's company, could hardly look them in the eye, knew that they might see what lay beneath: that he just couldn't love them the way he loved Christian. And ashamed that he'd let them down, failed them. The last two letters from the bank he'd stuffed in a drawer without opening them. He knew already what they would say.

  He rose slowly, clearing the welled tears from his eyes as he started down the field towards the courtyard. If he saw Christian now, saw a clear image again waving and calling to him, perhaps that would stop him, make him think again. But there was nothing, only the empty field. Empty and dry under the summer sun, unyielding. Nothing left to cling to any more, not even the memory. As he got closer to the house, he saw a faint flicker behind the kitchen window. Monique was busy in the kitchen, but she hadn't noticed him and didn't look up as he crossed the courtyard to the garage.

  14th December, 1969

  Monique Rosselot tried to make out shapes in the room. Everything was misty, as if looking through a sheet of muslin. The figures moving around were indistinct, blurred, except the nurse when she leaned close, asking her again if she could 'feel anyth
ing below her waist?'

  'Yes... yes,' she answered between fractured breaths, now slightly indignant at the nurse's doubting tone.

  Feel was such a lame word for the terrible pain that gripped her, starting deep in her stomach and spreading like a firestorm through her thighs and lower back. She'd never before experienced such intense pain, didn't know it was possible for any human to endure such agony.

  'I don't think the epidural has taken,' she heard a man's voice. 'We might have to give her another shot.'

  'I don't think we can at this stage,' came another.

  And then the nurse leaning over again. 'Can you feel your body relaxing now?'

  'Yes... yes.'

  'But can you still feel the pain from lower down?'

  Monique exhaled the 'Yes' between clenched teeth, her breathing now little more than short bursts as she tensed against the pain.

  Doctor Jouanard contemplated the dilemma. The patient had been given the epidural almost thirty minutes ago. After twenty minutes when it became obvious it hadn't taken because of the patient's continuing pain, the baby was by then engaged in the birth canal. It would be almost impossible for the patient to bend forward to get the right curvature in the spine for a fresh epidural. And the risks of trying to administer it without full curvature were too high. A half centimetre off target and the patient could be paralyzed. In the end he'd ordered a mild general anaesthetic, something to calm and relax nerves, but leave the patient awake so that there was some response muscle control to push with.