Past Imperfect

by John Matthews

  'I don't know. As I say, it's difficult.' Marinella bit at her lip. The possible obstacles came back full force: Lambourne's and Stuart Capel's reaction to the sessions suddenly becoming an appendage to a murder investigation. She would be lucky to get to first base. 'If it was just up to me, fine. I'd help. But it's not. My colleague David Lambourne has been given charge to cure Eyran Capel's current condition. And Eyran's stepfather Stuart probably wouldn't be too pleased knowing that Eyran's course of therapy has been suddenly hi-jacked to head somewhere else. But I'll do what I can.'

  She could have added, 'Don't hold your breath,' but Dominic's shoulders had already slumped, the eagerness in his eyes suddenly dulled. She studied his face for a moment. The dark hair, greying heavily at the sides, the enticing, almost imperceptible slant at the corner of his eyes. Laughter lines as he'd first greeted her now etching the pain of those long years. It couldn't have been easy, she thought: marrying the dead boy's mother and still harbouring the doubt through all those years. 'I'll do my best. I promise.'

  'Thank you.'

  Marinella flinched slightly as Dominic touched her hand fleetingly in thanks. It wasn't the touch itself, but something she wasn't able to define until they'd parted and she watched him walk away - shoulders still slumped, or perhaps buoyed by her parting promise? But it hit her then how much Dominic was depending on her, and again the worry came that she might end up letting him down.

  There was only one session left to fill in some of the remaining details of Christian Rosselot's life before her flight back to Virginia and Sebastian. But even armed with this incredible story - the quest of a man still searching for the truth in a murder from thirty years ago - with both Lambourne and Stuart Capel already railing against continued probing in the past, she feared their reaction was a foregone conclusion.

  Fornier's quest had touched her deeply, but how was she even going to start to convince them?

  Genoa, January 1983

  Marc Jaumard looked at the brief entry in the newspaper personal column. He'd already read it twice and now read it through again, trying to measure each word, judge any hidden intent. He only had the single page with the personals, ripped out from La Provençal and sent by a friend in Marseille.

  Jaumard had been with the same Genoa-based company now for over four years. Away at sea when his brother died, he hadn't even known until six weeks later when he returned to Genoa. Folded clippings in an envelope from the same friend in Marseille: 'Café Slaying'; 'Milieu war hots up'; 'Café au Sanguin'. The main report in La Provençal described his brother as a 'known milieu associate.' Quite flattering considering that he had mainly killed people for money.

  And now this new clipping almost four years later. Jaumard wondered if it really was what it appeared on face value: connected somehow with his brother's death? He'd left Marseille in something of a rush: rent un-paid for three months, a bank loan on a car he'd taken with him left hanging, and his ex-wife screaming for maintenance. The advert could be just a ruse by the bank or his wife's lawyer to flush him out. Create the illusion that it was somehow connected with his brother's death, a small inheritance from blood money stashed away perhaps. Then slap an injunction on him.

  A bit extreme for the bank, playing on sympathies with his long-buried brother - but he'd put nothing past his ex-wife. He wondered. He contemplated the nearby phone briefly before his eyes fell back to the advert. Dissecting sentences and then individual words, silently mouthing, trying to imagine his ex-wife across a lawyer's desk as it was worded.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Shallow breathing. Half light from the hallway spilling across Eyran's profile as he slept. Stuart Capel stood over the bed, contemplating. In some lights, at some angles, he could see Jeremy's features in Eyran's face. Remember Jeremy as he was as a child, the two of them playing together. Eyran was the last link with those memories.

  Lost now, all so distant - and pushed away even further by the confusion and nightmares running riot in Eyran's mind. Still, the Eyran he remembered - the carefree smiling boy from their trip to California before the accident - was out of reach.

  Seven sessions in five weeks. Had Eyran's state of mind improved? Certainly, the frequency of dreams had diminished. Two a week had been the average before the sessions, now they were at least a week or ten days apart and less violent and upsetting. Of the four dreams over those five weeks, two dreams had been with Gigio, two without.

  The latest development Stuart found hardest to accept: Past life regressions? Gigio no longer an invented, protective character from the part of Eyran's psyche refusing to accept the loss of his parents - but a real life in its own right. A life that Eyran had supposedly lived in France from 1953 to 1963. Christian Rosselot. He shook his head. It was unreal, ludicrous, another turn-off along the nightmarish road they'd been led down since Jeremy's death. Yet this one had no familiar landmarks, no signposts, dragged him abruptly away from the only tangible element with Eyran's condition he'd clung to: Eyran's non-acceptance of his parents death. He could relate to that. He had felt the emotion strongly himself, had spent the last long weeks struggling to come to terms with Jeremy's death and had barely succeeded. A friendly face in his dreams taking him to see Jeremy, he imagined could be quite reassuring, soothing. Make him feel somehow that Jeremy hadn't completely gone.

  But his reservations about entering Eyran into therapy had lingered until the second session when David Lambourne brought up the possible danger of a predominant character pushing Eyran over the edge into schizophrenia. Only then did he feel assured he'd made the right decision. His earlier fears were allayed.

  Now with that premise thrown out of the window, Stuart's doubts were back. Before the final session with Marinella Calvan, he'd voiced his concerns to Lambourne of continued probing into Eyran's past. Lambourne had defended that because the past real character of Gigio/Christian had also experienced sudden separation from his parents, secondary influence was still significant. How even apart from that core shared experienced of loss, there were other elements linking the two lives: a period of coma in both boys, Eyran's brief death, the wheat field in Eyran's dreams which was also the last place to feature in Christian's life. By knowing more about Christian Rosselot, they would be better armed to tackle Eyran's current condition.

  Stuart had only been partially swayed, and perhaps it had shown in his face because Lambourne added. 'With this one final session with Mrs Calvan, the main forays into the past will be complete. We can then assess afresh where we want future sessions to head.'

  Though Stuart didn't totally agree with Calvan's views, he appreciated her courage of conviction. After the last session, she'd thanked him and Amanda for allowing her to delve into Eyran's past and explained how she hoped it might help: that it wasn't only a question of symbols, it was determining where they had stronger relevance. In which life was there stronger non-acceptance of loss and separation? Hopefully the two sessions and the notes and transcripts would provide the answers to that. Provide a stronger framework for conventional therapy to continue.

  Calvan had nodded towards Lambourne at that point, but Stuart noted a slight clouding in Lambourne's eyes, as if he disagreed or previously had had words with her on the subject. But Lambourne made no comment. Just smiled tightly at Calvan's nod.

  The only time Stuart had spoken with Calvan before was for twenty minutes after her first session with Eyran, when she'd provided some of her background with regressions, children and xenoglossy. She preferred cases of xenoglossy in children because of the unlikelihood of them learning the language by other means. Fluent Spanish, medieval German, Phoenician, obscure regional dialects. Hundreds of authenticated case studies and papers compiled between herself and her mentor, Dr Emmett Donaldson. Impressive stuff, incredible. Somehow too incredible to be real. Stuart hadn't voiced any doubt, but Calvan somehow sensed it, had suddenly asked him if, apart from Eyran, he knew anyone who had been in a coma. No, he hadn't. But, she pressed, he had probably heard of peop
le who after being in a coma had afterwards suffered amnesia. Memory loss. 'Yes,' he'd answered. Calvan had succinctly pointed out that if a period of coma had the ability to wipe out memory, then a death certainly would. 'People tend not to believe in past lives simply because they themselves have no personal recall of a past life. Nothing tangible with which to relate. But that doesn't mean they haven't occurred. Most people under hypnosis do in fact recall past lives. And my colleague Dr Donaldson has had great success in sessions with young boys up to the age of seven while awake. After that, the ability to recall diminishes.'

  Stuart could just imagine Calvan back in Virginia, pacing in front of first year students, dazzling the class with the same graphic example. Why was he still so sceptical?

  Marinella Calvan's parting words after the last session still rang in his mind: 'At least now we know it's a real past life, the danger of possible schizophrenia has gone. No more worries about a secondary character taking over.'

  But Stuart hadn't felt any relief. Replacing something tangible - something with which he could strongly relate - with a concept he still couldn't quite grasp, just didn't sit right. Regardless of the obvious benefits stressed by Calvan.

  When he'd first mentioned his doubts to Amanda about the continuing sessions, she'd quickly thrown in his face that he'd never been keen on them, and now at the first obstacle, the first turn in the road with which he didn't agree - he was ready to throw in the towel. 'Leave it to the experts, Stuart. It's their problem. Why their walls are full of diplomas in psychoanalysis and yours aren't. You're never going to second guess them at their own game.'

  So that was how she saw it. The age old argument. While it was their problem, he wasn't so obsessed with Eyran, he had more time to devote to his own family. To Tessa and herself. Eyran had conveniently been shoved off to the sidelines: someone else's problem. If Stuart called an end to the sessions, the problem of Eyran was back fully in their laps.

  But Amanda's comment, however mis-guided, threw a starker light on his own doubt. He had originally hoped that the sessions would break down the barriers and imaginary characters in Eyran's mind. He would feel closer to Eyran again. The Eyran he remembered. But now the character was real, not imaginary. Not one that would be shifted by a few couch-side questions from Lambourne. And apart from worrying where the future sessions with Eyran might now head, he wondered whether at heart it wasn't scepticism, but more that he didn't want to believe. Accept the reality of a secondary character who would always be with Eyran, however deeply buried in his subconscious. Yet again he would be sharing Eyran.

  Time was too tight for the evening flight to Lyon, so Dominic decided to stay over another night at the Meridien. He opted for an afternoon flight the next day so that he would be readily available through the morning for any news from Marinella Calvan. They had the final session at eleven o’clock, and he imagined that she would broach what he'd proposed either directly before or after the session, while both the Capels and Lambourne were present.

  Though she'd voiced caution and doubt, her questions and keen interest had also displayed strong eagerness to help. Dominic was hopeful.

  No call by eleven. She either hadn't yet broached the subject, or it was too awkward to hold up the session or make the call while the Capels were still there. Or, if she got agreement, she might even plough straight in and ask some pertinent questions straight away. Another hour or so to wait.

  Dominic felt at a loose end. He'd earlier phoned his Lyon office and gained an update on activities while he was away from Inspector Guidier, his second in command. He now phoned Guidier back and asked him to make contact with the Lyon Public Prosecutor's office. 'Try Verfraigne. It's just a hypothetical situation at this stage.' Dominic explained what he wanted: the likely prosecution procedure for a murder case re-opened after over thirty years. Any obvious pitfalls and obstacles. 'It wouldn't come under Lyon's jurisdiction, but Aix-en-Provence. So the names of prosecutors and any likely chains of command for such a scenario there would also be helpful.'

  Guidier was curious. 'Anything interesting?'

  'Could be. Could be.' Dominic didn't want to say anything until Marinella Calvan had called, didn't want to tempt fate. But by starting the process, at least he had the feeling something was in motion. 'I'm leaving here at one-forty. But I won't be back in the office in Lyon until probably six or seven. Just time to pick up some files before I head down to Vidauban for the weekend.' He gave the hotel telephone number for any immediate news.

  Dominic's second call was to Pierre Lepoille at Interpol. Lepoille was one of the best Interpol intelligence officers he knew. A researcher in his mid-twenties when they'd worked together at Interpol in Paris; now thirty-four, Lepoille was a true scion of the electronic age. A walking encyclopaedia of random knowledge, with whatever he didn't know a few keystrokes away: Interpol's own secure network, the FBI's AIS programme, Minitel or surfing the Internet.

  Lepoille was part of the permanent backbone of intelligence staff who supported the shifting quotas of officers, like himself, on two year assignments with Interpol. Or liaised with the myriad of police forces world-wide. Gaining access, breaking codes, smashing deftly through virgin cyberspace barriers - few secrets could be safely cocooned from Lepoille's probing keystrokes. The thought of a criminal being apprehended in Kuala Lumpur from an initial enquiry from a backwater police station in Tupelo, Mississippi, all through a succession of quick-fire keystrokes, Lepoille found addictive.

  His only other addiction was Gauloise, but since smoking was not allowed in the computer room, Lepoille's two vices were in serious conflict. Lepoille would grasp at any excuse to head to the canteen, lighting up as soon as he was out of the computer room, then would chain smoke, practically lighting one from the embers of another. But at some stage Lepoille's withdrawal symptoms of being away from his computers would become stronger and he'd be eager to return. Dominic recalled many a chain-smoking canteen meeting with Lepoille.

  'Dominic. Nice to hear from you. Been a while.'

  They spent a few minutes catching up on the eight months since their last meeting before Dominic got to what he wanted: 'Psychics. Cases proven through psychic phenomena, as well as failed cases involving the same. With the latter, any obvious legal obstacles that came out of why the cases failed.'

  'In France, or beyond.'

  'Mainly France. But any big landmark cases outside might also be useful.'

  'Okay.' Lepoille didn't ask what it was for. Countless intelligence enquiries every week had numbed him to the unusual. Lepoille had become used to not asking.

  Dominic left Lepoille his number at Vidauban for anything that might come through in the next day or two, then took a long deep breath and sat back. It was done. Everything put in motion. Nothing left but to see what came back in. He looked at his watch: 11.52am. Calvan would be finished in just eight minutes. The phone could ring and he would know whether his efforts of the last fifty minutes had been wasted or not.

  By twelve-fifteen, when there was still no call from Marinella Calvan, Dominic's nerves were frazzled and his doubts returned full force. He realized he'd probably been foolish, allowed his blind enthusiasm to take control, burying the doubts Calvan had flagged. Blot them out in the same way that Christian didn't want to recall the murder. Alternative, mostly lame, excuses started to spring to mind of why she hadn't yet called - and finally Dominic picked up the phone. The thought of another hour's phone-watching before he headed off for his flight, waiting anxiously to know, was unbearable.

  'I'm afraid she's not here.' David Lambourne's voice. 'She's gone shopping. Some bits and pieces she needed to pick up apparently before her flight back to Virginia.'

  'When is she preparing to leave?'

  'Later this evening. Six-thirty, seven o'clock.' Brief silence. 'Anything I can help with, Inspector Fornier?'

  'It was just that she mentioned she might call me.' If Lambourne knew anything, hopefully he'd speak up. But he just responded blandly, '
I see.' Dominic didn't want to prompt by asking, Didn't she discuss the matter with you? Too clumsy. 'Do you expect to see her later, or will she go straight back to her hotel?'

  'She said that she'd probably call by for half an hour or so between three and four, there's some final notes she'd like to go over with me before leaving.'

  Final notes? Dominic wondered if that was when she'd chosen to raise the subject with Lambourne, perhaps explained why she hadn't called so far. But by then he realized he'd either be waiting himself to board a flight or mid-air to Lyon. 'Can you tell her I called. It's very important. I'm flying out myself soon, but she could leave a message at my office or reach me over the weekend on this number.' Dominic gave Lambourne his Lyon HQ and Vidauban numbers and rang off.

  Over the next twenty-four hours, Dominic see-sawed hopelessly between doubt and hope over what news might come from Calvan.

  There was no news or message when he arrived at his office in Lyon at 6.40pm, only an urgent file on his desk from Guidier which needed to be checked before an instruction hearing Monday, and a note: Verfraigne is in court until Monday. More information then. But his assistant knew the name of the Aix Chief Prosecutor: Henri Corbeix.

  Dominic picked up the file and the note and phoned Monique to tell her he was on his way. He'd already phoned her once before boarding his flight, pre-warned her they would be heading down to Vidauban for the weekend. Hopefully she would already have most things packed and prepared.

  When he arrived, the suitcases were by the door, but she'd pan fried some sea bass with peppers and dill on a bed of rice. His favourite. A glass of white Bordeaux was at its side. She'd already had hers, but she thought he might want something before the drive.

  He grimaced apologetically. 'I'm sorry. I already ate on the flight. I'm not that hungry,' he lied. 'I should have told you when I phoned.