Past Imperfect (32 page)

Xenoglossy and conducting sessions under hypnosis had been the main area where her work differed from that of Emmett Donaldson's, her Professor and mentor through the years. Donaldson had built up a reputation as one of America's leading parapsychologists, a fountainhead of knowledge on past life regressions backed by over 1,400 case histories, many of them published, and to date five books. Her contribution paled by comparison: 284 case studies, 178 published, one book. Though one area she had beaten him in already was the talk show stakes, mainly because Donaldson hated personal appearances. One local radio, and two TV: one local, the other a cable science channel. The Oprah Winfreys and Donahues were but distant dreams.

She had been working with Donaldson on and off since 1979. She'd gained her degree and doctorate at Piedmont college and went into private practice for three years before realizing it didn't suit her and joined Donaldson. She'd admired Donaldson's papers and work with PLR even while at Piedmont. Three years later she’d started living with a local architect, but much to her father's disappointment - except for the compensation that she kept the family name - they never married. After a first miscarriage, Sebastian was finally born in 1985. Donaldson was particularly understanding, allowing her three years off until Sebastian was at pre-school. But the more intensive period of work when she returned put extra pressure on an already strained relationship and within another two years she was separated.

It was only during that period that she gained her main focus of where she wanted her work to head. Donaldson's work had concentrated almost exclusively on regressions while awake, conventional question and answer sessions. This meant that he could normally only work with children up to seven or eight, beyond that age conventional memory of past lives was invariably erased. Sometimes the memories faded earlier, particularly in societies where reincarnation was not accepted; all too often past recalls were labelled as merely infantile fantasy. Much of Donaldson's work had therefore taken place in India and Asia where re-incarnation was fully accepted, children with recall were not stifled by their parents.

Apart from the restrictions of conducting conventional sessions, did she really just want to follow in Donaldson's footsteps? The answer to both was no, but where to find her own niche? While she was attracted to the broader parameters of age and culture that hypnotic regressions allowed, Donaldson had pointed out that so many practising regressionists used hypnotism: how would she be different?

Donaldson had also built up one of the most impressive bodies of PLR work ever recorded with children, and she didn't want to totally turn her back on that legacy. In the end she chose what she hoped was the ideal compromise: hypnotic regressions, but with a high quota of children and specific focus on xenoglossy.

Most practitioners of hypnotic regressions had quotas of no more than twelve percent with children, largely due to the difficulties of gaining parental approval for hypnosis. She hoped to raise that quota to at least thirty percent. The occurrence of xenoglossy also had stronger significance with children: opportunity to learn the language adopted was far less.

In the middle of battling through one of her most difficult cases, Donaldson had commented, 'Just satisfy yourself, Marie. If in doing so you also satisfy the doubters and critics, then so be it. Set out just to please the critics and you'll be lost. They'll sense your vulnerability, know that you're just playing to the gallery, and have you for breakfast. Why do you think I never do live appearances?'

The case had looked ideal at first: nine year old son of a Cincinnati doctor, originally regressed to cure agoraphobia, fear of wide open spaces. A past life as a Mexican Conquistador was uncovered. He became detached from an expedition due to a lame horse and spent days roaming in the Coahuila desert before dying of heat exhaustion and exposure. The Spanish was convincing, and she was already arranging additional sessions to prove the other areas of authenticity - geography, period events, customs and dialect - when the boy's father phoned. His son's main phobia had been cured, he didn't want to risk his son being disturbed with continuing sessions.

She was destroyed. No Oprahs or Donahues this time either. Donaldson was right: she'd invited the let down, played too much to the gallery. But it was difficult not to be influenced by the years of scepticism. Seeing Donaldson's pre-dominance of regressions in Asia dismissed by one critic as having 'scant relevance. There is far too much suggestion within the society of re-incarnation. Young children, already with over fertile imaginations, could too easily be led.'

It had been one of her main reasons for avoiding cases from that region. They were less accepted by the gallery. The University would have swallowed any lame excuse: case studies in the US and Europe were less draining on research funds. She knew that one good mainstream case - such as the Cincinnati boy - would not only boost her career but throw fresh light on the whole profession. PLR for the masses. The kid next door with average grades suddenly speaking fluently in a foreign tongue, with a linguistic expert and historian riding shotgun for authentication. Okay,
now
we believe you!

Marinella Calvan wondered whimsically if Eyran Capel might be her ticket to Oprah. Probably not. She'd become excited before and been disappointed. Too much could go wrong: the boy's godparents could refuse continuing sessions, the boy could suddenly claim to be Marshal Pétain or Maurice Chevalier, his French could turn out to be no better than phrase book rudimentary, or he could have holidayed or gone on school exchanges regularly in France. It was too early to get excited.

TWENTY

After the reconstruction, Molet's hopes had sunk of being able to clear his client, and the witness
instruction
before Christmas if anything lowered them still further. Madame Véillan was very sure of the time she saw Machanaud coming out of the lane: 'Just after three o'clock.' Marius Caurin was next with the time he found the boy, and then the other people who had seen Machanaud that day: Raulin where he was working that morning and the various barkeepers; Henri from Bar Fontainouille and Leon who had seen him from three-fifteen onwards. Repeats of the main testimonies which had ripped apart Machanaud's original police statement. Now all officially recorded for full trial.

Molet could imagine the image that would be built up at full trial for the jury. A day in the life of a low-life vagabond: some casual farm labour followed by a few swift eau de vies, then heading out half drunk for some poaching. Only he sees the boy and decides to spice up his lunch hour with a bit of buggery and murder. Then back to the bars again, to what: Celebrate? Drown his regrets, steady his hands again...
or perhaps blot out the horror of the bloodied images still with him?
Or was it that Leon's at three-fifteen was part of his regular routine and he wanted to make sure everything appeared as normal.

Molet knew that the statistics for people cleared at the final trial, having gone completely through
instruction
, were grim: less than eight percent. The best chances of acquittal were during
instruction
with the examining magistrate; but that now looked unlikely with Machanaud. He would go the full course.

The only way to introduce a lesser charge was if Machanaud admitted the assault, said that he'd only hit the boy to knock him out, there had been no intention to kill; try to get a manslaughter charge introduced which normally carried a five to eight year sentence. He'd mentioned it one day to Machanaud, tried to make him realize how heavily all the prosecution evidence weighed against him, but again Machanaud protested his innocence, was almost outraged at the suggestion.
'..I'd rather that they did hang me or send me to Devil's Island than admit to something I didn't do.'

In February, the
instruction
hearings started to involve witnesses more as character assessments of Machanaud. Molet watched Machanaud's ex-girlfriend give evidence to his unpredictable and sometimes violent nature, then a succession of townspeople testifying to his drinking habits and his oddball nature - and Molet was suddenly struck with an idea. Perhaps he'd be able to save his client's neck after all.

Each Christmas Dominic spent with his mother, he wondered if it would be her last. Six months to a year, the doctors had said; already seventeen months had passed. Clinking glasses over the Christmas table, was it just seasonal celebration, or partly because they knew she was cheating death? Another year.

His elder sister Janine, her husband and two children had come down from Paris for the week and for once the house was full. Janine and Guy took the spare room with their daughter Céleste, while their boy Pascal, now just nine, slept on a mattress in Dominic's room.

When his sister got a moment alone with him, she enquired about the latest round of hospital tests. The message was clear: they could only visit once or, at most, twice a year; was mother still going to be around when they visited in the summer? Dominic didn't know either way. There were times when he counted her time left in weeks, others when it seemed she might soldier on for months.

Dominic's uncle had sent him another package of the latest sounds from the States: 'Sugar Shack', 'Mocking Bird' and two recent hits from a new producer called Phil Spector: 'Then he kissed me' and 'Be my Baby'. Edith Piaf had died two months previous and his mother, not yet satiated by the many commemorative Piaf hours on the radio, was still playing some of her tracks - so Dominic ended up playing the records for himself and Pascal up in his room.

Innez Fox's 'Mocking Bird' was Dominic's favourite, but Pascal preferred Phil Spector. The boy had never heard such a powerful sound system, and the strong orchestral background and echoing beat were quite awe inspiring. Dominic started warming to the records more as he edged up the volume. As the music suffused the room and he felt its rhythm washing through him, he found himself smiling. God knows what the neighbours would have thought if they could hear: Phil Spector upstairs and Edith Piaf downstairs. Dominic turned it down a bit.

Seeing young Pascal's excitement over Christmas - opening presents, getting drunk on wine sneaked from his father's glass, and now bouncing up and down on his bed to Phil Spector - brought home even more to Dominic how terrible it must be to lose a child. What Monique must have suffered, must still be going through.

Dominic had seen her only once in the village since the memorial service. Louis mentioned that she'd only started to venture out a month before Christmas, and then only rarely. If she could avoid going out, she would - but she felt guilty continuing to rely so heavily on the Fiévets. Dominic thought she looked better than at the memorial service, the dark circles beneath her eyes had mostly gone and a faint glimmer of life was back in her eyes. She didn't notice him, and he was careful not to look too long; her beauty he found somehow intimidating, and he didn't want to make her feel awkward.

Village life in Bauriac and Taragnon had settled back, though news from each
instruction
filtered back via the various witnesses called. Dominic started to worry about details of Machanaud's car statement arising again at the
instruction
in January, but it passed without incident.

The
instruction
process was due to finish in late April, but at the last moment Molet introduced a new element which kept it going through May - calling character witnesses
for
Machanaud in the same style that Perrimond had paraded an assortment against. The resultant coup by Molet, probably the main turning point of the case, had Dominic smiling as much as Poullain had been cursing when he brought news of it back to the gendarmerie. Molet was giving Perrimond a run for his money.

The
instruction
process ended in early June and twenty-two days later both Perrimond and Molet received notification from the Palais de Justice that the case would be presented to full trial at the
Cour d'Assises
in Aix, and the date set: 18th October. By then, fourteen months would have passed since the attack on Christian Rosselot.

'What makes you think I can afford that?'

'Okay, I'll be generous. One half now and the other in two months time, just two weeks before the trial starts.' They'd done the same as before: Chapeau put a call through to the general Limoges office and Duclos went out and called him back minutes later.

It was still 5,000 Francs, thought Duclos. Outrageous! Almost as much as he'd paid Chapeau in the first place. 'I don't think I can manage more than four. Even splitting it in two parts.' And even that would mean taking a small overdraft from his bank.

Chapeau sniggered. 'You know, I should ask you for six thousand for being so cheeky. I'll accept it this time - but next time you try and bargain, I'll put the figure up.'

'What do you mean -
next
time. If I pay you this now, I don't want to hear from you again.'

Chapeau sighed, his shoulders sagging. 'And just when we were getting on so well. You think I phone you just for the money - has it never occurred to you that I might like to hear the sound of your voice...'

'Oh, fuck off!'

'It's true. Practically no family left except my brother, and he's away at sea most of the time. Apart from killing people every now and then and phoning you, there's few pleasures left in my life. You think I'm going to pass up on that?' Chapeau smiled slyly and let the silence ride a second, let it sink home that he would be calling regularly. Duclos didn't respond. 'Don't worry, I'm sensible enough to realize that I'll have cleared you out for now. I know your salary, everything about you - so I also know when best to phone. You won't hear from me for a while.'