Past Imperfect (36 page)

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 anything 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.

At least that had now taken, but the continuing pain and the fact that the baby didn't seem to have progressed any further in the birth canal, despite concentrated pushes from the patient, began to worry Jouanard. He'd read the patient's history thoroughly: two previous natural births without complications, her pelvic girth was obviously sufficiently large, why the problems now?

With one hand on the abdomen, he could feel the baby lodged deep in the birth canal; with the other he spread back the vulva to get a clearer view. He thought he saw what looked like the baby's head, and something else - though he couldn't immediately make out what. There was also too much blood, he began to worry that something might have ruptured internally. He felt inside, trying to identify by touch what he thought was the head.

He worked his hand around, moulding to the shape of the smooth damp flesh: it was a shoulder straight ahead that he'd seen, further down he could feel the thorax and arm, and the head... the head was pushed sharply to one side. And something in between. Jouanard ran his hand around once more to make sure. He looked up sharply.

'Dr Floirat. Administer the patient immediately with full anaesthetic for surgery.'

Floirat started issuing instructions: ECG monitor and oscillatometer to be wheeled forward, doses for the thiopentone.

Jouarnard stepped back, supervising the laying out of instruments with his assistant. The blood loss worried him. Three or four minutes to set up the monitors, another minute for the thiopentone to take effect. How much more would she have lost by then? He directed a nurse to keep swabbing the flow. He noticed the patient's eyes darting, taking in the renewed activity.

'It's okay... it's okay,
'
he soothed. 'The epidural hasn't taken fully. We're giving you a general anaesthetic. It will all be over soon. Just relax.'

Stock phrases. Inside he was panicking. Breach birth with part of the umbilical cord wrapped around the baby's neck. Pushing against the obstruction had obviously caused an internal rupture, and the baby might already be strangled. If the placenta had ruptured, the baby would soon be dead,
if
it was still alive. If it was the uterus or womb, he could lose the patient as well. And he wouldn't even know where the rupture was until he opened up.

The nurses were making the last connections on the monitors. Floirat stepped forward and administered the thiopentone. Jouanard looked at his watch, almost counting down the seconds. The blood loss was heavy. Fresh swabs were being dumped in the dish every ten or fifteen seconds. The patient was still alert, responding to the nurse who was talking to check when she was fully under.

As the questions became totally mundane, Monique began to panic, bringing her anxiety at the renewed activity and the doctors sudden urgent orders to a peak. She asked the nurse, 'What's happening?', only to receive a trite smile in response.

'Nothing. Don't worry. Just relax.'

Which only made her panic all the more. She reached one hand up. 'I'd like to see my husband. Please... I'd like him here by me. To help me.'

'Yes... don't worry. We'll get him.' The same practised smile from the nurse, knowing that the patient would be fully under any second.

Waves of euphoria started to descend, and suddenly the nurse was right. There was nothing to worry about. Her body felt as if it was floating, drifting away on the echoes and voices around her.

'You see... my husband will know just what to do,' she offered pathetically, her last words before drifting completely into the darkness.

In the first moments of darkness, she saw Christian's face. He was running through a field, waving and smiling to her. But it wasn't the field by their house, it was one she didn't recognize: a wheat field, the sheaves blowing gently in the wind. And she thought: yes, it would be nice if it was a boy. Another Christian. She'd take care of him this time, love him, keep him close to her side and never let him be harmed. Oh God, please,
please
... just one more chance.

Floirat checked the patient's pupils for responsiveness with a penlight and nodded after a second. Jouanard made the first incision. He'd already resigned himself to the fact that he'd probably lost the baby. The challenge remaining was to save his patient's life.

28th April, 1974

Dominic Fornier swung the black Citreön through the narrow
Panier
lanes, beeping his horn to move some people aside as he negotiated a tight turn. As he picked up speed, the wind rush reverberated from the buildings close each side. Ahead, he could now see the crowd. Most of them were congregated on the far side. He parked behind two black Citreöns already there. He recognized Lasnel from forensics and Detective Inspector Bennacer, busy taking notes among the crowd the far side.