John Matthews - Past Imperfect

She'd have asked to sit in on some sessions, but that too might hint of growing obsession — and Dominic had complained about the difficulties of personally attending, the secret game between him and Marinella Calvan. He'd only been able to swing one final session with himself and a notary.

Then only a few days ago, Dominic had mentioned Stuart and Eyran Capel travelling down for the next hearing — they'd agreed to meet up beforehand. She was sure in that moment she'd have said, 'I'd like to come,' if it wasn't for where they were meeting: the wheat field! The wheat field at Taragnon. Suddenly her curiosity and everything she'd pushed away for so long were in conflict. She couldn't go back there, she could never go back there.

And so she told herself it wasn't important, clung to Dominic's earlier words that he was just a fresh faced English boy, light brown hair, a few freckles across his nose, no resemblance to Christian, remembers nothing while awake…

What would she do? Stand next to this boy she didn't know and ask questions he couldn't answer… her heart and soul ripped apart again by the memories. Perhaps she was never meant to meet this boy. It was meant to stay a private thing. Just her alone with the tapes… alone with Christian's voice …

She focused sharply back over the top of her wine glass at Dominic. Dinner had been cleared away. He looked equally as thoughtful for a moment.

'Problems?' she asked.

'I don't know. Possibly. It didn't go well today. But we won't know the outcome for a few days yet.' When the doors to the hearing room finally swung open, Corbeix' expression had been thunderous. He explained to Dominic the grilling he'd been subjected to and what Thibault was demanding, breaking off briefly as they both watched Thibault pass. Barielle wanted to consult the greffier notes before ruling: counsels to be advised in four days.

'What might happen?'

Dominic sighed. 'It's bad. A mis-trial could be called — the whole case thrown out.'

Monique's eyes softened. She grimaced tautly and reached out and touched the back of his hand. 'I'm sorry, Dominic. You've put so much into this case. Fought so hard for it.' But beneath his hesitant smile in return, she could read the pain and anguish. It was little comfort. She gripped his hand tighter. 'Look — Dominic. If the case fails, you shouldn't feel bad about it because of me. We've had a great life together. You've given me two beautiful sons. You've made me very happy. Nobody could ask for more. I don't expect it of you to set the record straight on Christian as well.'

'Thanks.' Dominic squeezed her hand back. Though he knew it was probably just to make him feel better about possibly failing. Like him, she would no doubt like to see Duclos nailed to the side of the Arc de Triomphe for what he'd done to Christian.

'You don't need to do this for me. I got over the ghosts of Christian long ago.'

But he was doing it as much for himself, he thought. To set the record straight. Though she would probably now never know his guilt over Machanaud. She was right: they'd had a great life together. Shared everything. Except a few secrets . 'Does it bother you, everything coming back now. In any way awaken the ghosts?'

'Obviously a little.' Momentary flinch. She didn't want to admit how much it had obsessed her. He had enough worries and pressure. 'But we shouldn't let it rule our lives. If Duclos is meant to be convicted, then so be it. If not, the same applies. Whatever is meant to be is meant to be. Don't torture yourself trying to change it Dominic. Don't punish yourself. You've done everything you can on this case. If it's still not enough — then let it go. Nobody would blame you, think less of you. And certainly not me.'

As ever: soft, understanding. Her eyes too implored him, added depth to her words. Soulful brown eyes that had melted him the first day he saw her, had glimmered and sparkled at him across countless candle-lit tables through the years; at the birth of Yves and Gerome and the numerous birthdays and celebrations since. A good life. God , how he loved her.

But beyond the softness and compassion in her eyes, he could still see the pain. See the shadows that had haunted her with Christian through the decades. Shadows that belied her compassion, that screamed: get him, get him! Bring Christian justice. Don't let him get away.

Betina's voice drifted from the kitchen. 'I'm bringing in the cake now.'

Joel smiled. Duclos smiled awkwardly in return. They sat at opposite ends of the dining table. Distance between them. Always more acute when Betina wasn't present. As if she was the only link between them; they couldn't communicate effectively without her presence.

Betina came in with the cake and the atmosphere eased. White icing with blue piping: Happy Birthday, Joel.Ten candles.

A miracle. Five days skirting with death in an incubator, then remarkably Joel had started to gain strength. Another two months with worries about healthy bone formation, and Joel had never looked back.

Delayed congratulations from colleagues once Joel was out of danger. Cigars. 'You must be overjoyed!' 'Yes, yes, of course.' His best politician's smile. Inside he was too numbed to know what he really felt. At least Betina would be happy, had been the overriding thought. It would keep her occupied, away from him. Some advantages.

Blonde hair, mop style. Blue eyes. Joel looked like his mother, took after her in every way. He could see very little of himself in the boy.

Betina smiled appreciatively at the two of them above the cake. 'It's good to have you at home, Alain. Especially for occasions like this.'

'Yes, it's nice to be back.' Duclos forced a smile, but thought: stupid bitch . Gendarme posted at the front door, his life and future hanging in the balance. It was hardly the ideal homecoming. But he knew what she meant: between Brussels and Strasbourg, the various business trips and weekends sneaked away — also covered as business trips — he hardly spent any time at home. Often he would see them only two or three days in as many months. Duclos laughed inwardly at the irony: such was their relationship, their sham of a marriage, that it had taken a court order to get him to spend some time at home.

Birthdays? Despite Betina's comment, one of the few times he was actually present. He could only remember missing three of Joel's birthdays: two he'd forgotten and Betina had barely forgiven him, and another had clashed with a vital business trip. He'd left a present and phoned from Prague to wish Joel 'Happy Birthday'. A seven year old's sweet lost voice on the line: 'Thank you, pappa.' Probably hardly remembering from one month to the next what his father looked like. He was hardly there.

And when he was: distance . He could feel it in the boy's eyes whenever they settled on him. Perhaps he could expect no less with the time he spent away; or was it the strong bond Joel had with Betina making him feel like a stranger, an outsider to their activities? Outside their precious little circle. But in his darker moments, the boy's gaze would unnerve him. He would wonder if it wasn't just a questioning look because of his long absences, but more knowing: as if in that moment — as he'd feared through the long years — the boy had seen through to his soul and guessed his dark secret. But he'd been so careful, had consciously made an effort. He'd never looked at Joel in that way, never . The boy's blonde hair and fair skin had made it easier. Not the type he was attracted to. But apart from that, it was his son, his son! He would never, never…

'Are you okay?'

Yes, fine. Fine.' But he could feel his pulse racing, his hands clenched in fists beneath the table.