John Matthews - Past Imperfect

'Break away…. Break away!.. '

'…I… Can't breathe… can't…'

'Eyran!.. Eyran!.. Break away… '

The rapid pulsing beneath Eyran's eyelids slowly settled. His tortured breathing eased.

Lambourne's mouth was dry, a film of sweat on his forehead. He cursed himself: he should have seen it coming! Cut everything short as soon as Eyran started wading into the pond. He could feel his nerves still racing. He waited a few seconds more, watching each beat of Eyran's slowly settling expression.

He swallowed slowly. 'So. Outside of the dreams, when you're awake — has Jojo ever spoken to you?' Switch to generalities, thought Lambourne. Avoid specifics.

Eyran's brow knitted slightly; obviously he found it an odd question. 'No.'

'And how do you feel immediately after waking from the dreams? Are you able to believe just for a moment that your parents might be alive?'

Long pause from Eyran. 'I don't know. Just confused, I suppose. And afraid.'

But Lambourne could tell that Eyran was holding back. 'Yet they're enough to convince you that the next time Jojo might succeed and catch up with your parents. You're willing to trade that for the horrors the dreams might bring.'

Eyran shook his head. 'I don't know. When they start, I don't seem to think about how they might end. I'm just happy that for a few moments I'm somewhere where I might see my parents again.'

'But do you consciously welcome them — knowing that you might see your parents?'

'I don't know. No, I don't think so.'

Lambourne eased back. It was the closest he was likely to get. 'Do most of your dreams occur by the old house in England?'

Eyran took a second to catch up with the shift in questioning. 'Yes.'

'Do you know why?'

Eyran paused; as if for a moment unsure whether the question was rhetorical and Lambourne would suddenly answer. 'I'm not sure. Perhaps in the dreams that's where I think I have most chance of finding them. Or perhaps I don't think I can do it alone, I need Jojo's help — and I know I can find him there.'

'Are your memories of that particular house stronger than your other house in San Diego? Is that where you recall your happiest times — with your parents, with your friends?'

Eyran's expression relaxed. Lambourne watched the self-realization sweep slowly across; at least one small piece of the puzzle had slotted in place. 'Yes, I suppose so. I was happier there.'

Lambourne made a final note: Main object attachments: Father, mother, house in England, old play areas, old friends (possibly now represented through Jojo), house in San Diego. Quick distillation from the sessions so far; he might change the order later and add to the list, but it was a start.

The session had taken an hour and ten minutes. When he went into the waiting area with Eyran, Stuart and Amanda Capel were already there. Before they left, he arranged and pencilled in the time for the next session.

Lambourne was pleased with progress so far. Eyran was quite bright and more open and communicative than he'd at first feared. His recall of detail in the dreams strong under hypnosis. But Stuart was right: the smiles were rare. Apart from the dreams, perhaps the only outward sign that Eyran was deeply disturbed.

But the dreams were becoming more of a refuge where Eyran could believe his parents were alive. Jojo was also becoming bolder — in two recent dreams introducing Eyran's father again to maintain the illusion. Lambourne was convinced it was only a matter of time before Jojo crossed over. Eyran would awake one day to find Jojo's voice still with him. From there, his own core character — and everyone in the outside world telling him his parents were dead — would regress, and Jojo would gain dominance.

The only way was to confront Jojo now, drag him from the dark recesses of Eyran's dreams and strip him bare, let Eyran face the truth, accept: his parents were dead. Only then would he be able to start mourning, adjust to whatever his new life held without them.

But it wouldn't be easy, Lambourne reflected. His nerves were still rattled from the session just past. Like Faust with the devil, he could find himself trading all the way through: a truth for a nightmare.

The news that Christian Rosselot had died reached the Bauriac gendarmerie mid-morning.

The call came from Dr Besnard, the Chief Medical Examiner at the hospital. Poullain wasn't there at the time, so Harrault took the message. Dr Trichot had fought hard to save the boy, but oedema from an active clot caused unforeseen complications. After more than two hours in the operating theatre and three attempts to re-start the boy's heart, all procedures were finally terminated at 10.52am, and the boy pronounced dead. 'Could you please try and make arrangements to inform his mother straight away, as she normally plans a hospital visit for the afternoon. Thank you. And I'm so sorry to have to bring this news.'

Harrault was in the small room directly behind the main entrance desk. He fell silent as he put down the phone. It was a moment before he got up and looked for Fornier who, as the main assisting investigator, was the first person he felt should know. Fornier was in the general administration office typing. In the same room was Levacher and a secretary.

After confirming some details of the call, Dominic looked down thoughtfully at his typewriter. He exhaled audibly; suddenly his body lacked any strength to punch the black metal keys. Levacher mumbled the obvious about how awful it was, then after a brief pause asked who was going to tell the family. When no answers came, everyone wrapped in their own thoughts, he added, 'I suppose we'll have to wait for Poullain to decide.'

And the secretary, who had stopped typing at the same time, felt she had her emotions under control until the silence and constrained atmosphere suddenly got the better of her and, shielding part of her face, she hurriedly left the room.

Hushed voices in the corridor, questions, muted surprise then finally, again, silence. The pall spread through the small gendarmerie as if by osmosis; whispers of death seeping through the cream plaster walls.

Within five minutes, the full complement of nine gendarmes and two secretaries on duty knew. From there, it started spreading through the town. A young sergeant went out to buy some cigarettes; there were two other people in the shop at the time who heard that 'the Rosselot boy had died'. One of the shopper's next calls was the boulangerie , where five more heard the news. It ricocheted through the main town shops.

Echoes of death which, by the time Dominic had fired up a Solex and started heading out towards Taragnon and the Rosselots, had already changed the atmosphere in the town centre. Or was he just imagining it? A nod of acknowledgement from Marc Tauvel re-stacking his front display of vegetables, but then a look that lingered slightly. Madame Houillon following his progress around the square, staring; she was over-inquisitive at the best of times, but now her head was slightly bowed, as if he was a passing hearse. Respect for the dead.

Dominic felt that he couldn't wait any longer before heading out. Poullain was expected back soon, but that could be an hour or more, by which time Monique Rosselot could have started her way to the hospital. Or worse still, by the way the news was spreading through the village, her hearing it clumsily from a neighbour or tradesman calling by. 'My condolences, I'm so sorry to hear.' Hear what?

Dominic didn't want it to happen that way; after a quick consultation with Harrault, they'd jointly agreed to break protocol by not waiting for Poullain, and Harrault signed out a Solex. Twenty five minutes had passed since the call from the hospital.