John Matthews: Past Imperfect

At first Duclos wasn't going to stop. But there was something about the boy's tired posture and profile that made him slow down. As he drew close, taking in the boy's curly hair and olive skin, the sweat on his brow and his flustered expression, he decided to stop. The boy was obviously tired and something was troubling him. The side window had been wound down because of the heat. Duclos leant across as he pulled over.

'Can I give you a lift somewhere?'

The boy was hesitant and looked back towards the far ridge of the fields for a second. 'No. No, thank you. It's okay.'

Duclos guessed his age at no more than ten or eleven. He couldn't help noticing how beautiful the boy's eyes were: green with small flecks of hazel, in contrast to his deep olive skin tone. The eyes betrayed the boy's anxiety. 'Are you sure?' Duclos pressed. 'You look as if you've lost somebody.'

The boy looked back towards the ridge again. 'My bike broke down back there just beyond the field. I was walking to my friend's house, Stephan. His father has a tractor with a trailer to pick it up.'

'How far is it to Stephan's house?'

'Four or five kilometres. It's the other side of the village. But it's okay, I've done the walk before.'

Duclos nodded knowingly and smiled, pushing the door ajar. 'Come on, you're tired and it's hot. I'll run you there. It's too far for you to walk'

The boy returned the smile hesitantly. For the first time he looked the length of Duclos' car, the sudden excitement at the prospect of a ride in a sports car showing. 'If you're sure it's okay.'

Again the reassuring nod and smile as the boy got in. Duclos leant across to shut the door, revved twice quickly as he checked the mirror, and pulled out. They both sat in silence for a moment as the car picked up speed. Duclos noticed the boy looking at the dashboard and leather seats, then lifting up slightly to take in the sloping bonnet. Duclos answered his obvious curiosity.

'It's an Alfa Romeo Giulietta Sprint, 1961. Custom colour, dark green. I wanted one of the classic Italian racing colours — red or dark green, but I thought the red was too loud. I've had it just under two years. Like it?'

The boy nodded enthusiastically, now checking out the small back bench seat and view through the coupe rear window.

'What's your name?' asked Duclos.

'Christian. Christian Rosselot.'

Duclos checked his watch: 12.48pm. He'd made good time since leaving Aix-en-Provence. Duclos knew now what had made him stop. The boy reminded him of Jahlep, the young Algerian boy his Marseille pimp had found for him and had become a favourite on his last few visits. Except more beautiful. The skin pallor wasn't as dark as Jahlep's and had a smoother tone like polished cane, and his large green eyes with hazel flecks were striking beyond belief. The boy was wearing shorts, and he found himself looking over at the smooth copper of the boy's legs. They'd already gone a kilometre and a half, Duclos estimated, when he noticed the roadside sign: Taragnon, 1.3km. The friend's house wasn't far past the village. There wouldn't be much time. Duclos glanced again at the boy's legs. His mouth felt suddenly dry. He had to think of a device to get himself alone somewhere with the boy, and quickly. A few hundred yards ahead he saw a roadside farm track. Duclos slowed down and stopped just past it.

'I've had a thought. If we get to Stephan and his father's not there or for any reason can't help out — it's a wasted journey. I've got some tools in the back, I'll run you back to the bike, and if we can't fix it I'll rope it into the boot and run you home with it. Where do you live?'

'Almost three kilometres that way from where the bike is now.' Christian pointed behind them and slightly to the east. 'But it's okay. I'm sure they will be there. Stephan's father is always working on the farm.'

Duclos shrugged. 'The problem is, if they're not there you're going to be stuck.' He backed into the farm track, checked briefly for traffic, then turned out heading back the way they'd come. Just take control, his instincts told him. The boy's protests weren't strong. 'Look, it's no trouble. In any case I've just remembered I should have picked up something at the patisserie back in Varages, so it's not putting me out of my way.'

Duclos wondered if the boy was suspicious. In the wake of his insistence, the boy had finally nodded and smiled, though hesitantly, then hastily looked away through the side window. It could have been his normal awkwardness with strangers, or perhaps he was suspicious. It was hard to tell either way. Duclos was now more concerned of passing anyone who might see them together. After almost a kilometre, a truck came towards them with a company name and MARSEILLE in large letters on the side. With the height of the cab and the speed they'd passed each other, Duclos doubted the driver had paid them any particular attention. For a moment he thought to himself, 'Just drop the boy off, leave him alone, continue on to Salernes.' But the urge driving him on was now too strong. A mixture of excitement, curiosity, anticipation, the thrill of the unknown. He found it impossible to resist. They'd just passed the point where he'd first picked up the boy.

'Is it far now? Duclos asked.

'No, just under a kilometre more — it's on a rough track between two farms.'

The patchwork of green and gold pastures each side were faded with the summer heat. After a long flat stretch, the road curved and they were passing a peach orchard, only part of which appeared to be harvested; uneven grass patches grew between the trees on its far side. Christian lifted one arm to indicate the pathway.

Turning in, Duclos could see that a hundred yards ahead the peach orchard verged into woodland. The track then ran between the orchard and the woods, and the grass was long and unkempt closest to the woods. The boy was pointing to where he'd left his bike.

'Just up there on the left, where the grass is long. I tried to hide it so it would be safe until I got back.'

With the bumpiness of the track, Duclos had changed down to second. Those legs. Those eyes. His pulse quickened with anticipation. Images of what was to come were already forming in his mind. But at the same time he felt nervous and uncomfortable. With Jahlep it was always pre-arranged, the young Algerian boy a willing participant. Now he was facing the unknown. He wasn't sure how to make the first move, that first contact that would break the barrier. Once he'd touched the boy and his intentions were obvious, he knew it would be impossible just to stop there. The only question then was whether he continued with consent or force.

Duclos pulled the car over to the side of the track and followed the boy out. Only after a few paces and prompted by the boy pointing could Duclos make out the bike lying flat among the tall grass.

'What went wrong with it?' he enquired.

'The back brake locked on the wheel. That's why I couldn't move it.'

Duclos knelt down to examine the wheel, moving it back and forth with difficulty against the locked brake. The boy was only a foot to his side, also kneeling and keenly inspecting. Duclos could smell the faint acid sweetness of the boy's sweat mixed with the scent of grass and ripe peaches. It was then that he noticed the graze and bruise on the boy's thigh. It was the chance he'd been looking for. He reached over and touched the graze, gently stroking it.

'That looks bad — you should get some antiseptic on it. And the bruise is going to be a real beauty in the morning. Did you get that when the bike broke down?'

'When the brake jammed, the bike got thrown to the side.' The boy made a dramatic motion with one arm towards the grass. 'My leg got trapped underneath.'

He was so sweet, thought Duclos. The eyes were hauntingly beautiful, green limpid pools in which he could almost swim. The boy had flinched at the initial touch, but hadn't moved. Duclos continued stroking, working slightly higher. It was in that moment that Duclos saw the change in the boy's eyes; the pupils dilated, the eyes suddenly looked darker and more troubled. The boy knew something was wrong. As the boy's body tensed to move, Duclos reached up and gripped his shorts tight.