John Matthews - Past Imperfect

But at least he'd answered the main question: it seemed real enough to be given a hearing by Monique. The main details were accurate, it wasn't some ridiculous account which had fallen at the first hurdle over inaccurate village descriptions or the boy heading in the wrong direction back to the farm.

Dominic wondered if deep down that was what he'd hoped for. Something that meant he could pack the tape back to London without even troubling Monique. Consign it back to history where he'd so far safely corralled everything by not asking questions, by not raising the issue, by never mentioning the police investigation or the trial and its aftermath, Jean-Luc or Machanaud. Safe.

But another part of him wanted desperately for it to be real. For what? To know what really happened in 1963? To assuage his own guilt over Machanaud? Was that the trade-off? Satisfying his own guilt at the expense of Monique's peace of mind. Re-awakening the ghosts after all these years, bringing the pain and shadows back to her eyes. He sweated and agonized over the tape as it played, was tempted to rip it out and sent it back at one point, before the weight of detail and the small lost voice got to him, grabbed hard at his insides and fired an intense, burning curiosity. He wanted to know. He wanted desperately to know if it was real.

And that was when he started convincing himself that he was doing it equally for Monique. She would want to know too. How would she feel if she discovered that he'd covered up? That he'd sent the tape back without even letting her hear it. To protect her from the horrors of memories past? She would see only that she had been robbed of the opportunity of some link with her long lost son, however tenuous and remote. Too many buried secrets. It would be almost as bad as staying silent, not speaking out in court on behalf of Machanaud. Almost.

The tape was rewinding. A button clicked. A segment was being played over again.

'… when we finally did take the rubber ring to the beach, it was so big I almost fell through the hole.'

'Where was that?'

'Nartelle beach… near St Maxime.'

When he'd first handed the tape to Monique, she'd showered him with a deluge of questions: Where? When? Who? Which psychiatrists? He'd answered mainly with stock terminology from Marinella Calvan; he'd called her back shortly after the first playing to clarify key points: Past life regressions. University of Virginia. Started as a standard psychiatric session. Young English boy of a similar age to Christian's — lost both his parents in a car accident. Xenoglossy: use of a foreign language unknown to the main subject . ' The regional patois has already been authenticated, but now they need to know about the main details on the tape .' As he spoke, he could see Monique become increasingly perplexed and confused, staring at the tape blankly — and in the end his shoulders slumped in exasperation. He held his arms out. 'Look — I know it sounds strange. I have no idea if it's real or just a hoax either. But details of the village are at least accurate. Play the tape and let's talk afterwards, we'll go into the details and background then. If necessary, you can phone this woman in England yourself — let her explain everything directly.'

Click. Stop. Rewind. Click again.

'… the tyre was quite big… as if it belonged to a van or truck. My friend and me decided to pick it up and roll it home. It took two of us to roll it home.'

'What was your friend's name?'

'Gregoire.'

'And he went to the same school?'

'Yes.' A pause. The boy swallowing, his throat clearing . 'When we finally got it home to the farm, the inner tube only had one puncture. My father was able to fix it easily so that we could take it to the beach one day. I could use it as a big rubber ring…'

Dominic hovered halfway between the hallway and the kitchen, listening. He wanted to leave Monique alone while she listened to the tape. Alone with her thoughts and emotions. Hadn't wanted to see the expression on her face or look on expectantly like some eager schoolboy waiting for exam results. So? So? He'd made an excuse about making a snack in the kitchen — had got as far as spotting some Brie in the fridge and some rye biscuits in the biscuit tin — but had been drawn back into the hallway by the sound of the tape playing before putting the two together.

Click. Stop. Rewind. Play.

'… The camp's one of my favourite places. I built it against the back of a stone wall in the field at the back of the house.'

'How far away from the house is it?'

'A hundred metres or so. From there, I can clearly see the back courtyard and the front door, see if anyone…'

Ring, Ring. Ring, Ring. The sudden loud jangling of the telephone in the hallway crashed abruptly into Dominic's thoughts, made him jump. He suddenly remembered he'd asked to be phoned at home for any news from the hospital on the police officer. One was out of danger, but the other was still critical.

He picked it up, nodding numbly to the first words, his mind still on the tape and his wife. 'I see. I see. When was this? I see. Crippled, you say?' He realized his voice sounded bland; detached, disinterested. He injected more enthusiasm. 'When will they know for sure the damage done by the shattered vertebrae?'

'…can see my mother working in the kitchen and I know then that it's time to come in. I know if my father is in the garage, because he always has the light on… there's no windows.'

'They're doing more X-rays now. Then as soon as they have those back apparently they're scheduling another operation. They should know more soon after that.'

'I see. So, how long? Six hours, twelve?'

'Ten or twelve probably. I doubt we'll know much more till tomorrow morning.'

'… I always helped her if I could. I missed her so much later, as I did my parents.'

'I see.' Dominic's skin bristled. Distracted. Trying to take in the two voices together.

'But don't expect any miracles. They're pretty sure he won't get the use of his legs back. They just don't know yet how bad the rest might be.'

'…and I remembered thinking, my father… my father… why didn't he come and try to find me…'

'I understand.' Scant relief. No tricolours on coffins, but a home visit nevertheless. A hospital visit. A meeting with his wife and close relatives. Stumbling condolences.

'… kept thinking how they couldn't face that I'd become lost from them… that I'd somehow let them down… their sorrow. My mother's face, so sad…so, so sad… her-'

Click. Stop. Silence .

Dominic listened out for the machine clicking again, but there was nothing. Monique had obviously finished with the tape.

'…That's all there's left to know now. Whether the rest of his body will also be affected. Arms and upper body.'

'I see. I understand.' Attention completely gone now. Only one thing he wanted to know. 'Let's talk again tomorrow morning — hopefully more will be known then.' Dominic rang off.

Walking back into the lounge to confront Monique, despite his wish not to pressure her or make her feel awkward in any way, his impatience he was sure came through — he probably did look like a schoolboy anxious for his exam results. Not saying anything, but his eyes saying it all, and thinking: So? So?

Monique didn't answer for a moment, looked down and away before finally lifting her gaze to speak. But the words themselves were secondary, he had already read it in her eyes. The storm clouds, the grey shadows, had returned. And this time he feared that they would take far, far longer to drift away.