Past Imperfect

explained that general overviews usually posed no danger, didn't get subjects wrapped up as intently as specific recall of incidents.

'No… after the light and the field, there was nothing… I… uh…' Eyran's head tilted, as if he was grappling for images just out of reach. 'Everything grey… grey behind my eyes… then another light — things distant… too far… can't hear… can't…' Some mumbling, words and thoughts trailing off.

Lambourne's nerves tensed. This was the second time that field had been mentioned. On impulse, he reached forward and tapped out: 'Was it a wheat field?'

Short pause as Philippe translated and the answer came. 'Yes… yes, it was.'

Marinella sensed that it was significant by Lambourne's sudden urgency, but he just gave her a wide-eyed shrug. An 'It's interesting, but I'll tell you later' look. Now that she knew Lambourne wouldn't expect her to push more on the shared loss link between the two boys, she relaxed and returned to general information, filled in gaps from what they'd learned so far: how often Gigio went to the local village, his full name, his school, the name of the street by their farm, and friends and neighbours.

At only one point did Gigio start rambling again, describing stopping off from school at the local boulangerie, and how the woman there, Madame Arnand, when her husband wasn't in the shop would often give him some free 'pan chocolat'. They were stale, from one or two days before and would soon be thrown out, but her husband was too mean to give them away, she confided one day. It became their little secret, the husband probably puzzled why this young boy came in his shop so often and browsed without buying anything, and the wife winking at Gigio as soon as her husband's back was turned.

Marinella let Gigio ramble: it was providing some useful extra details to check, and for the first time during the session Eyran had actually smiled. She could feel a stronger bond and trust developing with the lighter mood. If she built on that rapport, by the next session they might have more success breaking through the barriers Gigio had erected and could start tackling the core grief that linked the two boys.

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 deja 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 Cezanne 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