The Last Witness

Chac spoke only briefly and said that he wanted another word when Michel had finished, then passed him over to Georges.

Michel swallowed hard. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Georges had at first been defensive and incredulous. It was impossible. His real mother had died when he was only three in a car accident: Maria Stephanou. And his father had been too spineless to bring him up on his own.

‘That’s how I ended up in the orphanage. And that’s why I never troubled to see him since, or even tried to make contact.’

‘I’m sorry, Georges. I’ve seen her papers and heard her story. And I think she’s for real.’ Michel ran through everything as it had been presented to him: early pregnancy, dominating father, the court order, the birth registration with the same doctor also finding the Stephanous. He didn’t want to pull any punches, so his tone was straightforward, almost matter-of-fact; belied the emotional weight of the subject.

It would have made everything so much easier if Donatiens just said ‘I don’t want to see her.’ Washed all the guilt and the difficult decisions yet to come on this away in one. And it would have been easy to put the spin on it now to lead to that response. But Michel already carried enough on his shoulders through influencing events, moulding them the way he wanted. It was doubtful enough that Donatiens might ever be able to see his birth mother; he didn’t want to be responsible for driving home the final knife, trying to influence to ensure they never met just to save added complications. That would be a step too far. This one he’d have to play straight down the line.

Georges still clung on defensively, much of it covering ground that Michel had tossed around a dozen times over the past two hours. Surely it was all just a scam dreamt up by Roman? No, first thing Michel had thought of: no possible link and her search had started ten days before Georges had even been abducted. Then why had she left it until now to try and make contact? And Michel had told him the rest: her cutting herself off from her father and trying to blot it from her mind; her work with adopted children to salve the guilt.

‘…Telling herself all along that you’d have gone to a good family somewhere. And everything was going well until she suddenly hit the brick wall of a child placed with a family where everything wasn’t so fine.’

Georges let go reluctantly: it was almost half an hour before his anger and defensiveness finally wound down. Silently submissive. Too silent after the earlier outbursts, stiflingly awkward: Michel could still sense a hundred questions bubbling beneath. But it was probably as close to acceptance as Georges would come until all the pieces had sunk in and finally settled.

There was a moment close to the end when Georges suddenly blurted our: ‘What would you do in my position?’

‘Well, I don’t know. I suppose I — ’

But Georges butted in. ‘Oh, I forgot. You couldn’t possibly have any idea of my position or know how I feel. Cut off from everyone I know and love, and now one more added to the pot.’ He eased an awkward, muted chuckle. ‘Are you sure this isn’t one of Roman’s warped games?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure. As I say, we checked it every which way.’ As if countering the barb, after a second he added that Georges didn’t exactly have the exclusive on isolation. ‘Since I went out on a limb for you by bringing in S-18, a lot of backs have turned here. I might as well — ’ Then it was his turn to cut short. His situation paled in comparison. The closest he’d come to knowing how Georges felt was the situation with his own family. Following his wife from Toronto to Montreal because he couldn’t bear being away from his children. When they’d left it had been like a stab to the heart, grinding month by month deeper: the ten months before he finally got transfer and followed were one of the hardest of his life. Because of this squad room cold shoulder now and his role winding down as S-18 took over, he’d thrown himself more into his family, arranged a couple of days out with Benjamin and Angelle; with his absorption with the case, all too often they’d taken a back seat. The cold shoulder from work colleagues was one thing — uncomfortable, a pain in the ass — but separation from family was in an entirely different league. ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I know how you must feel — I was seperated from my own children for a while.’ Though he didn’t have the time or inclination to explain just how and why. He took a fresh breath. ‘This might not be a decision you can make right now. But she has flown all the way from England and can’t stay indefinitely on the off-chance — so I promised to let her know one way or the other within twenty-four hours. If you’re not ready now, fine, we can just tell her that and when you are finally ready — three months, six months, whatever — she can be contacted again.’

Georges sighed nonchalantly. ‘What’s the point? Even if I decide I want to see her, it’ll probably just be the same as with Simone: no go.’

‘I can’t say one way or the other. I’m just the messenger here. I passed on what she said — and if you decide you want to see her, I again pass that on to S-18. In the end it’s up to them to decide. One thing in her favour is that unlike Simone, she’s not the first place that Roman and Jean-Paul will be watching. She’s new on the scene — they won’t even know about her.’

Michel was pleased with the way he’d handled it: no edge or influence. If Georges finally decided he didn’t want to see her, he couldn’t possibly be held to blame. But with what Chac had to say as he came back on the line — pausing momentarily for Georges to leave the room — Michel began to wonder whether perhaps he should have tried to influence Georges; mould him, push him where he wanted. Things hadn’t changed: each time he feared the Lacailles might slip from his grasp, all else quickly went to the wind.

THIRTY-ONE

‘You feel completely relaxed… feel yourself drifting deeper, deeper…’

Elena was in the small annexe room listening in, breath held as Lowndes pulled Lorena down through the final stages. This would be the first acid test of whether Ryall might have hypnotised Lorena: not everyone was susceptible.

‘…But you’re still aware of my voice. You’re able to follow my instructions, do what I ask. Deeper… deeper…’ Silence for a few seconds, only the sound of Lorena’s steady breathing. ‘You’re in a deep sleep now. But can you still hear my voice, Lorena?’

No answer from Lorena, but Elena imagined that she’d nodded, because Lowndes immediately said ‘Good. Good.’

Longer pause this time, then: ‘Now let us go back to one of the nights Mr Ryall came to your bedside — any night — did he at any time do what I’ve done now: talk you down into a deep sleep?’

‘I… I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

‘Cant remember?’ Lowndes was doubting, disbelieving. ‘But you’d surely remember clearly something like that, Lorena. Or is it that Mr Ryall told you not to remember?’

‘I don’t know… I can’t say.’ Lorena was flustered, her breathing rapid and fractured.

‘Can’t say? I think more like won’t say.’ This time it was a statement; Lowndes decided to head abruptly in another direction for questioning. ‘Last time we spoke, you mentioned Mr Ryall counting down some numbers — seven… eight. Is that when he was counting you down into sleep or counting you awake again?’

Silence again, but Lorena’s answer was obvious from her breathing becoming more laboured still. She felt trapped: part of her wanted to say yes, but another part of her Ryall still held in check.

Seven… eight. Lorena recalling the counting had given Elena the first clue, then Gordon’s private investigator had mentioned that Ryall had done child’s party magic acts to pay his way through university. One of the clippings he’d faxed through to Gordon revealed that part of this involved hypnotising the parents and getting them to do all manner of silly things. No doubt a great hit with the children; though not so popular when used against them, Elena thought sourly.

‘It’s okay, Lorena, we’re your friends,’ Lowndes prompted, trying to ease her from the dead-end, the uncertainty of where to head next. ‘And it’s okay to tell us. Mr Ryall only said that you shouldn’t tell anyone else after he’d counted you back awake, didn’t he?’

No answer. A heavy swallow, then the steady, rapid fall of Lorena’s breathing returned.

‘…And we’re still there with you — he hasn’t counted you back awake yet. So it’s okay…’

Another swallow, then ‘…Are you sure?’