Past Imperfect

THIRTEEN

'… And in that dream, did you recognize it immediately?'

'Yes. It was the pond at Broadhurst Farm. It only turned into a lake later.'

'And you said that Jojo was already there. Could you see him clearly? What did he look like?'

Stuart Capel tensed as the tape rolled, leaning forward. Lambourne had told him one of the key objectives had been to get a clearer picture of Jojo. Lambourne's notes were in his hand. Headed:

Session 4. 28th February, 1995.

He knew how the notes and the tape slotted together from the last tape sent.

'I couldn't see clearly… it was too misty, and he was too far away.' Then, after a second: 'I only saw him clearly when I was closer… looking up through the water…'

Silence. Background drone of London traffic. Brief cough from Lambourne.

Stuart could imagine Eyran struggling for a clearer image. Finally: 'His hair was dark, slightly curly, and his eyes were bright — blue or dark green. I wasn't sure.'

'Does he remind you of someone you know perhaps? An old friend or someone from school.'

Longer pause this time. Eyran's low, regular breathing came over clearly for a second. 'No. But there's something familiar about him — yet I don't know why.'

'Note One.' Lambourne's voice came across in a deeper timbre. Stuart dutifully followed the instruction and read the note: An initial assumption was that Jojo might be modelled on an old friend, someone from Eyran's past. If that's now to be discounted — why the familiarity? After the 'Note One' announcement, an eight second silence, then: 'Continues.' In transferring to cassette, Lambourne had put in the break points. It reminded Stuart of linguaphone tapes with gaps left for student repetition.

'Did Jojo tell you where you'd met before.'

'No. I told him I was looking for my parents, and that was when he first offered to help.'

'And you went back because in the previous dream, you'd seen them there.'

'Only my father.' Another long silence. Faint rustling of papers. 'That was when Jojo wanted me to cross over… told me that he'd lost his parents as well and hadn't been able to find them until he crossed over?'

'Did he tell you what happened with them?'

'Nothing then…' Eyran swallowing, clearing his throat. 'Only in another dream… later. But he said it was years ago — he could hardly remember it.'

'Note two:' Shared grief, yet Jojo conveniently has no memory of his loss. Eyran's loss is the main focus. Crossing over could symbolize to Jojo that Eyran trusts him, is siding with him. Yet we know from a later dream that they are together in their search — the barrier has by then been crossed.

Lambourne's voice on tape reminded Stuart. Reminded him of their first meeting: 'When did you first realize there was a problem?'

And he'd told Lambourne everything. The nineteen day coma. The hospital. The nightmares. Everything except how much he'd resisted finally bringing Eyran to see him. Clinging to the Eyran he remembered.

Eyran had awoken finally from his coma four days before Christmas.

When did you first realize…? Had it been when he'd first told Eyran his parents were dead? The hospital staff had been briefed just to say his parents were ill, in another ward — until Stuart arrived. But then Stuart remembered seeing that same look in that first moment of greeting Eyran: something distant and lost in Eyran's eyes, almost as if Stuart was someone he knew only vaguely and couldn't be placed for a moment.

Yet it remained through those first hours, that split second delay in recognition and response. At first, the explanation in Stuart's mind had been the shock and grief and Eyran struggling to come to terms with the unbelievable, the unacceptable. But by the late evening, as Eyran prepared to sleep, Stuart was keen to know Torrens' assessment. How much of Eyran's slowness of reaction was due to the coma, how much could be attributed to shock and grief, was he under any drugs or medication that might cause such an effect, how long might the condition prevail and, most importantly, might it be permanent?

Torrens started with the obvious: it's too soon to tell, he's only been out of a coma a day, yes there has been some recent medication, promethazine, to cool his body temperature down — though that shouldn't delay his reaction rate. But possibly the shock of his parent's death could cause such a reaction. 'His mind might be numbed by the collection of recent events. It's just awoken, electrical and chemical connections are flexing their muscles for the first time in almost three weeks, and suddenly it has to deal with the fact that his parents are dead. The numbness, the slowness of reaction, could be a form of protection. I doubt if it's all sunk in yet. Did he cry much when you told him?'

'Yes, a bit.' But what had struck Stuart the most was Eyran's eyes looking so lost, desolate. He'd hugged Eyran, expecting a catharsis of sobbing which in the end had never come; just the same sad, distant gaze through watery eyes as they broke the embrace.

'I don't think we should read too much into it for a few days. I'll run some detailed responsiveness checks then.'

A few days? Stuart had always assumed he'd be flying back with Eyran the next day in time for Christmas.

Impossible. Apart from the necessary tests and monitoring, there were Eyran's other injuries to consider. 'The cracked rib has a way to go yet, and we'd want to re-strap that and run another X-ray before okaying him for a long flight. Don't reckon on him being able to leave before five or six days.'

Staying over Christmas? He knew he couldn't possibly leave Eyran alone in hospital over those days, but he wasn't relishing the call to Amanda to tell her he wouldn't be back with her and Tessa for Christmas.

As it was, it had taken him over a week to talk openly about his grief with Amanda. So many years sparring with Jeremy, fighting over stupid, inconsequential things — it all seemed such a waste now, so pointless. No opportunity left now for amends, except to whisper emptily, 'I love you,' vapoured breath on the chill air as they'd lowered Jeremy into the ground. The only thing to keep them close the past ten years had been Eyran. If it hadn't been for Eyran, he'd have had the same relationship with Jeremy he had with his father.

It was the nearest he'd ever come to explaining to Amanda his affinity with Eyran. He'd lived part of his life through Eyran, the childhood he felt he had lost, the mistakes and barriers between his father and himself that he could see being repeated between Eyran and Jeremy. But, at times, he'd taken it a step too far, kidded himself he knew better about Eyran's upbringing, tried to be an alternative father. And he felt guilt for that now: in forging his own close bond with Eyran, trying to be honest broker, perhaps he had stolen some limelight from Jeremy; precious years that now couldn't be replaced.

After explaining Torren's prognosis, brief silence from Amanda. Finally: 'I understand. You have to stay with him.'

But the silence and the tone said it all: you should be here with us, your family, but how can I possibly protest about favouritism for Eyran, appear heartless by suggesting that you leave him alone in hospital over Christmas.

'Thanks for understanding. I'll phone Christmas Eve, then again Christmas Day. I can have a long session with Tessa then.'

Christmas at the hospital was a strange affair. Christmas morning everyone gathered in the canteen for a small show, the highlight of which was one of Torrens' colleagues, Walowski, playing Father Christmas with a heavy Germanic. It was like some exaggerated Robin Williams sketch, with a couple of curvy nurses in short red skirts and black stockings playing his little helpers. Eyran smiled at intervals, but was still too remote and withdrawn for full laughter. Even the first half smiles had only come that morning, opening his presents from Stuart.

Christmas lunch had been laid on for later, but Stuart wanted something less organized, more personal. He got permission from Torrens to take Eyran into town, and they found a lively restaurant a block back from the sea front. The menu was a curious mix of Tex-Mex and Italian with a sprinkling of Christmas turkey specials. But the atmosphere was wonderfully raucous and joyous, party streamers and cheering, and a small Mexican combo in the corner played a range of Tijuana, Christmas favourites, Tony Orlando, Gloria Estefan and Santana.

They had Taco dips to start and Turkey for the main course. Stuart finished off with brandy pudding, Eyran with pecan and maple syrup ice cream. They found it difficult to talk above the music and background noise and had to shout Merry Christmas as they'd pulled two crackers. But Eyran enjoyed the atmosphere regardless. At least they could lose their emotions within it, rather than feel obliged to speak to fill a silent void; especially when Stuart knew he'd have to do most of the talking, tip-toeing around such an emotional minefield. He'd already done it for three days at the hospital and was fast running out of safe footholds.

He noticed Eyran's fingers tapping to the band's version of 'Oye Como Va'. Good, something at least breaking through the barriers built by the coma, a part of him getting back into the rhythm of life. But the smiles were still infrequent, stilted. Stuart had a Southern Comfort with his coffee, Eyran an elaborate butterscotch flavoured milk shake. As they left, half the restaurant was singing along to 'Knock Three Times.' Outside, the fresh salt air hit them, even a block back from the beach.

'Let's go down there, walk along for a bit,' Stuart suggested on impulse. Eyran merely nodded, a faint smile threatening to escape.

On the front, the air was bracing. A fresh westerly breeze was struggling to clear some cloud built up, the air warm and moist with salt spray. As they walked, Stuart talked of Tessa looking forward to seeing Eyran. They'd plan something special for New Year's Day when they were all together.

And it was there, walking with the warm Pacific breeze buffeting them from one side, ruffling their hair, that the dam of Eyran's emotions finally broke and he started weeping. He mumbled, 'I miss my mom and dad,' as Stuart pulled him into an embrace. Then something about remembering Mission Beach where they all used to go for the day together, the words partly muffled against Stuart's chest and then finally lost among the sobbing and the noise of the surf.

'I miss them too. Terribly.' Stuart said, but it sounded so lame; empty consolation. Stuart felt the small body quaking and trembling against him, and inside he felt his own sorrow rising again, tears welling; but this time it wasn't just for Jeremy, but for the strength of spirit and zest for life in Eyran that now also seemed lost. Bitter tears and silent prayers on the mist of the Pacific surf rolling in, willing that the next days and weeks might see some improvement, bring back the Eyran he remembered.

Eyran awoke in the middle of the night; eyes blinking, adjusting, consciousness searching in that first moment for a reason.

Had he dreamt again, or had a noise perhaps disturbed him? He didn't remember any dream, and no sounds came except the faint swish and sway of trees outside his window as he held his breath and listened intently. He tried to judge if the wind was rising, a storm brewing; but the movement of the branches remained gentle and steady, soothing and swaying, white noise to lull him back to sleep again.

Was he still in the hospital or at his uncle Stuart's house? He looked at the light coming in through the window and tried to pick out shapes in the room. Faint light from a watery moon: the hospital room had been brighter from street lamps outside, the window larger, and the two large trees his side of the hospital he could never hear moving for the thickness of the glazing. Sometimes the days in the hospital and those in England seemed to merge, then suddenly he would be back once again in his room in San Diego, joy and surprise momentarily leaping inside that everything in between had been a bad dream — before the shapes and shadows in the room slowly fell into place.

The nightmares and the time awake had sometimes been difficult to separate: the friendly face of his uncle Stuart, voice echoing, telling him his parents were dead; doctors with tests and monitors, smiling faces telling him that everything was going to be alright, his uncle was coming to see him, explain. 'You'll stay with us now, we'll take care of you. Everything's going to be fine, Tessa's looking forward to seeing you.' The rhythm of the band pumping through his body, people cheering, smiling as they clinked glasses; everyone seemed so happy except him. And so the sleep became a welcome release, transported him back where he wanted to be: the warmth of the wheat field where he might meet Jojo and they could look for his parents again.

The first dream had been two nights after awaking from the coma. The doctors said that he'd been asleep for nineteen days, but he couldn't recall anything, not even the accident; the last thing he remembered was his mother reaching back, soothing his brow, staring at her blonde hair as he sunk back into sleep.

Only when he saw Jojo in the dream, did fragments of the other dreams start coming back to him, that they'd been on this adventure before of trying to find his parents. After the dream by the pond, there had been another with him and Jojo pushing their way uphill through thick woodland and bracken. Jojo had said that there was a clearing towards the brow ahead, and from there they would see his parents waiting for him in the valley below. After thrashing through, a light had shone ahead and Eyran could see the trees and bracken thinning, see the clearing, and he ran expectantly towards it, hardly feeling the barbs of the bracken pricking his legs. But as he finally burst free into the light, he awoke.

Since that night, he'd willed himself back into the dream each time before sleep to try and reach the brow and find his parents. Though there had been no more dreams with Jojo, only one with him alone sitting in a stark hospital corridor waiting for news on his parents from one of the rooms, expecting Jojo to come out at any minute and say that he'd finally found them. But in the end it was uncle Stuart and a doctor, faces forlorn, eyes sad, saying there was nothing that could be done, the doctors tried their best… but your parents are dead. Dead! He'd hid his face and his tears momentarily in his hands, and when he'd looked up again the corridor was empty, his uncle and the doctor had gone. He began to fear the entire hospital was empty — that he was the only one there. The last thing he remembered was calling out for Jojo, but no answer came except the hollow echo of his own voice from the corridor walls.

And so all he was left with was the stark solitude of those waking hours; and sometimes those hours seemed like the nightmare, and the hours asleep and his dreams — the possibility of meeting Jojo and being able to find his parents — became a welcoming and warm reality.

Familiar objects had been placed in his room — his computer, the Daytona racetrack and Baywatch posters — to make him feel at home, as if nothing too much had changed. But unless they could tell him that they'd made a mistake, that his parents were alive and had survived the accident, none of it held any meaning for him. Uncle Stuart and his wife Amanda and Tessa — who tried so hard to play with him and cheer him — became little more than vague, background voices. He was always trying to remember, play vivid scenes in his mind of how it was: picnics on Mission Beach, a visit to DisneyWorld, hot dogs at the Chargers game, going fishing on his father’s boat. Sometimes he could hear his father or mother speaking, recall whole phrases and sentences. The other voices around became an intrusion.

Eyran wondered how far it was to Broadhurst Farm. Four miles, five? He got up and walked towards the window. He left the light off so that the faint moonlight might pick out objects in the garden and the field beyond. A large oak and two elms had lost nearly all their leaves; only two large fir trees at the end of the garden moved with the wind. The hedgerow separating the garden from the farmer's field beyond, Tessa's climbing frame, the rockery and pond — even small objects became clear as his eyes adjusted. The field beyond was still indistinct, except the faint silhouette of the line of trees on its brow. He wondered if he closed his eyes and willed it hard, if his mind could sail across the farm fields to Broadhurst Farm, put an image in his mind so that when he went back to sleep his dreams might take him there again. But he wasn't even sure which way it was. Was it over the ridge ahead, or over more to the west?

The moon was a watery half through faint mist and cloud. For a moment he thought he saw the dull shapes of figures moving beyond the garden — but as he looked more intently, they were no longer there. It was just the shadow of tree branches moving on the breeze. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the wheat field beyond the hill, let his mind drift until it was before him. But he'd never been there at night, felt too frightened to let the image linger, and he tried to cast his mind back to how he remembered the wheat field in daylight, running through the sheaves with the warm sun on his back.

But the image never came, it remained dark and cool; shades of grey under the pale moon. And the field for him in that moment became yet another symbol of death, something that could only serve a purpose in his dreams if he could recall it in daylight. Perhaps he would ask his uncle Stuart to drive past Broadhurst farm the next day.

The first dream Stuart became aware of was six days into the new year. Eyran had awoken screaming, bathed in sweat. Stuart asked him if he'd dreamt like that before and he'd said yes, but they hadn't turned bad like this one. 'What happened in the dreams?

'Different things. It was confusing. Some of it was at the hospital, some at the farm where I used to play.'

'Is that the farm we drove past the other day, just down from your old house?'

'Yes.'

Stuart thought it was quite a normal request that Eyran had wanted to see the old house. Relive old and fond memories. They'd stopped while Eyran studied the front of the house, saw the changes, the different colours on the window frames and doors, along with the familiar: the basket ball hoop still above the garage door that Jeremy had put up. Stuart had a quick flash of Jeremy and him playing basket ball, showing off for the kids. Jeremy had twisted his ankle, sending the kids into guffaws of laughter as he'd hobbled off. They thought it was all part of the act: Abbott and Costello do the Harlem Globetrotters. They'd been quite close then, lived only five miles apart; in fact Stuart had been drawn to the area on Jeremy's recommendation. And then after only two years, Jeremy left for America.

As they drove off, Eyran asked him to turn right at the end of the road. It was a narrow country lane, and after another two hundred yards or so, Eyran asked him to stop again. Stuart pulled into the first available farm gate entrance. This time they got out of the car and stood, misty breath showing on the crisp air, looking out across the fields. Stuart asked him if that was where they used to play.

'Yes, there's a small pond in the copse over there.' Eyran pointed towards a wooded area in a dip between the fields, oval in shape, no more than a hundred yards at its widest point. 'Then the wheat field on the other side rises up towards the woods at the back of the house.'

Little more than stubble now, Stuart noted, looking bleak in the cold, misty air. The sun was weak and low in the sky, hardly penetrating a faint mist which obscured its far end. Two crows suddenly crawking loudly and flapping away from a nearby tree broke them out of their moment's reverie.

It was almost a week ago they'd made the drive. 'What frightened you in the dream?'

'There was a ledge and a drop I didn't see until too late. I started falling.'

'Is there a ledge like that in the field?'

'No, just in the dream.' Eyran blinked slowly. 'Even the pond in the woods is very shallow, at most up to my chest.'

'Are you all right now?'

Brief pause for thought. 'Yes.'

Stuart playfully ruffled Eyran's hair and forced a smile. A vague smile returned. Nothing too harmful, thought Stuart. Just some old memories jumbling, trying to sort themselves out. Probably driving by the old house and the farm fields had sparked it off.

But over the following two weeks, there were three more dreams, increasingly violent and disturbing, and Stuart began to worry. Most took place in the fields by the old house or at the hospital, though one had been at the house in San Diego, at night with the pool lights on, mist rising from the warm water. Eyran thought he heard voices coming out of the ghostly mist and moved towards it; but it spread quickly and drifted in billows until it engulfed the entire garden and the house, and he couldn't find his way through. Hopelessly lost and frightened, the warm mist clinging all around him, suffocating, he awoke. Stuart asked him if any of the other dreams had involved him looking for his parents, and after a moment's hesitation he'd answered yes, in the hospital dream.

When Stuart discussed it with Amanda, she'd immediately opted for them taking Eyran to the psychiatrist Torrens had recommended. Stuart wanted to wait, see what the next week or so brought. It had been five days after his return before he'd even mentioned the psychiatrist to Amanda.

Stuart remembered twirling Lambourne's card in his hand without really reading it as Torrens explained: 'Some electrical activity within the brain concerned me. It occurred on two different occasions, but only on the last did it finally reach any motor senses and lead to Eyran awakening. Which meant for the remainder it was largely confined to the sub-conscious. It could be nothing, but it warrants keeping in check. Given the tremendous grief Eyran has suffered and coming to terms with the loss of his parents, counselling is advisable in any case.'

'I don't think we should delay,' urged Amanda. 'These dreams are beginning to worry me. Why wait another week or so?'

'I want to give Eyran some natural period of grieving, some time for him to come to terms with the loss in his own way before sending a psychiatrist into the fray to force the issue.'

'I just don't see any dramatic change coming quickly. He's not the same bushy tailed, bright-eyed Eyran we remember, and the sooner we accept that and try and do something about it, the better. I don't think delaying will help. With the dreams he's having, it could even do more harm.'

Stuart was insistent. 'We don't know yet if his unresponsiveness is as a result of his grief and loss, or a by-product of his injuries and the coma. And I'm not sure a psychiatrist would be able to tell that. Only time will tell. Some time for his grieving to subside.'

Amanda held his gaze for a moment with her best 'you can't be serious' expression. Then slowly shook her head and went into the kitchen. For the next five minutes, he could hear plates and cups moved and stacked and kitchen cupboard doors closed with more gusto than normal.

Perhaps she was right, delaying was unreasonable. Behind her annoyance, he could almost hear the words she was biting back: you don't want to face it because you're unwilling to accept anything less than the Eyran you remember. Only a miracle recovery will do for the golden boy. But she'd spared him the barb, or perhaps wished to avoid what was now a stale and unnecessary argument between them: absorption with Eyran over and above his own family. But that thin line was probably close to being crossed, and she was painfully close to the truth. Part of him couldn't accept Eyran's current condition, perhaps never would be able to. The psychiatrist was the last line of defence, the final throwing in of the towel: admittance that Eyran was psychologically disturbed and needed help.

'… There was nobody there, just rows of old weedkillers and pesticides… and I recognized it as the shed from our garden. My father warned me when we first moved in not to go in the shed until he'd fixed it… the floor was rotten and the old jars of weedkillers were dangerous. I was confused… I remembered him clearing them away that summer… and now they were back.'

‘Did Jojo say anything? Explain.’

‘No. I felt the floor shaky beneath my feet… and he held one hand out to me. But as I stepped forward, I felt the floor give way… and I… I…'

'It's okay, Eyran. Step back… back!..'

Stuart was yanked back to the tape. Sharp reminder of the dream when he’d finally relented to Eyran seeing Lambourne. Eyran screaming and Amanda’s rapid footsteps on the landing above.

'….I was falling… falling… everything spinning…'

'Back…. Break away. Away!'

Stuart sat forward. His pulse was pounding hard as it had been that night racing up the stairs. Lambourne had mentioned the danger area of the dream endings; that as much as possible he would generalize or pick out random details. But still he'd been caught out: Eyran in that moment re-living falling, spinning down helplessly.

Silence finally. Only Eyran's rapid, fractured breathing came across.

Lambourne waited a few seconds more. 'You must have been disappointed when you didn't see your parents — Jojo let you down. And has he let you down in other dreams?'

Eyran's breathing easing more. A faint swallow. Stuart picked up on Lambourne's tactic: generalities to shift Eyran's focus. But the sudden leap seemed to have caught Eyran by surprise. Stuart could feel the tension coming across with each beat of silence on the tape: could imagine Eyran struggling to extricate himself from one set of horrors, sifting frantically through time and misty images, probably only to find himself facing still more. A simple consent, and now he'd put Eyran through this! A pang of guilt gripped him, one hand clutching tight at Lambourne's report.

'I don't remember exactly... I….'

Eyran either still struggling for images or pushing away acceptance.

'Do most of the dreams too end abruptly in the same way,' Lambourne prompted. 'Yet with the hope you'll find your parents right up until the last moment.'

At length a slow exhalation. Final admittance. '…Yes.'

'Note five:’ No explanation is offered by Jojo for his failures from one dream to the next. Each one starts anew, Eyran filled with fresh trust and hope. Like an incurable gambler, Eyran conveniently blots past form from his mind, and Jojo is there to convince him that this time they'll hit gold.

Lambourne went back to the early sequence of dreams, before and after the coma, then: 'And during those dreams — the first of running through the wheat field directly after the car accident and the last you remember before awaking in the hospital from the coma — do any other voices reach you? Did you hear anything from outside?'

'I don't know… I'm not sure.' Eyran sounded flustered, uncertain.

'Try to concentrate. Take yourself back, and try to remember if you heard anything.'

Stuart saw immediately where Lambourne was aiming. After the last session Lambourne commented that what went against the theory of Eyran creating Jojo through non-acceptance of his parents' death, was him appearing before Eyran awoke and knew they were dead. Lambourne was digging for subliminal reference. Stuart felt for Eyran in that moment, wished that he'd been alongside to hold Eyran's hand as he delved back through the darkness of his nineteen day coma.

At length a low, almost indiscernible muttering: 'There was something… a man's voice.' Stuart felt his skin tingle.

'What did it say?' Eagerness in Lambourne's voice; fear that at any second the images would slip from Eyran's mind.

'…That… that the woman was gone, nothing could be done…. but there was still some hope for the other two.' Staccato breathing, the words mumbled in between. '…There was the sound of traffic in the background… then I was being lifted, moved to one side.'

'Was there anything else?'

'Some other voices, more distant… Someone I thought called my name, but I couldn't be sure.' For Stuart, the images were suddenly too clear, too painful. He was still gripping Eyran's hand, only now he was by the roadside while Eyran's shattered and bloodied body struggled for life. Gasps for life now no more than gasps for words. 'Then a lot of movement… some lights passing which hurt my eyes. A voice closer saying that it looked like another late shift, but he hoped to make it up the next day. And another voice, more muffled… speaking on a radio phone. It was answering and crackling. And the siren… the siren again… the siren and the crackling made me feel sleepy.'

'Any more voices?'

Brief pause. 'Only the wheat field then. And Jojo.'

'Note six:' Memory of medics and police attending and first few minutes in ambulance. Nothing after that. But it appears there was some subliminal reference for Eyran to draw upon. The fact that he knew his mother was already dead might explain why in the dreams she either didn't feature or was more distant.

Stuart recalled from the Oceanside medical report that Eyran's coma hadn't been caused immediately by the accident injuries, but by the fast accumulating blood clots and oedema soon after. And while the cranial pressure was still building, before… Stuart bit at his lip. Oh God. Eyran had been conscious for a few moments then and, while he was struggling for his own life, had learned of his parents' fate. Stuart could hardly think of a worse scenario.

Stuart's hand was trembling as he came to Lambourne's summary: Unless we can confront Jojo directly in future sessions, progress could be slow. Working second hand, scant additional light I feel can be thrown on Jojo's core character and motives. My plan would therefore be to side with Eyran over specific questions, instil in him a strong need to know the answers from Jojo — then switch over and try and ask them directly.

Yet part of that process is in conflict: all other voices are telling Eyran his parents are dead, and Jojo is probably the only crutch supporting that part of Eyran's psyche still clinging on, refusing to accept. The bridge between the two has to be crossed cautiously. Remove it too hastily, destroy the illusion — and Eyran either falls into the void or has to leap towards full acceptance before he is ready. Yet if we don't act quickly, Jojo could become increasingly dominant — it would then be that much harder to wean Eyran away. The threat of schizophrenia would be a stage closer.

Stuart shook his head. Forty minutes of hell approved by a single signature and now another consent slip was before him: approving Lambourne's foray to confront Jojo. In finally acceding to the sessions, he'd told himself that it was for Eyran's own good — but now he wasn't so sure. He found himself wrestling with the nagging doubt that his own desire to have back the Eyran he remembered might have played a part. This time he wanted to be sure the decision was purely for Eyran's benefit: the pitfalls and dangers against the advantages. Lambourne saw Jojo as a threat, and no doubt he was right; yet in Eyran's troubled mind, with his parents gone, Jojo was probably one of the few friends he felt he had left in this world. And now Lambourne wanted rid of Jojo with another simple signature.

Stuart picked up a pen, then put it down again. He flicked back through Lambourne's notes for more guidance. But suddenly he found himself biting back tears, and slumped dejectedly, cradling his head in one hand.