Past Imperfect

EPILOGUE

Praia do Forte, Brazil. January, 1996

Duclos sipped at the caipirissima as he swung on a hammock on the covered terrace. From the beach in front of the villa came the gentle swish of surf. Darkness had fallen almost three hours ago and it showed only as a white frothing line in the moonlight.

They'd finally landed over three hundred kilometres further north than planned, close to Oporto, due to loss of fuel. A nightmarish, skidding landing with a damaged wheel — but they made it. Two days in Portugal with Hector to arrange a new identity and passport, and then he was on a scheduled flight to Salvador, Bahia. He was met there by a local, Jorge Cergara, who drove him the eighty kilometres north to Praia do Forte and the beach villa. His new identity was Gerard Belmeau, a Swiss-French businessman taking early retirement. His hair had been dyed a red sandy blonde, and he had started cultivating a moustache which was tinged every few days to match.

The papers for the house were already prepared in the name of Belmeau, and Praia do Forte was increasingly popular with foreign tourists. No eyebrows would be raised, Cergara assured. And if at any time they were, both the Mayor and Police Chief were in their pockets from pay-offs on their hotel and resort investments in the area.

Gerard Belmeau? His new life. Duclos had rolled it around his tongue for days, tried to force it into his mind so that if anyone called out his new name he might actually respond. Except nobody did. Nobody knew him. He was just a shadowy quiet figure who shuffled into town occasionally to eat and buy groceries and visited the beach some weekdays. At the weekends it was too crowded and invariably he'd stay on his terrace and nurse a caiparissima, catch up on the latest news from France in the newspapers.

There was only one place in town he'd found where he could get them, and normally he'd buy Le Figaro and Le Monde — the only two available — at the same time. He'd filled the French press the first two months of escape. Front page at first, then later further back with background and new angle items: rise and fall in politics or thrown in with a soup of other political scandals — Tapie, Medecin, now Duclos.

Duclos had smiled at the articles attacking the general bungling surrounding his escape: Barielle for allowing house arrest, Corbeix for not protesting stronger against it, the entire examination process for not uncovering the fact that he very obviously had funds outside of those frozen, and finally the keystone collection of Provence cops who let him slip through their grasp.

A circus of finger pointing and mud slinging. Sitting eight thousand miles away on a palm fringed beach, Duclos found it all laughable, pathetic. A lot of ranting and political rhetoric, his name used primarily for Ministers to score points off each other as they grasped at air with empty hands, screaming for justice. Duclos sneered. Justice? What did they know.

They had no idea what he'd suffered through the years for those few dark moments three decades ago? Plagued for years by blackmail from Chapeau, then in turn his brother, his secret life with Betina and Joel. Sometimes it had felt like a hell on earth in repayment for what he'd done, one incident linking to another through the long years. That was why he'd felt so outraged when the case had re-surfaced — he felt as if he'd already paid his penance, served his term!

Except one part of the link in the chain of fateful circumstances through the years had finally led to his salvation. If it hadn't been for the blackmail, he probably wouldn't have taken political bribes — the slush fund and contacts which had finally allowed him to escape. He raised his glass to an imaginary France and smiled crookedly. At least he'd had the last laugh there. 'Salut!'

The first few months had been particularly idyllic, almost like an extended holiday. Any sense of isolation didn't set in till later, perhaps coinciding with him slipping from prominence in the French press. He decided he was sick of Brazilian TV with its endless lambada and game shows with scantily clad hostesses, and invested in a large satellite dish to get French TV. It helped, but also in part felt like nostalgic voyeurism: he was able to look at all that he loved and was familiar — food, fashion, lifestyle — from a distance, but couldn't touch it, feel it. Not long after he discovered the caipirissimas — white rum with lime, sugar and crushed ice. When Brazilian TV became too painful or French TV too nostalgic, he would retire to the terrace and his cocktail shaker.

His name had come back into prominence with the news that Corbeix was continuing with the case in absentia. Watching the proceedings from a distance, it suddenly hit him why he felt such satisfaction when his name was in the news: not only a reminder of what he'd got away with, but a sense that at least he was still in France in spirit, if not in body.

He'd also been into Salvador a few times and recently made a contact for young boys, and Cergara had phoned and invited him to the Rio Carnival next month. His next annual bio-tech payment was due soon, and some new banking arrangements had been made. Their lawyer thought it was best to meet him in person to explain the new arrangements, and he could take in the Carnival at the same time. All expenses on them. Things were looking up.

The effect of the four caipirissimas that night began to bite, he could feel their warmth coursing through him. A distant glow on the beach slowly pierced his blurred vision. Focusing, the four candles became clearer — a woman and small child silhouetted kneeling before them. Probably a Candomble ceremony. He'd seen one before: candles and a collection of seashells on a white cloth, flowers and rice thrown into the sea to appease their Gods Exu and Iemanja. But in the distant flickering flames, he suddenly saw Monique Rosselot's face, her reflection in the glass as she prayed for her dying son… the receding flames of Fornier's burning wreckage as they'd climbed up high above the lights of the Cote D'Azur.

He shook his head. Freeing the ghosts was easier now: it all felt so far away in time and distance. Almost another lifetime.

Duclos closed his eyes and let the lapping surf and the night-time pulsing of cicadas and crickets wash over him as he thought ahead to the Rio Carnival. Drums and dancing and colourful star bursts of costumes gradually matched the rhythm, lulling him gently into another caipirissima-induced sleep.

'Tudo Bem? Voce gosta de Carnival?'

Among the clatter and riot of noise and movement, Duclos would have hardly noticed the young boy if he hadn't greeted him almost as soon as he walked out of the hotel after meeting Perello. Not unusual. The street kids, abandanados, regularly worked the tourist hotels.

Seeing Duclos' quizzical expression, the boy switched to broken English: 'You want guide for Carnival? I very good. Only five dollars 'merican. Show you everything.'

Duclos noticed then how beautiful the boy was. One of the most exquisite mulattos he'd ever seen: coffee cream skin, brown curls with a tinge of light gold, soft brown eyes. The thought of spending an hour or two with the boy made his mouth suddenly dry.

The boy was right. He was a good guide. They took in the main Ipanema processions at Praca General Osorio and heading along Avenida Visc de Piraja, then ended up at Il Veronese where he bought the boy a pizza. The boy, whose name he'd discovered was Paulo, tucked in as if he hadn't eaten in weeks. Duclos smiled. He felt a warm glow in the boy's company, it felt gratifying to spend his money like this. So much pleasure gained for so little. He ended up giving the boy almost thirty dollars to ensure he stayed in his company. The boy was still looking longingly at the menu after his pizza, so Duclos treated him to an ice cream.

As the boy finished the last few scoops, he looked up thoughtfully, directly. 'You want spend longer with me. Alone?'

Duclos stared back into the boy's innocent eyes. Except they weren't so innocent, they were knowing. Senses honed sharp by years of street life. Perhaps the boy had guessed with him being so kind and attentive, or the fact that he'd hardly paid any attention to the writhing tanga bottoms and star-nippled breasts of the Carnival girls. His eyes had hardly left the boy throughout. The boy knew. But at least he could now dispense with the subterfuge. 'How much?'

The boy thought for a second, plucking a figure out of the air. 'Sixty dollars.'

Duclos smiled. It was probably twice what the boy normally charged, but Duclos would have gladly paid double. This was great. Perello had just confirmed bank transfer details for his next $120,000 payment, and here he was in the middle of bargain-basement street kid heaven. Perhaps he'd make a trip back to Rio every few months. Exile was starting to look better by the day. 'Where?' he asked. Sneaking an abandanado past his hotel reception was too risky.

'I know somewhere near.'

Duclos contemplated briefly before nodding, though he'd known what his answer would be from the first second the boy made the proposal. He paid the bill and they left.

The frenetic activity of carnival hit them again outside. Fifty yards along they turned and the noise started to recede. Then another turn away from the main processions, and finally into a small back alley almost three blocks away. Carnival activity was now no more than dull background drumming and whistling. Crowds and people had also diminished with each successive turn: the back alley was deserted.

Paulo indicated a small door almost halfway along and led the way in. A deserted storehouse, old packing crates served as tables and chairs and some makeshift beds had been made with cardboard on the dusty concrete floor. It was obviously where some of the abandanados spent the night.

Paulo wedged a long block of wood between the floor and door handle. The only light came in from a high dusty window. Duclos handed over the money, and the boy tucked it in his shoe and started taking off his clothes.

Duclos was slow in taking off his own clothes, enjoying watching the boy strip: the lean, taut lines of the boy's body, his slim hips. An indefinable colour somewhere between teak and copper. Duclos' pulse raced with anticipation.

And then the boy was leaning over, going down on all fours, one finger beckoning. The blood pounded through Duclos' head.

Positioning himself behind the boy, he saw the faint film of sweat covering the body, and slid one finger slowly down the groove of the boy's spine, then slowly caressing with his whole hand, spreading around and up again. Exquisite. Duclos closed his eyes, felt himself sailing on a wave of pleasure.

Jahlep… Jean-Paul… Pascal… the many boys who had pleasured him through the years.

But as he opened his eyes again, the boy was turned back towards him, his eyes caught in a shaft of light from the window above. Tan brown with small flecks of green, soulful, imploring — and suddenly they reminded him of the boy in the wheat field. Sweet acid sweat mixed with the smell of peaches and ripe wheat. The wind rustling gently through the trees behind…

Only as he looked deeper, he could see that the boy wasn't looking back directly into his own eyes, but at something beyond. Slightly behind him. And the boy's body was suddenly tense. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

A faint shuffling was the only other warning as the man stepped from the shadows behind and ran the blade deftly across Duclos' throat, severing his jugular.

The boy scampered up quickly and grabbed his clothes, eager to get them clear of Duclos' blood spilling. The man wiped his blade on Duclos' shirt draped over a packing crate, and took the wallet from his trousers alongside as the boy dressed. He watched as Duclos slumped to the ground, as if ensuring that the wound had been fatal, and then the boy and him left together.

As Duclos clutched at his throat, his life blood ebbing away, the image of the boy's soulful brown eyes stayed with him. Only in his mind's eye they were staring straight at him, not beyond.

Miguel Perello made his call from an Ipanema phone box. It was picked up on the second ring. The person answering in California was expecting the call.

'It's done,' Perello said.

'Any complications?'

'No. None. He took the bait and it went smoothly.'

'Good. Take care of the rest of the clean up with the bank accounts and transfers, then that's the whole thing wrapped.'

'Fine.' Hanging up, Perello decided to join the carnival procession he could hear a block away. He felt like celebrating.

They could have kept Duclos hidden for a while, but eventually someone would have traced him and Duclos' first option would have been to trade juicy secrets in return for a lighter sentence. Not worth the risk when at stake was the bio-technology coup of the century. But it was Marchand who had unconsciously given them clues to the best game plan.

Marchand had been right, Duclos was too prominent a figure in France — and killing him in the middle of a high profile murder trial, well-planned accident or not, would have attracted far too much attention. Letting the dust settle for a while and removing Duclos far from the central spotlight had been a much better plan. Now he was just Gerard Belmeau, a Swiss tourist mugged and killed in a Rio back alley during Carnival. It happened every year.

Provence, August, 1996

Dominic felt the late sun on his back as he inspected the tangerine tree. He'd originally bought it not long after coming out of hospital. Part nostalgia, part symbol of his and Gerome's survival. Christmas past, there had been only four tangerines on the tree; now he could count eleven blossoms.

The day had been busy. The Capels had left just over an hour before. He'd been in the garden when they arrived, and now returned to do a bit more tending before it got dark.

The last skin graft for the burns on his arm had been that February, and his leg had been out of plaster now for over three months. Even his small limp had now gone. Giverny and his partner had been racing up the runway not far behind him and had managed to drag him free only eight seconds before the explosion. His only injury was a broken leg and burns to one arm.

Gerome had been more serious. The initial operation was successful, but he'd spent another two weeks in hospital for monitoring. Then two months later had returned for re-constructive surgery to his breastbone and the insertion of a plastic plate. Yves had ribbed him: 'At least you'll probably be the only man on the coast with an implant. Not a bad novelty line for chatting up on the beach at Cannes.'

There was a period of convalescence for them both at home, but despite Monique's fussing and small complaints that at times it was like having two babies again, Dominic could see her silent pleasure. Her prayers had been answered this time.

After two weeks Gerome went back to work, but Dominic stayed at home. The incident had been a stern prompt that it was time to take retirement: the pension was good, there was an invalidity top-up, and he had enough money put away. He was getting too old to chase villains along runways.

A month before he'd seen a bar in Juan-les-Pins for sale and made contact with Valerie, Louis wife, for advice: she knew the bars and hotel scene on the coast. Themed bars were popular, and his idea was late 50s or 60s with period memorabilia such as an old juke box and pop and movie posters. He had nearly all the period soul records for the juke box already. In the end Valerie was so enthused she offered to go in with him. The thought of the milieu possibly visiting one day for protection money particularly tickled her. 'Just leave it to me,' Dominic winked.

Papers were ready to sign the next month, and the re-fit would see the bar open just before Christmas. It was mostly summer trade, but weekends were good with another slight spurt at Christmas and Easter. The only cautionary note from Monique was that while behind the bar he stick mostly to Perrier. Dominic wasn't sure what was his main motive: re-living his youth, keeping himself occupied or making some money. If he got two out of three, he wouldn't complain. Sipping Perrier while listening to Sam Cooke with the lapping waters of Juan les Pins less than fifty metres away. Heaven.

Early March, Lepoille had phoned him to tell him the news about Duclos in Brazil. The Swiss embassy's efforts to trace and contact relatives of Gerard Belmeau had unearthed the false identity, and photo-fit and dental chart checking through Interpol had brought up the Duclos match soon after.

Corbeix had by then finished the instruction process of his in absentia case against Duclos, with a final trial date set for July. Corbeix had claimed that his main reason for continuing was the case's complexity and to prove to himself that he had the ability and stamina to see it through. 'A good note on which to finish my career. And prove that bastard Thibault wrong at the same time.'

But Dominic suspected that an equally strong reason was something Corbeix mentioned soon before posting for an in absentia continuation. Corbeix had made application to the Garde des Sceaux for Machanaud's old conviction to be struck off, but when it was passed to the Cour de Cassation for review they decided that such action could only be taken 'if a conclusive case was proven against an alternate suspect.' Corbeix wanted to set the record straight. Reparation for injustices past.

'C'est Pret!'

Dominic was disturbed. Monique was by the lounge door, calling out: dinner was ready.

Duck pot au feu with spinach, asparagus and white beans. Yves and Gerome were already at the table when Dominic sat down. He opened the wine and poured: Cote Rotie, Les Jumelles '91. Between the clatter of cutlery of Monique serving, he raised his glass. 'Salut!' Just two weeks before Corbeix had phoned him with the trial verdict on Duclos: guilty. 'Nice to see everyone.'

Raised glasses in return, awkward smile from Yves. He was usually the main one absent, but they'd all made an effort knowing in advance the Capels would be visiting that day.

Conversation was light at first: small talk from Yves and Gerome surrounding their work, a bar in St Maxim that they were planning to head to later. Monique was never happier than with her family around her, and Dominic basked in her glow.

Then after a brief lull she looked across thoughtfully. 'Eyran seems like a nice boy. Quite talkative.'

'Yes, he is. Very much so.' Monique had asked him a few questions after the Capels left, but a lot had been relayed during a frantic three way conversation while they were there. Gerome's English was limited, Monique's and Yves' non-existent, and so Dominic had ended up as interpreter. Sudden flashback to the small room with Calvan and Eyran and Philippe translating. But Dominic knew why Monique was making the comment now.

After Stuart mentioning Eyran's interest in seeing Monique the summer past, the accident and period of hospitalization had pushed back even its mention, and then when he finally broached the subject, Monique took almost another month to answer. Slow acceptance. He'd told her before that the boy bore little or no resemblance to Christian, but still the same questions came, this time filling in more detail: is he talkative, friendly? Does he know any French? Dominic had answered that he was a nice boy, but shy, reserved. That though out of therapy now, losing his parents had obviously still left its mark.

When she finally agreed to the meeting, he'd phoned Stuart Capel. Stuart arranged that they would visit one day in the summer, combine it as part of their holiday. But the Eyran Capel that arrived that day was almost a different boy: talkative, attentive, eyes sparkling, questions every other minute: which is the nearest beach? Do you go there often? Do you have a boat?

'He's improved a lot since I saw him,' Dominic commented. 'Or maybe it's just that he's that bit older. More confident.'

Stuart had arrived alone with Eyran, leaving his wife and daughter on a St Tropez beach. During the three way conversation, Dominic noticed the way Monique had at times looked intently at the boy. He'd never been able to see anything of Christian in the boy, but maybe in that moment she had.

At one point as Stuart brought Dominic up to date on events with Marinella Calvan, Monique tried conversing directly with Eyran. A lot of stilted half sentences with the few English words she knew, arm waving and eye contact. Finally, she invited Eyran to look at the garden: safety of the universal language of trees and plants with some occasional pointing and smiling.

Calvan had phoned Stuart Capel to thank him for saving her neck in court. She also had a proposition: she was writing a book which would be far stronger with some personal interviews with Eyran. She would pay 25 % of the royalties. She was taking the same with the rest going to the university's PLR studies section. Stuart had agreed. It would help pay Eyran's school fees. The book was due out in seven months. 'I'll send you a copy.'

In turn, Dominic brought Stuart up to date with Duclos, the trial and Corbeix. When they'd caught up with Monique and Eyran, they were standing at the back of the garden with Monique pointing out over the low stone wall towards the field and the woods in the distance.

After they'd left, Monique had asked more questions, filling in on what she might have missed. Since the accident, she'd hardly mentioned Eyran and Christian, and he had the feeling that she'd purposely pushed the thoughts away as a form of self-protection. Now it was as if the visit had bought it all back and she was frantically re-assimilating, catching back up. Again she'd asked the question: 'Are you sure he doesn't recall anything while awake? Only under hypnosis.' Sudden concern that she might have been struggling to communicate while everything was already half familiar to Eyran.

The conversation returned to light incidentals for most of the rest of the dinner. Then with the dishes cleared away, Yves and Gerome left for St Maxim and Dominic sipping at a brandy, Monique asked: 'When did Eyran finish therapy?'

'When I saw him with Stuart last year at the Palais de Justice, apparently he had just three more sessions to go. So perhaps a month after at most.'

Monique was thoughtful. 'From what you've mentioned, he's obviously a lot happier now. More settled. The past year has made a big difference.'

'It looks that way.' And suddenly looking back at Monique, it struck Dominic why it was important to her. She'd initially pushed away full acceptance of a PLR bond between the two boys, 'some vague, unexplained psychic link' was as far as she would go. But if she was now finally going to accept, it was important for her to know that Eyran was also happy. Her pain and grief — as with any mother who had lost a young child — was not only the personal loss, but the thought that that young life had ended with so much ahead. A tragic waste which flew in the face of all precepts of balance and order in life. Yet if she could believe that there was some continuance, some hope beyond, then it might help salve some of the pain and sense of loss.

A single night-light flickered on the table between them. In the background crickets clicked softly. A calm and balmy night. Almost surreal that just a year ago it had been the scene of so much mayhem. He reached out and gripped Monique's hand, and smiled. He could see how desperately she was now clinging to that hope, and he knew that if she could finally believe, it might quell the last lingering shadows in her eyes. 'Yes,' he said. 'I think you're right. He is very happy now.'

That night, as Dominic started to drift off to sleep, the events of the day all jumbled together: the Capels, Yves and Gerome, the news swapped about Duclos, Corbeix and Calvan, and Monique's final fight with acceptance.

But the image that lingered strongest in his mind was of Monique and Eyran standing by the back wall looking out over the field beyond. For a moment he was concerned — as he had been the year before standing in the wheat field with Stuart and Eyran — that future nightmares might be sparked off in Eyran's mind, that the field might somehow unlock past buried memories of Taragnon. But the images that flashed through his mind were from his own past dreams: the gendarmes tapping across, the field alight and burning around him, the assassin stalking through… Bright, burning lights which seared at the back of his eyes.

As the stinging light faded and he pictured clearly again the two of them standing by the wall, now beckoning towards him, he knew that there was finally nothing to fear. And in that moment, looking on, he saw Monique's hand join with Eyran's. Or was he already dreaming?