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.
FOURTEEN
The small back room was insufferably hot. A ceiling fan swirled slowly, but Poullain could still feel his shirt sticking to his back. He adjusted a small swivelling desk fan so that its sweep cut across him more directly. The telephone rang.
It was Perrimond, the Aix Chief Prosecutor. 'I've had a chance now to think about this new information from Machanaud, and I think your assessment is right. It's a little too convenient that he should suddenly now remember an accurate description of the car. Has there been much mention of the car in Taragnon or Bauriac?'
'Not so much in Bauriac. But we visited quite a few shops in Taragnon and then the restaurant just outside where Duclos had lunch. The village is small, news spreads quickly, and Machanaud hits the bars heavily, spends half his time leaning on the counter swapping stories with barmen. I think that's how he picked up the description of the car.'
'Yes, yes. I would agree.'
A brief pause, flicking of papers from Perrimond's end. 'So what do you want me to do?' Poullain asked.
'It's up to you. But if you should decide not to ask Machanaud in to make the statement official on the basis the description has been manufactured from local gossip, I'd support that assessment.'
'I understand.' But he suddenly realized the decision was back with him; he'd hoped merely to provide background and let Perrimond decide. The desk fan cut a cool swathe of air across his chest. More papers turning, then, 'Oh, I had a call from Bayet, the Aix Mayor yesterday. Apparently, Marcel Vallon is quite a close friend of his. Mr Vallon expressed concern about the police questioning of one of his house guests, this Duclos character. Of course, this came a day before this new information, so I felt quite safe assuring that Monsieur Duclos had merely assisted with some information and was not in any way a suspect.'