Authors: John Matthews
'Will his knowledge of patois from the fifties and sixties for that region be good enough?'
'It hasn't changed that much according to him. Especially in the inland villages.'
Marinella nodded and sipped her wine. Earlier they'd discussed what Lambourne had discovered through the Capels: Eyran's grades for French were average, there had been one or two holidays to France, but no school exchanges or long stays. Eyran's french was at
'La plume de ma tante'
stage. She'd already gained the main background of the Capels, and now filled the gaps. Some details, such as how long they'd been married, Lambourne didn't know. The only thing to cause a chink of concern was Lambourne's flippant remark that the area where they lived, East Grinstead, was 'home to more fringe religious groups than any other part of the country.' When pressed, Lambourne assured her that 'they were normal. Lapsed Church of England.'
Still, she asked the obvious. 'Do you think they could have staged all this?' She knew that it was one of the first questions she'd be asked by sceptics. Advertising executive. Vivid imagination. From an area noted for fringe religions. In no time the media would have them taped as weirdoes from some obscure cult which not only believed in reincarnation, but that we all live concurrent lives in different dimensions.
'No, I don't think so. If anything, they were reluctant to enter Eyran into the sessions. Certainly Stuart Capel at least. He admitted that he should have taken Torrens' advice earlier and entered Eyran into counselling almost straightaway. He delayed hoping that Eyran might improve in his own time.'
'Torrens?' The name struck a faint chord, but Marinella couldn't recall from where.
'The doctor from California who operated on Eyran and treated him during his coma. He made an initial report recommending Eyran should have psychiatric counselling. Not only due to the loss of his parents, but assessment of impairment after the coma. The boy was under almost three weeks.'
'Have you got a copy of Torrens' report?'
'Yes.'
'Good, good. That will help enormously.' Couldn't be better. Counselling initially recommended by a Stateside doctor.
'Us or the boy?'
Marinella calmed her enthusiasm and bit her lip lightly at Lambourne's frown. 'I'm sorry. That probably sounded a bit callous.' Their aims were at odds, she realized. His was to cure the boy, hers was to prove an authentic regression. Only where the regression might help the main subject did they coincide. But grandstanding her own aims above his had been insensitive. She smiled. 'You know, Donaldson always warned me about playing to the gallery. That each time it would land me in trouble. But it's unbelievable what we have to put up with when we get things wrong.' She went on to explain how their critics, many of them from within the profession, sat on the sideline like vultures waiting for them to footfault. 'One bad case, one falsehood we fail to uncover before them, and our credibility can be set back years. Suddenly
everything
we're doing is false. Questions at each corner, the threat of departmental budget cuts... "Why didn't you find that out before... Is your next case going to be like the so and so fiasco?" It's no wonder we become paranoid, lose sight of other objectives. I'm sorry.'
Lambourne nodded. He'd put her at ease earlier about their respective objectives by assuring that he couldn't continue with conventional therapy until a regression uncovered more about Jojo. But there was still a gap. To her this was just another research paper; to him, it was an extension of PLT: Eyran's current problems and obsessions partly stemming from his past as Jojo. But there was no point in underlining that gap, spoiling the mood of their association before it had started. 'If we can each get only thirty percent of what we initially hoped for out of this - then we'll at least be doing better than my normal sessions. Cheers.'
They spent a while talking about the structure of the next day's session, then the conversation became more general, the mood lighter.
'Anything notable come up since we last met?' he asked.
'You mean, like the conquistador boy?'
Lambourne looked down, toying with his dessert. He knew how frustrating the case had been for her, but why the reference now? Was it a warning shot:
don't cut me short on this one, put me through that again
. 'I was hoping you might have had something more fruitful.'
'Not really. Lot of conventional regressions, but only two with xenoglossy - both adults. But use of language wasn't exceptional, in both cases it could be argued that the subjects would have been able to learn the language used, especially at that level of proficiency.'
Beneath Lambourne's look of concern, she noticed a half smile. A smile that said:
perhaps tomorrow will change your run of luck
. He was obviously more hopeful than he'd made out. The early signs looked promising, she conceded; but her long years of battling with sceptics had made her fear the worst. Even if the first stages of authentication were satisfied, would the Capels agree to continuing sessions, and for how long would Lambourne remain convinced that their aims coincided?
Session 6.
'It's dark and warm inside. Outside I can hear the wind through the trees and the birds... or sometimes my father working in the fields nearby.'
The session had been under way forty minutes and already Marinella Calvan was exhausted. The start had been slow, the rhythm staccato, heightened by the gap waiting for Philippe to type the translated answers on screen and then pose Marinella's typed questions in response. The only words spoken in the room were in French. While the on-screen version in English would provide a useful typescript, they'd decided to run a tape as well; nuances or possible language mis-interpretations could be gone back over later. David Lambourne was at her side.
Parts had been rambling, the boy spending a long time describing a visit to the beach at Le Lavandou, the seagulls overhead, making a sandcastle with a rivulet for the sea to wash in and form a moat. She'd been eager to move on, but Lambourne put a calming hand on her shoulder, felt it might be better to introduce a more relaxing tone and mood. Minutes before, when they'd asked him about being separated from his parents, his breathing had become rapid and hesitant. He'd mumbled something about a 'bright light... not being able to see...' then laying flat in a wheat field, his face against the sheaves - but by that time his breathing had become too fractured, words little more than spluttered monosyllables in the gaps. She quickly prompted Philippe to interrupt. Whatever had separated him from his parents had obviously been deeply disturbing. They'd return later.
She guided him towards fonder, more relaxed memories.
Recall of the day at the beach had been one, and now describing his favourite hideaway camp in the field at the back of the family farmhouse, another. In between the rambling, in the moments Marinella had been able to impose some structure to the session, she'd been able to find out the names of both his mother and father and how far the farm was from the local village, Taragnon. Jojo had been a nickname; two or three corrections passed back and forth with Philippe before they had it right: Ji-jo, Gigot, then finally Gigio, after one of his favourite puppet characters. Asking Gigio what he heard on the radio at home, they'd also identified the period: early 1960s.
'... Sometimes I jump up from my hiding place and surprise my father.'
'Does your father spend a lot of time in the fields?'
'Yes... and in the garage at the side of the house. All his tools are in there.'
'Is it a big farm?'
'Yes. At least forty hectares.'
Just over eight acres, thought Marinella. Small holding. But to a young boy it was probably large. 'And from your hideaway, can you see the house? What does it look like?'
'The field slopes down... and there's a courtyard before the kitchen door. Sometimes when it's getting dark, I can see my mother working in the kitchen and I know then that it's time to come in. I know if my father is in the garage, because he always has the light on – there are no windows.'
'Do you have any other favourite places in the house you like to hide? What about your bedroom - do you like your bedroom?'
'Yes... but I prefer my hideaway. My sister always comes into my bedroom and plays with my toys... She broke one of my toys once, it was a favourite car...'
Marinella watched patiently as the tale unfolded on screen: Gigio describing how upset he was, how the car had been for his birthday just a few weeks before. He'd shouted and she started crying, his mother took his sister's side and made him even more upset. She was about to interrupt with another question, felt that Gigio was starting to ramble again - when he suddenly became more thoughtful.
'... I shouldn't have become so angry with her, made her cry. I loved her really... I always helped her if I could. I missed her so much later, as I did my parents.'
Marinella's skin bristled. Often with regressions accurate detail could only be gained by taking the person back to a specific time and place - a room, a fond memory, an event that stuck out in their mind. But at others they would jump time frames and generalize periods and feelings. 'Did you become separated from your sister as well - and was it at the same time as your parents?'
'Yes.'
Either Gigio had lost his entire family, or he had become separated from them. She asked.
Eyran's head lolled, his breathing suddenly more erratic as his eyelids pulsed, struggling with the images. 'It was me - I became lost from them... I remember thinking how worried they would be. And my father... my father... why didn't he come and try to find me. There was a bright light... so bright... I couldn't see anything. And the field... I recognized it... I thought I might see my father there looking for me any minute... when...
when... I... I'
Eyran's head started shaking, beads of sweat on his brow, the words subsiding into guttural gasps on fragments of breath.
Lambourne put one hand on Marinella's shoulder, but she mis-read the signal, tapped out. 'Did you blame your father for not finding you - think that it was partly his fault?'
Eyran swallowed, fighting to control his erratic breathing. 'Yes - partly... but it was more me... I blamed myself. I kept thinking how they couldn't face that I'd become lost from them - that I'd somehow let them down... their sorrow. My mother's face, so sad...
so
,
so sad..
. her eyes full of tears, crying... no, it couldn't be real - it couldn't have happened... no, couldn't...
not real... No..
.
No!
' Eyran's head started rocking wilder this time, his eyes scrunched tight. His laboured breathing rasped in his throat.
Lambourne reached over frantically to the keyboard, tapped out
(Stop it. Stop it now! Move Gigio on from the incident.)
Marinella looked up quizzically. They'd arranged a code whereby any message between them should be typed in brackets so that Philippe knew not to translate. She'd pushed for Lambourne's benefit, would have been happy just to ask limp questions about Gigio's background and let him ramble at will, build up her research paper - but Lambourne's objective was to find and exorcize the link of shared loss between Eyran and Gigio. It seemed crazy to give up now, just when they might be on the brink. She was about to tap out
(We're so close to proving the link - just a few more questions)
, when reading the intensity of Lambourne's expression she thought better of it. She typed, 'When you were in your hideaway by the old house - how old were you?' Return Gigio to a calmer, happier period.
They waited over twenty seconds for Eyran to make the leap, for his breathing to settle back and answer. 'I was ten years old then.'
Marinella knew that Gigio was nine at the time of his day out at Le Lavandou, his sister four. 'Do you recall any memories from when you were older - eleven or twelve?' Marinella was aware of Lambourne's slight intake of breath and him staring intently at her as she waited for an answer. If she could have spoken, she would have 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.