Past Imperfect (80 page)

Oh God... Monique!
Dominic's last thought as darkness finally swallowed up the cataclysm swirling around him. If anything happened to Gerome and now him, she could never face it.
She would be practically alone
.

500 ft... 1,000.
Steadily climbing, the lights of the coast starting to appear in the distance below. The pilot looked out briefly for damage. He could see fuel dripping back from below one wing and checked his gauge. It was probably a slow leak, but enough to stop them making it to Portugal. They might have to put down beforehand. But the thud had been one of the struts or possibly the landing wheel. If damage was bad, they might not be able to put down.

An electrical spark caught on the fumes from Dominic's carburettor, a small fire starting... but in his inner darkness all he could see was the single candle flame burning, flickering across Monique's gentle profile. And as the flames became more intense, starting to catch the dripping petrol all around him, he was back in the wheat field searching for Duclos.
The gendarmes were tapping forward with their canes, but Poullain had ordered them to torch the wheat field ahead. He was sure that Christian's murderer was still hiding in the field, and the flames and smoke would help flush him out. But Dominic was also concealed among the long sheaves, on his knees searching for the coin as the flames came close, starting to lick all around him... growing panic as he felt the searing heat and realized the fire had surrounded him, there was no way out.

As the plane touched 2,000 ft, they saw the car's explosion in the distance below, as if someone had lit a runway bonfire to mark a landing point. A slow smile crossed Duclos' face.

As the explosion came, a jolt went through Monique's body. A feeling of dread as if something terrible had happened to Gerome in the emergency room at that second.

She looked up anxiously towards the emergency room doors, expecting a doctor to come out with a drawn face at any moment.

But with the passing seconds and nobody appearing, she went back to her silent prayers of the past hour, thinking: please...
please. Not this second time. Surely God couldn't be so cruel as to let another of her sons die
. It never occurred to her in that moment that her prayers should have been for Dominic.

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 Candomblé 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 Exú and Iemanjá. 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 Côte 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? Você 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 Praça General Osório and heading along Avenida Visc de Pirajá, 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
.