The Forgiven by Lawrence Osborne Read Free Book Online

know you’ve remembered everything correctly.”
    “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
    “You’re okay to be grilled by this fat slob of a policeman? Do you speak any French?”
    “Of course I speak French. And why would I not be okay?”
    Richard got up and suddenly felt claustrophobic. A few stray thoughts rushed through his mind. The DJ from London, the people who wanted to arrive by helicopter—Lord Swann—the supply of dates and sugar from Errachidia, the pool party they were going to throw the following night. There was too much to remember. And the paparazzi they had turned away at the gates. It was all going awry and he was getting a headache.
    The shower stopped and David began organizing a fresh shirt. He dithered and his fingers struggled with buttons. “Come down to dinner, both of you. No one will know anything. And if they do, what have you done wrong? You’re as much victims as that poor kid.” Again, Richard’s brisk tone to keep up morale.
    David nodded, and tied up his shoes. He had nothing more to say and his shoulders slumped forward. He was like a Pinocchio with snipped wires, and it would take a miracle to get him rewired before the weekend was out. For the first time, Richard felt sorry for him. He leaned down and whispered, “David, did you have a drink earlier?”
    “Rubbish.”
    BEFORE RICHARD COULD ASK AGAIN, JO EMERGED. SHE WAS now noticeably less tense. Her skin had revived, and soon the three of them were upright, ready to roll. They sauntered back to the house in a chattering of egrets. By the opulently lit doors, the staff stood awkwardly, their nervousness written large on their faces, while bats wheeled close to their heads.
    “Never mind the bats,” Richard drawled. “They only live for twenty-four hours.”
    There was a look of terror on Jo’s face. It had suddenly dawnedon her that this was a very elegant party and she didn’t know anyone there. She faltered at the threshold as the sound of massed voices no longer in control of themselves swept through the opening doors and the candlelight burst on their eyes. She looked around at Richard and said, “Aren’t you coming in?”
    “I have to go to the garage. That’s where the boy is.”
    “Couldn’t you stay?”
    “Not now. David will be next to you.”
    She didn’t seem very reassured.
    “ Entrez ,” one of the staff said gently, holding open the door for her. The air-conditioning was a shock, and she hesitated.
    “Go on,” Richard said. “Be brave.”
    But what did braveness have to do with it?
    THE BOY HAD BEEN LAID OUT ON ONE OF THE WORKTABLES in the garages—former stables that had been converted into a space for five cars. Between two jeeps, the mangled body lay in its stained djellaba with three oil lamps standing around it. Disturbed by the sight, the staff had turned off the overhead neon light and stood around the corpse, not knowing what to think. Dally was with them, pacing around the table without looking at it, and Hamid was there with him, observing him anxiously. Dally, he was thinking, was not a cool head. He overreacted to everything. He was not a commanding man. He cursed under his breath and kept asking Hamid when the police were arriving.
    “They arrive when they arrive,” Hamid replied icily.
    “It’s a fucking disaster,” the American muttered.
    The boy’s hands were spread out on either side of him, and the eyes had been closed; the blood had come to a standstill. The staff whispered among themselves. Before them lay the considerable mystery of his identity.
    Different tribes dealt in different fossils, and only black marketdealers crossed the lines. The Aït Atta, for example, dealt in crinoids. That much they knew. But was he Aït Atta? Some of the staff claimed that he might be from the north-facing mountains, those who called themselves “the Atta of the shadow.” Some thought he might be Aït Iazzer or even Aït Merad. But they had no way of saying. They were merely