Horses and people were making for a point in the distance where a man holding a flag stood on a large box.
Seymour fought to remain upright.
Suddenly he felt his arms grasped. Mustapha was on one side, Idris on the other. For the first time he was glad of their support.
The crowd had quietened down. Everyone, like him, was concentrating on running. It was like being in a marathon.
The horses quickened their pace and drew ahead of the runners. The small boys scattered. The man on the box raised his flag. Just as the line of riders was about to reach it, he dropped it.
The horses shot away and the crowd surged after them. Away in the distance Seymour could see shapes moving in the scrub. Around them were men in white robes on horses, Musa’s men. The pigs began to run.
Everyone was shouting excitedly. The horses were away out in front and the crowd beginning to stretch out behind them. Some of the fleetest runners were well ahead. Presumably the less fleet were already well behind. Seymour was in the middle, stumbling along, half-supported, halfcarried by Idris and Mustapha.
‘Come on, come on!’ they shouted.
A few of the pigs ran off to one side and one or two of the riders went after them. Seymour tried to pull across.
‘What are you doing? This way!’
‘No, I want to-’
‘This way, Monsieur! On ahead! Look!’
‘Yes, but I don’t want to-’
‘Come on, Monsieur! What are you doing?’
‘This way! Straight ahead! Look, you can see-’
‘Yes, but I want to go that way!’
‘Monsieur, can’t you see?’
‘Come on, come on!’
The line of horsemen, too, had broken up. Some were already far in the distance. Behind them, riding in a group, were some men he recognized. The soldiers! In their headdresses! They were riding in a compact, disciplined way, their lances all at the same angle.
‘This way! Monsieur, Monsieur-’
‘No, I want to go-’
‘But, Monsieur!’
‘There they are! That way! See?’
‘No, no, it’s the others I want to go after.’
He managed to pull out of the flow and over to one side.
‘What are you doing?’ cried Mustapha, almost stamping in vexation.
‘Some pigs ran off this way. And a few of the riders went after them.’
‘Yes, I know. But-’
‘Just as Bossu did.’
‘Bossu?’
Mustapha stopped.
‘You know, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘you disappoint me.’
Ahead of him in the scrub he could see a group of horsemen. They had come to a stop and were arranged in a small circle.
He walked through the bushes towards them. He could see them clearly. On their horses they stood out above the scrub. They were all looking down and the points of their lances were down.
‘Its too late, Monsieur, you’ve got here too late,’ said Idris. ‘You’ve missed it.’
Seymour ignored him.
‘We should have stayed with the others. It’s true we’d have missed it with them, too, you always do when you’re on foot. But there would have been more of them, you’d have seen more-’
‘He’s thinking about Bossu,’ said Mustapha.
‘Why didn’t we stay with the others?’ grumbled Idris. ‘You’ve missed all the fun.’ He stopped. ‘Bossu?’
‘The Frenchman,’ said Mustapha.
‘Well, that’s not very exciting, is it? We should have stayed with-’
There was a sudden crashing in the bushes and the next moment a pig darted out.
‘Jesus!’
It rushed towards them.
Several things happened at once. There was the sound of a shot and the squeal of a pig and Seymour was sent sprawling.
When he looked up there were men coming towards him with lances at the ready. They reined in.
‘What are you doing? You’ve shot our pig!’
‘Too bloody true I’ve shot your pig!’ said Mustapha.
‘Fool!’
‘Idiot!’
‘What are you doing here? And what are you doing here?’ asked someone, catching sight of Seymour. ‘Don’t you know-?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Seymour. ‘The pig ran out upon us.’
‘You oughtn’t to be here. This is-’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Yes, but he shot it! He shouldn’t have done that!’
‘It was coming for us. He had to act quickly.’
‘Yes, but you don’t shoot pigs!’
‘What do you expect me to do?’ asked Mustapha. ‘Strangle it?’
‘What are you doing here, anyway? You shouldn’t be here. You’re just a-’
‘I can see one!’ shouted one of the horsemen excitedly. ‘Over there!’
‘Where? Where?’
‘This way, this way-’
They rode off.
‘Exciting enough for you now?’ asked Seymour.
They left the shot pig lying and walked over to where the men had made their kill. The stuck pig was lying on its side in a little clearing. It had been killed by a single thrust and a trickle of blood ran down into the sand from between its shoulders. Already the flies were gathering.
Seymour walked round it, trying to take in as much as he could. Later, a particular detail might become relevant. At the moment he could only stare.
Mustapha and Idris sat in the shade of a bush, bored.
‘Seen what you want, Monsieur?’ hinted Idris, after a while.
The truth was, there wasn’t much to see. A dead pig looked, well, like a dead pig.
Men were coming through the bushes on foot. They were Musa’s men and their job was to collect the pigs after they had been stuck. They had brought poles with them which they thrust between the pigs’ trotters after they had tied them together. They did this to both pigs, the shot one as well as the stabbed one. Then they hoisted the poles on to their shoulders and with the pigs slung beneath set off back to the Tent.
Quite a crowd had gathered round, Seymour suddenly realized, to watch. They were mostly the ones unable to keep up with the hunt: the old, the fat, the halt and the lame.
A thought struck him. They would have been old and fat and lame on the previous occasion, too.
He began to move among them.
‘Were you here when the Frenchman…? Did you see…?’
They looked at him blankly
He had tried them in French. Up to now he had found that everyone in Morocco spoke French. Now, of course, it appeared that no one did.
He tried them in his less strong Arabic.
‘Pig-stuck?’ said a man helpfully, but then lapsed into silence.
‘Here?’
There was no response. He couldn’t believe that no one, absolutely no one, seemed to understand him. What he needed was an interpreter, or at least someone who could put the questions for him. Surely, among all these people, there was someone who…
His eye fell on Mustapha and Idris.
‘Listen,’ he said.
‘Hello!’ said Macfarlane. ‘Given up the chase?’
‘I’ve seen what I need.’
‘Already? But you’ll have missed the exciting bit at the end!’
‘So did Bossu,’ said Seymour.
At the far end of the bar he saw Madame Bossu, surrounded by men all anxious to help her make up for her loss. He had no wish to add to their numbers but the sight of her put into his mind another of Bossu’s women, the petite amie who lived in town. Monique, was that her name?
He saw Millet, the horse doctor, and went up to him.
‘Monique? Yes, I expect she’s here. Would you like me to introduce you?’
She was another blonde, not, this time, pouting and fluffy but thin-faced and harder, as if the sun and the wind had worn her youth away.
‘Monique, can I present Monsieur Seymour? He is from England and has come here to look into Bossu’s death.’
‘He is more likely to get somewhere than Renaud is.’ She extended her hand. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Monsieur.’
‘You have been in the country long?’
‘All my life.’
‘You will know it well, then. And, of course, you knew Bossu.’
‘Of course.’
‘Could you tell me something about him?’
‘I don’t know that I can tell you anything that will help you on this-’