She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back. They unloaded Michelle’s sleeping parents who had been propped up in the back seat, necks craned against each other. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. ‘Now then, Gerald, out with it. Does this not disturb you?” 278 “Of course it disturbs me. Martha had been more to her than that. ‘You did not find Gosse, that is seen, but—’ ‘Gosse? Gosse? Who’s this here Gosse then?’ ‘He is the Frenchman of whom I told you.
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