The burn disappeared over an edge of rock, cascading into a deep pool as it had done several times before and he slithered down through birch trees through the gathering dusk rather faster than he had intended, landing in an untidy heap, still holding on to his bag.
There was a startled gasp and Cussane, coming up on one knee, saw two children crouched at the side of the pool. The girl, on a second look, was older than he had thought, perhaps sixteen, and wore Wellingtons and jeans and an old reefer coat that was too big for her. She had a pointed face, wide dark eyes, and a profusion of black hair flowed from beneath a knitted Tarn O'Shanter.
The boy was younger, no more than ten, with ragged jersey, cut-down tweed trousers and rubber and canvas running shoes that had seen better days. He was in the act of withdrawing a gaff from the water, a salmon spitted on it.
Cussane smiled. 'Where I come from that wouldn't be considered very sporting.'
'Run, Morag!' the boy cried and lunged at Cussane with the gaff, the salmon still wriggling on the end.
A section of the bank crumbled under his foot and he fell back into the pool. He surfaced, still clutching the gaff, but in an instant, the swift current, swollen by the heavy rain, had him in its grasp and carried him away.
'Donal!' the girl screamed and ran to the edge.
Cussane got a hand to her shoulder and pulled her back, just in time as another section of the bank crumbled. 'Don't be a fool. You'll go the same way.'
She struggled to break free and he dropped his bag, shoved her out of the way, and ran along the bank, pushing through the birches. At that point the water poured through a narrow slot in the rocks with real force, taking the boy with it.
Cussane plunged on, aware of the girl behind him. He pulled off his raincoat and threw it to one side. He cut out across the rocks, trying to get to the end of the slot before the boy, reaching out to grab one end of the outstretched gaff which the boy still clutched, minus the salmon now.
He managed it, was aware of the enormous force of the current and then went in headfirst, a circumstance impossible to avoid. He surfaced in the pool below, the boy a yard or so away and reached out and secured a grip on the jersey. A moment later, the current took them in to a shingle strand. As the girl ran down the bank, the boy was on his feet, shook himself like a terrier and scrambled up to meet her.
A sudden eddy brought Cussane's black hat floating in. He picked it up, examined it and laughed. 'Now that will certainly never be the same again,' and he tossed it out into the pool.
He turned to go up the bank and found himself looking into the muzzle of a sawn-off shotgun held by an old man of at least seventy who stood at the edge of the birch trees, the girl, Morag, and the young Donal beside him. He wore a shabby tweed suit, a Tam O'Shanter that was twin to the girl's, and badly needed a shave.
'Who is he, Granda?' the girl asked. 'No water baillie.'
'With a minister's collar, that would hardly be likely.' The old man's speech was tinged with the softbias of the highlander. 'Are you a man of the cloth?'
'My name is Fallon,' Cussane told him. 'Father Michael Fallen.' He recalled the name of a village in the area from his examination of the ordnance survey map. 'I was making for Whitechapel, missed the bus and thought I'd try a short-cut over the hill.'
The girl had walked back to pick up his raincoat. She
returned and the old man took it from her. 'Away you now, Donal, and get the gentleman's bag.'
So, he must have seen everything from the beginning. The boy scampered away and the old man weighed the raincoat in his hand. He felt in a pocket and produced the Stechkin. 'Would yoH look at that now? No water baillie, Morag, that's for sure, and a damn strange priest.'
'He saved Donal, Granda?' the girl touched his sleeve.
He smiled slowly down at her. 'And so he did. Away to the camp then, girl. Say that we have company and see that the kettle is on the fire.'
He put the Stetchkin back in the raincoat and handed it to Cussane. The girl turned and darted away through the trees and the boy came back with the bag.
'My name is Hamish Finlay and I am in your debt.' He rumpled the boy's hair. 'You are welcome to share what we have. No man can say more.'
They moved up through the trees and started through the plantation. Cussane said, 'This is strange country.'
The old man took out a pipe and filled it from a worn pouch, the shotgun under his arm. 'Aye, the Galloway is that. A man can lose himself here, from other men, if you take my meaning?'
'Oh, I do,' Cussane said 'Sometimes we all need to do that'
There was a cry of fear up ahead, the girl's voice raised high. Finlay's gun was in his hands in an instant and as they moved forward, they saw her struggling in the arms of a tall, heavily-built man. Like Finlay, he carried a shotgun and wore an old, patched, tweed suit. His face was brutal and badly needed a shave and yellow hair poked from beneath his cap. He was staring down at the girl as if enjoying her fear, a half smile on his face. Cussane was conscious of real anger, but it was Finlay who handled it.
'Leave her, Murray!'
The other man scowled, hanging on to her, then pushed her away with a forced smile. 'A bit of sport only.' The girl turned and ran away behind him. 'Who's this?'
'Murray, my dead brother's child you are and my responsi-
bility, but did I ever tell you there's a stink to you like bad meat on a summer day?'
The shotgun moved slightly in Murray's grasp and there was hot rage in the eyes. Cussane slipped a hand in his raincoat pocket and found the Stechkin. Calmly, almost contemptuously, the old man lit his pipe and something went out of Murray. He turned on his heel and walked away.
'My own nephew.' Finlay shook his head. 'You know what they say. "Our friends we choose ourselves, but our relations are chosen for us." '
'True,' Cussane said as they started walking again.
'Aye, and you can take your hand off the butt of that pistol. It won't be needed now, Father - or whatever ye are.'
The camp in the hollow was a poor sort of place. The three wagons were old with patched canvas tilts, and the only motor vehicle in view was a jeep of World War Two vintage, painted khaki green. A depressing air of poverty hung over everything, from the ragged clothes of the three women who cooked at the open fire, to the bare feet of the children who played tig amongst the half dozen horses that grazed beside the stream.
Cussane slept well, deep, dreamless sleep that was totally refreshing, and awakened to find the girl, Morag, sitting on the opposite bunk watching him.
Cussane smiled. 'Hello there.'
'That's funny,' she said. 'One minute you were asleep, the next your eyes were open and you were wide awake. How did you learn to do that?'
'The habit of a lifetime.' He glanced at his watch. 'Only six-thirty.'
'We rise early.' She nodded outside the wagon. He could hear voices and smell bacon frying.
'I've dried your clothes,' she said. *Would you like some tea?'
There was an eagerness to her as if she desperately wanted to please, something infinitely touching. He reached to pull the Tarn O'Shanter down more over one ear. 'I like that.'
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'My mother knitted it for me.' She pulled it off and looked at it, her face sad.
'That's nice. Is she here?'
'No.' Morag put the Tarn O'Shanter back on. 'She ran away with a man called McTavish last year. They went to Australia.'
'And your father?'
'He left her when I was a baby.' She shrugged. 'But I don't care.'
'Is young Donal your brother?'
'No. His father is my cousin, Murray. You saw him earlier.'
'Ah, yes. You don't like him, I think.'
She shivered. 'He makes me feel funny.'
Cussane was conscious of the anger again, but controlled it. That tea would be welcome, plus the chance to get dressed.'
Her reply, cynical and far too adult for her age, surprised him. 'Frightened I might corrupt you, Father?' She grinned. 'I'll fetch your tea.' And she darted out.
His suit had been thoroughly brushed and dried. He dressed quickly, omitting the vest and clerical collar and pulling a thin black polo neck sweater over his head instead. He pulled on his raincoat because it was still raining and went out.
Murray Finlay leaned against the side of a wagon smoking a clay pipe, Donal crouched at his feet.
Cussane said, 'Good morning,' but Murray could only manage a scowl.
Morag turned from the fire to offer Cussane tea in a chipped enamel mug and Murray called, 'Don't I get one?'
She ignored him and Cussane asked, 'Where's your grandfather?'
'Fishing by the loch. I'll show you. Bring your tea.'
There was something immensely appealing, agamine quality that was somehow accentuated by the Tam O'Shanter. It was as if she was putting out her tongue at the whole world in spite of her ragged clothes. It was not pleasant to think of such a girl brutalized by contact with the likes of Murray and the squalor of the years to come.
They went over the rise and came to a small loch, a pleasant
place where heather flowed down to the shore-line. Old Hamish Finlay stood thigh deep, rod in hand, making one extremely expert cast after another. A wind stirred the water, small black fins appeared and suddenly, a trout came out of the deep water beyond the sandbar, leapt in the air and vanished.
The old man glanced at Cussane and chuckled. 'Would you look at that now? Have you noticed how often the good things in life tend to pop up in the wrong places?'
'Frequently.'
Finlay gave Morag his rod. 'You'll find three fat ones in the basket. Off with you and get the breakfast going.'
She turned back to the camp and Cussane offered the old man a cigarette. 'A nice child.'
'Aye, you could say that.'
Cussane gave him a light. 'This life you lead is a strange one and yet you aren't gypsies, I think?'
'People of the road. Tinkers. People have many names for us and some of them none too kind. The last remnants of a proud clan broken at Culloden. Mind, we have links with other road people on occasion. Morag's mother was an English gypsy.'
'No resting place?' Cussane said.
'None. No man will have us for long enough. There's a village constable at Whitechapel who'll be up here no later than tomorrow. Three days - that's all we get and he'll move us on. But what about you?'
Til be on my way this morning as soon as I've eaten.'
The old man nodded. 'I shan't query the collar you wore last night. Your business is your own. Is there nothing I can do for you?'
'Better by far to do nothing,' Cussane told him.
'Like that, is it?' Finlay sighed heavily and, somewhere, Morag screamed.
Cussane came through the trees on the run and found them in a clearing amongst the birches. The girl was on her back,
Murray was crouching on top, pinning her down and there was only lust on his face. He groped for one of her breasts, she cried out again in revulsion and Cussane arrived. He got a handful of Murray's long yellow hair, twisting it cruelly so that it was the big man's turn to cry out. He came to his feet and Cussane turned him round, held him for a moment, then pushed him away.
'Don't touch her again!'
Old Hamish Finlay arrived at that moment, shotgun at the ready. 'Murray, I warned you.'
But Murray ignored him and advanced on Cussane, glaring ferociously. 'I'm going to smash you, you little worm!'
He came in fast, arms raised to destroy. Cussane pivoted to one side and delivered a left to Murray's kidneys as he lurched past. Murray went down on one knee, stayed there for a moment, then got up and swung the wildest of punches. Cussane sank a left under his ribs followed by a right hook to the cheek, splitting flesh.
'Murray, my God is a God of Wrath when the occasion warrants it.' He punched the big man in the face a second time. 'Touch this girl and I'll kill you, understand?'
Cussane kicked Murray under the kneecap. The big man went down on his knees and stayed there.
Old Finlay moved in. 'I've given you your last warning, you bastard.' He prodded Murray with the shotgun. 'You'll leave my camp this day and go your own way.'
Murray lurched painfully to his feet and turned and hobbled away towards the camp. Finlay said, 'By God, man, you don't do things by halves.'
'I could never see the point,' Cussane told him.
Morag had picked up the rod and fishbasket. She stood looking at him, a kind of wonder in her eyes. And then she backed away. Til see to the breakfast,' she said in a low voice, turned and ran towards the camp.
