Confessional - Jack Higgins [82]
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 soft blas of the highlander. 'Are you a man of the cloth?'
'My name is Fallon,' Cussane told him. 'Father Michael Fallon.' 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 you 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 responsibility, 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