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.’