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.’
zoo
‘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.