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.
There was the sound of the jeep’s engine starting up, it moved away. ‘He hasn’t wasted much time,’ Cussane said.
Finlay said, ‘Good riddance. Now let’s to breakfast.’
Murray Finlay pulled up the jeep in front of the newsagents in Whitechapel and sat there thinking. Young Donal sat beside him. He hated and feared his father, had not wanted to come, but Murray had given him no option.
‘Stay there,’ Murray told him. ‘I need tobacco.’
He went to the door of the newsagents’ shop which obstinately stayed closed when he tried to push it open. He cursed and started to turn away, then paused. The morning papers were stacked in the shop doorway and his attention was caught by a photo on the front page of one of them. He took out a knife, cut the string which tied the bundle and picked up the top copy.
‘Would you look at that? I’ve got you now, you bastard.’ He turned, hurried across the street to the police cottage and opened the garden gate.
Young Donal, puzzled, got out of the jeep, picked up the next paper and found himself looking at a reasonably good photo of Cussane. He stood staring for a moment at the photo of the man who had saved his life, then turned and ran up the road as fast as he could.
Morag was stacking the tin plates after breakfast when Donal arrived on the run.
‘What is it?’ she cried, for his distress was obvious.
‘Where’s the Father?’
‘Walking in the woods with Granda. What is it?’
There was the sound of the jeep approaching. Donal showed her the paper wildly. ‘Look at that. It’s him.’
Which it undeniably was. The description, as Ferguson had indicated, had Cussane only posing as a priest and made him out to be not only IRA, but a thoroughly dangerous man.
The jeep roared into the camp, and Murray jumped out holding his shotgun, followed by the village constable who was in uniform but had obviously not had time to shave.
‘Where is he?’ Murray demanded, and grabbed the boy by the hair and shook him. Tell me, you little scut!’
Donal screamed in pain. ‘In the wood.’
Murray pushed him away and nodded to the constable. ‘Right, let’s get him.’ He turned and hurried towards the plantation.
Morag didn’t think, simply acted. She ducked into the wagon, found Cussane’s bag and threw it into the jeep. Then she climbed behind the wheel and pressed the starter. She had driven it often and knew what she was doing. She took the jeep away, wheels spinning across the rough ground. She turned away to one side of Murray and the constable. Murray turned, she was aware of the rage in his face, the flat bang of the shotgun. She swung the wheel, brushing him to one side and took the jeep straight into the forest of young birch trees. Cussane and Finlay, alerted by the commotion, were running towards the camp when the jeep came crashing through the trees and stopped.
‘What is it, lass?’ Finlay cried.
‘Murray got the police. Get in! Get in!’ she said to Cussane.
He didn’t argue, simply vaulted in beside her, and she took the jeep round in a circle, crashing through the trees. Murray came limping towards them, the constable beside him and the two men dived to one side. The jeep burst out of the trees, bumped across the rough ground past the camp and turned on to the road.
She braked to a halt. ‘Whitechapel won’t be right. Won’t they block the road?’
‘They’ll block all the bloody roads,’ he said.
‘So where do we go?’
‘We?’ Cussane said.
‘Don’t argue, Mr Cussane. If I stay, they’ll arrest me for helping you.’