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 sh.o.r.e-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 l.u.s.t on his face. He groped for one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 G.o.d is a G.o.d 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' 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 G.o.d, 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' 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.