Confessional - Devlin 03 (v5) Page 20

  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 lust on his face. He groped for one of her breasts, 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 God is a God 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 bastard.' 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 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. 'I'll 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.'

  She passed him the newspaper Donal had given her. He looked at his photo and read the salient facts quickly. He smiled wryly. Someone had been on to him a damn sight more quickly than he would ever have imagined.

  'So where to?' she asked impatiently.

  He made his decision then. 'Turn left and keep climbing. We're going to try and reach a farm outside a village called Larwick on the other side of those hills. They tell me these things will go anywhere, so who needs roads? Can you handle it?'

  'Just watch me!' she said, and drove away.

  13

  THE GLEN was mainly national forest and they left the road and followed a track through pine trees, climbing higher and higher beside a burn swollen by the heavy rain. Finally, they came up out of the trees at the head of the glen and reached a small plateau.

  He touched her arm. 'This will do,' he called above the roaring of the engine.

  She braked to a halt and switched off. Rolling hills stretched on either side, fading into mist and heavy rain. He got out the ordnance survey map and went forward to study the terrain. The map was as accurate as only a government survey could make it. He found Larwick with no difficulty. Glendhu, that was where Danny Malone had said the Mungos' farm was, a couple of miles outside the village. The Black Glen it meant in Gaelic and there was only one farm marked. It had to be the place. He spent a few more minutes studying the lie of the land below him in conjunction with the map and then went back to the jeep.

  Morag looked up from the newspaper. 'Is it true, all this stuff about you and the IRA?'

  He got in out of the rain. 'What do you think?'

  'It says here you often pose as a priest. That means you aren't one?'

  It was a question as much as anything else and he smiled. 'You know what they say. If it's in the papers it must be true. Why, does it worry you being in the company of such a desperate character?'

  She shook her head. 'You saved Donal at the burn and you didn't need to. You helped me - saved me from Murray.' She folded the paper and tossed it into the back of the jeep, a slight frown of bewilderment on her face. 'There's the man in the paper and then there's you. It's like two different people.'

  'Most of us are at least three people,' he said. 'There's who I think I am, then the person you think I am.'

  'Which only leaves who you really are,' she cut in.

/>   'True, except that some people can only survive by continuously adapting. They become many people, but for it to work, they must really live the part.'

  'Like an actor?' she said.

  'That's it exactly, except that like any good actor, they must believe in the role they are playing at that particular time.'

  She lay back in the seat, half-turned towards him, arms folded, listening intently and it struck him then that, in spite of her background and the sparseness of any formal education in her life, she was obviously highly intelligent.

  'I see,' she said. 'So when you pose as a priest, you actually become a priest.'

  The directness was disturbing. 'Something like that.' They sat there in silence for a few moments before he said softly, 'You saved my hide back there. If it hadn't been for you, I'd have been in handcuffs again.'

  'Again?' she said.

  'I was picked up by the police yesterday. They were taking me to Glasgow in the train, but I managed to jump for it. Walked over the hill from there and met you.'

  'Lucky for Donal,' she said. 'Lucky for me, if it comes to that.'

  'Murray, you mean? Has he been a problem for long?'

  'Since I was about thirteen,' she said calmly. 'It wasn't so bad while my Mam was still with us. She kept him in check. But after she left...' She shrugged. 'He's never had his way with me, but lately, it got worse. I'd been thinking of leaving.'

  'Running away? But where would you go?'

  'My grandma. My mother's mother. She's a true gypsy. Her name's Brana - Brana Smith, but she calls herself Gypsy Rose.'

  'I seem to have heard a name like that before,' Cussane said, smiling.

  'She has the gift,' Morag told him seriously. 'Second sight in all things, with the palm, the crystal or the Tarot cards. She has a house in Wapping in London, on the river, when she isn't working the fairgrounds with the travelling shows.'

  'And you'd like to go to her?'

  'Granda always said I could when I was older.' She pushed herself up. 'What about you? Do you intend to make for London?'

  'Perhaps,' he said slowly.

  'Then we could go together.' This she said to him calmly and without emotion, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  'No,' he said flatly. 'I don't think so. For one thing, it would only get you deeper in trouble. For another, I have to travel light. No excess baggage. When I have to run, I have to run fast. No time to think of anyone but me.'

  There was something in her eyes, a kind of hurt, but she showed no emotion, simply got out of the jeep and stood at the side of the track, hands in pockets. 'I understand. You go on from here. I'll walk back down the glen.'

  He had a momentary vision of the wretched encampment, imagined the slow and inevitable brutalization of the years. And she was worth more than that. Much more.

  'Don't be stupid,' he said. 'Get in!'

  'What for?'

  'I need you to drive the jeep, don't I, while I follow the map? Down through the glen below and over that centre hill. There's a farm in a place called Glendhu outside Larwick.'

  She got behind the wheel quickly, smiling. 'Have you friends there?'

  'Not exactly.' He reached for his bag, opened it, pulled open the false bottom and took out the bundle of banknotes. 'This is the kind of stuff they like. What most people like if it comes to that.' He pulled several notes off, folded them and put them in the breast pocket of her old reefer coat. 'That should keep you going till you find your grannie.'

  Her eyes were round in astonishment, 'I can't take that.'

  'Oh yes, you can. Now get this thing moving.'

  She selected a low gear and started down the track carefully. 'And what happens when we get there? To me, I mean?'

  'We'll have to see. Maybe you could catch a train. On your own, you'd probably do very well. I'm the one they're really after, so your only real danger is in being with me.'

  She didn't say anything to that and he studied the map in silence. Finally, she spoke again. 'The business about me and Murray. Does that disgust you? I mean, the wickedness of it?'

  'Wickedness?' He laughed softly. 'My dear girl, you have no conception of what true wickedness, real evil, is like, although Murray is probably animal enough to come close. A priest hears more of sin in a week than most people experience in a lifetime.'

  She glanced at him briefly. 'But I thought you said you only posed as a priest.'

  'Did I?' Cussane lit another cigarette and leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes.

  As the police car turned out of the carpark at Glasgow Airport, Chief Inspector Trent said to the driver, 'You know where we're going. We've only got thirty-five minutes so step on it.' Devlin and Fox sat in the rear of the car and Trent turned towards them. 'Did you have a good flight?'

  'It was fast, that was the main thing,' Fox said. 'What's the present position?'

  'Cussane turned up again, at a gypsy encampment in the Galloway Hills. I got the news on the car radio just before you got in.'

  'And got away again, I fancy?' Devlin said.

  'As a matter of fact, he did.'

  'A bad habit he has.'

  'Anyway, you said you wanted to be in the Dunhill area. We're going straight to Glasgow Central Railway Station now. The main road is still flooded, but I've made arrangements for us to board the Glasgow to London express. They'll drop us at Dunhill. We'll also have the oaf who had Cussane and lost him in the first place, Sergeant Brodie. At least he knows the local area.'

  'Fine,' Devlin said. 'That takes care of everything from the sound of it. You're armed, I hope?'

  'Yes. Am I permitted to know where we're going?' Trent asked.

  Fox said, 'A village called Larwick not far from this Dunhill place. There's a farm outside which, according to our information, operates as a safe house for criminals on the run. We think our man could be there.'

  'But in that case, you should let me call in reinforcements.'

  'No,' Devlin told him. 'We understand the farm in question is in an isolated area. The movement of people in any kind of numbers, never mind men in uniform, would be bound to be spotted. If our man is there, he'd run for it again.'

  'So we'd catch him,' Trent said.

  Devlin glanced at Fox who nodded, and the Irishman turned back to Trent. 'The night before last, three gunmen of the Provisional IRA tried to take him on the other side of the water. He saw them all off.'

  'Good God!'

  'Exactly. He'd see off a few of your chaps, too, before they got to him. Better to try it our way, Chief Inspector,' Harry Fox said. 'Believe me.'

  From the crest of the hill above Glendhu, Cussane and Morag crouched in the wet bracken and looked down. The track had petered out, but in any case, it had seemed politic to Cussane to leave the jeep up there out of sight. There was nothing like an ace in the hole if anything went sour. Better the Mungos didn't know about that.

  'It doesn't look much,' Morag said.

  Which was an understatement, for the farm presented an unlovely picture. One barn without its roof, tiles missing from the roof of the main building. There were potholes in the yard filled with water, a truck minus its wheels, a decaying tractor, red with rust.

  The girl shivered suddenly. 'I've got a bad feeling. I don't like that place.'

  He stood up, picked up his bag, and took the Stechkin from his pocket. 'I've got this. There's no need to worry. Trust me.'

  'Yes,' she said and there was a kind of passion in her voice. 'I do trust you.'

  She took his arm and together they started down through the bracken towards the farm.

  Hector Mungo had driven down to Larwick early that morning, mainly because he'd run out of cigarettes although come to think of it, they'd run out of almost everything. He purchased bacon, eggs, various canned foods, a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of Scotch and told the old lady who ran the general store, to put it on the bill, which she did because she was afraid of Mungo and his brother. Everyone was afraid of them. On his w
ay out, Hector helped himself to a morning paper as an afterthought, got into the old van and drove away.

  He was a hard-faced man of sixty-two, sullen and morose in an old flying jacket and tweed cap, a grey stubble covering his chin. He turned the van into the yard, pulled up and got out with the cardboard box filled with his purchases and ran for the door through the rain, kicking it open.

  The kitchen he entered was indescribably filthy, the old stone sink piled high with dirty pots. His brother, Angus, sat at the table, head in hands, staring into space. He was younger than his brother, forty-five, with cropped hair and a coarse and brutal face that was rendered even more ugly by the old scar that bisected the right eye which had been left milky white.

  'I thought you'd never come.' He reached in the box as his brother put it down and found the whisky, opening it and taking a long swallow. Then he found the cigarettes.

  'You idle bastard,' Hector told him. 'You might have put the fire on.'

  Angus ignored him, simply took another pull at the bottle, lit a cigarette and opened the newspaper. Hector moved across to the sink and found a match to light the Calor gas stove beside it. He paused, looking out into the yard as Cussane and Morag appeared and approached the house.

  'We've got company,' he said.

  Angus moved to join him. He stiffened. 'Just a minute.' He laid the newspaper down on the draining board. 'That looks damn like him right there on the front page to me.'

  Hector examined the newspaper report quickly. 'Jesus, Angus, we've got a right one here. Real trouble.'

  'Just another little Mick straight out of the bogs,' Angus said contemptuously. 'Plenty of room for him at the bottom of the well, just like the others.'

  'That's true.' Hector nodded solemnly.

  'But not the girl.' Angus wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. 'I like the look of her. She's mine, you old bastard. Just remember that. Now let them in,' he added, as there came a knock at the door.

  'You know the Mungo brothers then, Sergeant?' Fox asked Brodie.