She said, 'Remember in Granda's caravan that first day? I asked if you were frightened I might corrupt you.'
'To be precise,' he told her, 'your actual words were: "Are you frightened I might corrupt you,Father?" '
She went very still. 'You are a priest then? A real priest? I think I always knew it.'
'Go to sleep,' he said.
She reached for his hand. 'You wouldn't leave without telling me?'
There was genuine fear in her voice. He said gently, 'Now would I do a thing like that to you?' He got up and opened the door. 'Like I said, get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning.'
He lit a cigarette, opened the door and went out. The Maidstone fairground was a comparatively small affair, a number of sideshows, various stalls, bingo stands, several carousels. There were still a number of people around, noisy and good-humoured in spite of the late hour, music loud on the night air. At one end of the caravan was the Land Rover which towed it, at the other the red tent with the illuminated sign that saidGypsy Rose. As he watched, a young couple emerged, laughing. Cussane hesitated, then went in.
Brana Smith was at least seventy, a highly-coloured scarf drawing back the hair from the brown parchment face. She wore a shawl over her shoulders, a necklace of gold coins around her neck. The table she was seated at had a crystal ball on it.
'You certainly look the part,' he said.
'That's the general idea. The public like a gypsy to look like a gypsy. Put up the closed sign and give me a cigarette.' He did as he was told, came back and sat opposite her like a client, the crystal between them. 'Is Morag asleep?'
'Yes.' He took a deep breath to control his pain. 'You must never let her go back to that camp, you understand me?'
'Don't worry.' Her voice was dry and very calm. 'We gypsies stick together and we pay our debts. I'll put the word out and one day soon Murray pays for what he's done, believe me.'
He nodded. 'When you saw her picture in the paper today and read the circumstances, you must have been worried. Why didn't you get in touch with the police?'
The police? You must be joking.' She shrugged. 'In any case, I knew she was coming and I knew she would be all right.'
'Knew?' Cussane said.
She rested a hand lightly on the crystal. These are only the trappings, my friend. I have the gift as my mother did before me and hers before her.'
He nodded. 'Morag told me. She read the Tarot cards for me, but she isn't certain of her powers.'
'Oh, she has the gift.' The old woman nodded. 'As yet unformed.' She pushed a pack of cards to him. 'Cut them,
then hand them back to me with your left hand.'
He did as he was told and she cut them in turn. 'The cards mean nothing without the gift. You understand this?'
He felt strangely light-headed. 'Yes.'
'Three cards, that will tell all.' She turned the first. It was the Tower. 'He has suffered through the forces of destiny,' she said. 'Others have controlled his life.'
'Morag drew that card,' he said. 'She told me something like that.'
She turned the second card. It showed a young man suspended upside down from a wooden gibbet by his right ankle.
The Hanged Man. When he strives hardest, it is with his own shadow. He is two people. Himself and yet not himself. Impossible now to go back to the wholeness of youth.'
'Too late,' he said. 'Far too late.'
The third card showed Death in traditional form, his scythe mowing a crop of human bodies.
'But whose?' Cussane laughed a little too loud. 'Death, I mean? Mine or perhaps somebody else's?'
'The card means far more than its superficial image implies. He comes as a redeemer. In this man's death lies the opportunity for rebirth.'
'Yes, but for whom?' Cussane demanded, leaning forward. The light reflected from the crystal seemed very bright.
She touched his forehead, damp with sweat. 'You are ill.'
'I'll be all right. I need to lie down, that's all.' He got to his feet. Til sleep for a while, if that's all right with you, then I'll leave before Morag wakes. That's important. Do you understand me?'
'Oh, yes,' she nodded. 'I understand you very well.'
He went out into the cool night. Most people had gone home now, the stalls, the carousels were closing down. His forehead was burning. He went up the steps into the caravan and lay on the bench seat, looking up at the ceiling. Better to take the morphine now than in the morning. He got up, rummaged in the bag and found an ampoule. The injection worked quite quickly and, after a while, he slept.
He came awake with a start, his head clear. It was morning, light coming in through the windows and the old woman was seated at the table smoking a cigarette and watching him. When he sat up, the pain was like a living thing. For a moment, he thought he was going to stop breathing.
She pushed a cup across to him. 'Hot tea. Drink some.'
It tasted good, better than anything he had ever known, and he smiled and helped himself to a cigarette from her packet, hand shaking. 'What time is it?'
'Seven o'clock.'
'And Morag's still asleep?'
'Yes.'
'Good. I'll get going.'
She said gravely, 'You're ill, Father Harry Cussane. Very ill.'
He smiled gently. 'You have the gift, so you would know.' He took a deep breath. 'Things to get straight before I go. Morag's position in all this. Have you got a pencil?'
'Yes.'
'Good. Take down this number.' She did as she was told. 'The man on the other end is called Ferguson - Brigadier Ferguson.'
'Is he police?'
'In a way. He'd dearly love to get his hands on me. If he isn't there, they'll know how to contact him wherever he is, which is probably Canterbury.'
'Why there?'
'Because I'm going to Canterbury to kill the Pope.' He produced the Stechkin from his pocket. 'With this.'
She seemed to grow small, to withdraw into herself. She believed him, of course, he could see that. 'But why?' she whispered. 'He's a good man.'
'Aren't we all?' he said, 'or at least were, at some time or other in our lives. The important thing is this. When I've gone, you phone Ferguson. Tell him I'm going to Canterbury Cathedral. You'll also tell him I forced Morag to help me. Say she was frightened for her life. Anything.' He laughed. 'Taking it all in all, that should cover it.'
He picked up his bag and walked to the door. She said, 'You're dying, don't you know that?'
'Of course I do.' He managed a smile. 'You said that Death on the Tarot cards means redemption. In my death lies the opportunity for rebirth. That child's in there. That's all that's important.' He opened the bag, took out the bundle of fifty pound notes and tossed them on the table. 'That's for her. I won't be needing it now.'
He went out. The door banged. She sat there listening, aware of the sound of the car starting up and moving away. She stayed like that for a long time, thinking about Harry Cussane himself. She had liked him more than most men she had known, but there was Death in his eyes, she had seen that at the first meeting. And there was Morag to consider.
There was a sound of movement next door where the girl slept - a faint stirring. Old Brana checked her watch. It was eight-thirty. Making her decision, she got up, let herself out of the caravan quietly. Hurried across the fairground to the public phone box and dialled Ferguson's number.
Devlin was having breakfast at the hotel in Canterbury with Susan Calder when he was called to the phone. He was back quite quickly.
'That was Ferguson. Cussane's turned up. Or at least his girl-friend has. Do you know Maidstone?'
'Yes, sir. It can't be more than sixteen or seventeen miles from here. Twenty at the most.'
'Then let's get moving,' he said. 'There really isn't much time for any of us now.'
In London, the Pope had left the Pro-Nunciature very early to visit more than 4000 religious: nuns, monks, and priests, Catholic and Anglican, at Digby Stuart Training College in London. Many of them were from enclosed orders. This was the first time they had gone into the outside world in many years. It was a highly emotional moment for all when they
renewed their vows in the Holy Father's presence. It was after that that he left for Canterbury in the helicopter provided by British Caledonian Airways.
Stokely Hall was bounded by a high wall of red brick, a Victorian addition to the estate when the family still had money. The lodge beside the great iron gates was Victorian also, though the architect had done his best to make it resemble the early Tudor features of the main house. When Cussane drove by on the main road, there were two police cars at the gates and a police motor-cyclist who had been trailing behind him for the past mile, turned in.
Cussane carried on down the road, the wall on his left, fringed by trees. When the gate was out of sight, he scanned the opposite side of the road and finally noticed a five-barred gate and a track leading into a wood. He drove across quickly, got out, opened the gate, then drove some little way into the trees. He went back to the gate, closed it and returned to the car.
He took off his raincoat, jacket and shirt, awkwardly because of his bad arm. The smell was immediately apparent, the sickly odour of decay. He laughed foolishly and said softly, 'Jesus, Harry, you're falling apart.'
He got his black vest from the bag, his clerical collar and put them on. Finally, the cassock. It seemed a thousand years since he had rolled it up and put it in the bottom of the bag at Kilrea. He reloaded the Stechkin with a fresh clip, put it in one pocket, a spare clip in the other and got in the car as it started to drizzle. No more morphine. The pain would keep him sharp. He closed his eyes and vowed to stay in control.
Brana Smith sat at the table in the caravan, an arm around Morag, who was crying steadily.
'Just tell me exactly what he said,' Liam Devlin told her.
'Grandma...' the girl started.
The old woman shook her head. 'Hush, child.' She turned
to Devlin. 'He told me he intended to shoot the Pope. Showed me the gun. Then he gave me the telephone number to ring in London. The man Ferguson.'
'And what did he tell you to say?'
'That he would be at Canterbury Cathedral.'
'And that's all?'
'Isn't it enough?'
Devlin turned to Susan Calder standing at the door. 'Right, we'd better get back.'
She opened the door. Brana Smith said, 'What about Morag?'
That's up to Ferguson.' Devlin shrugged. Til see what I can do.'
He started to go out and she said, 'Mr Devlin?' He turned. 'He's dying.'
'Dying?' Devlin said.
'Yes, from a gunshot wound.'
He went out, ignoring the curious crowd of fairground workers, and got in the front passenger seat beside Susan. As she drove away, he called up Canterbury Police Headquarters on the car radio and asked to be patched through to Ferguson.
'Nothing fresh here,' he told the Brigadier. 'The message was for you and quite plain. He intends to be at Canterbury Cathedral.'
'Cheeky bastard!' Ferguson said.
'Another thing. He's dying. It would seem sepsis must be setting in from the bullet he took at the Mungos' farm.'
'Your bullet?'
'That's right.'
Ferguson took a deep breath. 'All right, get back here fast. The Pope should be here soon.'
Stokely Hall was one of the finest Tudor mansions in England and the Stokelys had been one of the handful of English aristocratic families to maintain its Catholicism after Henry VIII and the Reformation. The thing which distinguished Stokely was the family chapel, the chapel in the wood, reached
by tunnel from the main house. It was regarded by most experts as being, in effect, the oldest Catholic church in England. The Pope had expressed a desire to pray there.
Cussane lay back in the passenger seat thinking it over. The pain was a living thing now, his face ice-cold and yet dripping sweat. He managed to find a cigarette and started to light it and then, in the distance, heard the sound of engines up above. He got out of the car and stood listening. A moment later, the blue and white painted helicopter passed overhead.
Susan Calder said, 'You don't look happy, sir.'
'It was Liam last night. And I'm not happy. Cussane's behaviour doesn't make sense.'
'That was then, this is now. What's worrying you?'
'Harry Cussane, my good friend of more than twenty years. The best chess player I ever knew.'
