'Shit,' somebody said as we trooped back to the van.

'I'm still going; we're still going, aren't we?'

''Snot far.'

'Fuckin' is!  Good ten miles.'

'Bastards.'

'Na; we'll get a bit closer.  Cross the fields job.'

I got my kit-bag out of the back of the van. 'Why exactly are they stopping everybody?' I asked.

'They're the fucking pigs, man; it's their fucking job.'

'The fucking Fascist Anti-Fun Police.'

'Bastards!' somebody said from inside the van.  'They've spilled all the drink.' There were groans as people watched rivulets of pale yellow liquid trickle out the rear doors.

'You not coming with us?' the girl who'd given me the cider asked.

'Dudgeon Magna,' I said, pointing.

'You'll be lucky,' one of the young men said.

'Thank you.  Go with God,' I said.  They closed the doors.  The van started up and turned round, heading back towards Wells.  I waved to the people looking out the back windows and set my face to the west again.

'And where do you think you're going?' asked an overalled, crash-helmeted police officer, standing directly in front of me.

'The village of Dudgeon Magna,' I said.  'To see my cousin Morag Whit at Clissold's Health Farm and Country Club.'

The officer looked me down and up. 'No you're not,' he said.

'Yes I am,' I said, trying not to sound too indignant.

'No,' he said, pressing me in the chest with his truncheon, 'you're not.'

I looked down at the truncheon and put one of my feet out behind the other so I could better control my centre of balance.  I leaned into the truncheon. 'Where I come from,' I said slowly, 'we treat guests with a little more courtesy than this.'

'You're not a guest, love; you're just a fucking nuisance as far as we're concerned.  Now fuck off back to Scotland or wherever it is you come from.' He pushed at me with the truncheon.  My chest was hurting where he was pushing, but I was standing my ground.

'Sir,' I said, looking him in the eyes beneath the pushed-up visor of the crash helmet. 'I'm not entirely clear why you're intercepting all these young people, but whatever it is you think they are going to do, I am not interested in it.  I am going to visit my cousin at Clissold's Health Farm and Country Club.'

The officer took the weight off the truncheon, then started tapping me in the chest with it in time to his words. 'And, I, just, told, you, you're, not,' he said, finally pushing me hard and forcing me to take a step backwards. 'Now do you want to turn round and fuck off or do you want to get into serious fucking trouble?  Because I've just about fucking had it with you people.'

I glared at him through narrowed eyes.  I raised my head. 'I want to speak to your superior officer,' I said frostily.

He looked at me for a moment. 'Right,' he said, standing to one side and motioning with his baton. 'This way.'

'Thank you,' I said, taking a step past him.

I think he tripped me to get me off balance; the next thing I knew he had me on the ground, my cheek ground into the damp, gritty tarmac of the lay-by, his knee in the small of my back and one of my arms pushed so far up my back I let out an involuntary shriek of pain; it felt like my arm was going to break. 'All right!' I screamed.

'Dave,' he said calmly. 'Search this bag, will you?'

I saw boots appear to one side and my kit-bag, lying on the ground beside me, was wrenched from my hand.

'You're going to break my arm!' I shouted.  The pressure eased a little until it was merely very uncomfortable.  I felt my face flush as I realised how easily I'd been first fooled and then brought down.  Any self-satisfaction I'd felt at my exploits in Essex two days earlier was being wrung out of me now.

'What's that?' my attacker asked.

'What?' the other one said.

'That there.  What's that?'

'Bottle of something.'

'Yeah; and that?'

'Yeah… could be something, couldn't it?'

The pressure came back on my arm again and I sucked in breath, trying not to cry out.  I sensed the policeman who was pinning me down lower his head to mine, then felt his breath on my neck. 'I think we've found a suspicious substance here, young lady,' he said.

'What are you talking about?' I gasped.

I was dragged upright and held, still painfully, in front of the one who'd brought me down as the second policeman held two of my vials in front of me.  I could feel my hat, crushed between my back and the policeman's chest.

'What're these, then?' the other one asked.

I grimaced. 'That on the left's hearth ash!' I said.  I was having to work hard at not appending 'you oaf!' or 'you idiot!' to a lot of these utterances.  The contents of my kit-bag had been strewn over the tarmac.  The bag itself had been turned inside-out.

'Harthash?' said the one holding the vial.

'You mean hashish?' the one behind me said.

'No!  Ash from a hearth,' I said, seeing some other policemen walking over towards us. 'It's for a ceremony.  The other jar's for my mark.  The mark on my forehead.  Can't you see it?  These are religious substances; holy sacraments!'

The second officer was taking the top off the ash vial. 'Sacrilege!' I yelled.  The second officer sniffed at the ash, then dipped a moistened finger in. 'Desecration!' I screamed, as the other policemen came up towards us.  I struggled; the grip on my arm tightened as I was lifted onto my tiptoes.  Pain surged through my arm and I shrieked again.

'Steady on, Bill,' one of the other officers said quietly. 'We've got a telly crew back there.'

'Right, sarge,' the one behind me said.  The pain eased again and I gulped some deep breaths.

'Now then, young lady; what's all this about?'

'I am trying,' I said through clenched teeth, 'to make my lawful and peaceable way to visit my cousin Morag Whit in Clissold's Health Farm and Country Club, in Dudgeon Magna.  This… person behind me was most insulting and when I asked to speak to his superior officer to report his unmannerliness he tricked me and attacked me.'

'Suspicious-looking substance, sarge,' the one with the vial said, presenting it to the older man, who frowned and also sniffed it.

'That is gross irreverence!' I yelled.

'Hmm,' he said.  He looked at the kit-bag's contents on the ground. 'Anything else?'

'Other jars and stuff here, sir,' one of the others said, squatting and picking up the vial of dried river mud.  A crunch sounded from under his foot as he rose.  He looked down and moved something sideways with the edge of his shoe.  I saw the remains of the tiny zhlonjiz jar.

'My God!  What have you done?' I screamed.

'Now now,' somebody said.

'Heresy!  Impiety!  Desecration!  May God have mercy on your Unsaved souls, you wretches!'

'This could be something, too,' the desecrator said, rubbing the dust between his fingers.

'Are you people listening?' I shouted. 'I am the Elect of God, you buffoons!'

'Put her in the wagon,' the sergeant said, nodding his head. 'Sounds like she might have escaped from somewhere.'

'What?  How dare you!'

'And get this stuff bagged for checking out,' the sergeant said, tapping the vial of hearth ash and turning over the limp kit-bag with his foot as he turned away.

'Let me go!  I am an officer of the True Church!  I am the Elect of God!  I am on a sacred mission!  You heathens!  By God, you will answer to a higher court than you have ever glimpsed for this insult, you ruffians!  Let me go!'

I might have saved my breath.  I was marched off past numerous other vehicles, groups of people, white lights and flashing blue lights and bundled into a police van some way up the road, still protesting furiously.

In the police van I was handcuffed to a seat and told to shut up.  A burly policeman in overalls and crash helmet sat at the far end of the passenger compartment, twirling a baton in his hands and whistling.  The only other people in the van were a sorry-looking young couple who smiled at me nervously and then went back to holding each other tight.