Jessamy Beech Ch. 01: Tobermory

AUTHORS NOTE: To those of you expecting Watching Eve Part 25 - you're in for a bit of a wait. I've got an idea for the next twelve episodes but in the meantime, here's something completely different...

*****

"If ye untie me I'll give ye the best fucking y'ever had," said Hamnavoe from the shadows, "ye look like you could do wi' one..."

Jessamy Beech ignored him and rotated the spitted squirrel a quarter turn. The smell of the meat slowly cooking over the campfire was making her mouth water, especially as she hadn't had time to eat for at least a couple of days. Glowing embers floated up into the clear starlit sky. She guessed it was going to be another bitterly cold night.

"At least lemme go down on ye. Ye could consider it a free sample, like a... like a tester."

Her captive was really starting to get on her nerves. Odious little runt. That was the problem with bringing them in alive. You had to feed them and listen to all the meaningless shit they spouted. Jessamy had already wasted three days tracking Hamnavoe through the mountains, not to mention half carrying him down from Ben Macdui after she'd had to shoot him in the leg. Her patience was nearing an end.

"Ladies have told me I've got an amazin' tongue..."

Jessamy's Royal Marines Commando knife thunked into the hard earth between Hamnavoe's thighs, barely an inch from his genitals. He hadn't even seen her move, let alone throw it. She flashed him a warning look, her blonde dreadlocks swinging around her head, "Kirkwall's bounty notice said dead or alive. It doesn't make any difference to me. Either way I get paid. Now shut the fuck up or I'll cut your fucking amazing tongue off and stick it up your fucking ass."

"I was just sayin'..."

"Don't," Jessamy placed one hand on the antique SA80 assault rifle beside her. The gesture alone was enough to stop Hamnavoe in mid sentence. He'd seen the notches carved into its stock and had no attention of being the next.

The beach Jessamy had chosen to camp on had the dubious honour of being the highest sandy beach in what had once been the United Kingdom. Many miles from the sea in every direction, Loch Morlich nestled at the foot of the Cairngorms mountain range. There were pre-strike buildings they could have stayed in nearby, boarded up holiday chalets, the Glenmore Cafe and derelict shops, but Jessamy much preferred the open air. She watched the squirrel slowly browning and hoped that the smell wouldn't attract any unwanted attention. According to an old map she'd seen, there had once been a wildlife park a few miles distant so there could be anything from wolves to big cats or even bears roaming these hills. She checked that her Glocks were still in their leg holsters and her crossbows were still where she'd left them.

"You're shorter than I imagined."

Oh, here we go again...

"What?" why couldn't prisoners just be quiet once in a while and keep their opinions to themselves? Every time, protesting their innocence, pleading for mercy, making empty threats or even marriage proposals. Hamnavoe squirmed. The cable ties securing his wrists must surely be cutting off the circulation to his hands by now, she thought. Served the little bastard right.

"I said... you're shorter than I imagined. The great Jessamy Beech, eh? The legend, that is Jessamy Beech. The hero of the battle of Truro... the awesome JB herself, isnae actually any taller than my wee sister. Speaking of my wee sister have I told ye about the time we..."

"Shut it. Now."

He was goading her, trying to provoke a reaction. If she lost her temper and killed him he wouldn't be going back to Kirkwall to stand trial and he'd get away with everything he'd done to both the Orcadian families and their young daughters. She was returning him alive more for their benefit than her own.

Only a few more days and she could collect the bounty and have her customary dram in Helgi's or whichever other hostelry caught her eye.

"Did ye really kill someone when you were just twelve?" Hamnavoe asked, not letting up.

"Eighteen," she corrected, "I killed a man when I was eighteen... the first of many. Now shut the fuck up."

Hamnavoe laughed, "Ooh, eighteen. What did he dae? Smartmouth the mighty Jessamy Beech?"

She turned towards him, the flames making the intricate Celtic tattoos covering one side of her face dance and flicker, "I killed him because he tried to rape me."

CHAPTER ONE: TOBERMORY

Twenty years earlier.

Jessamy vaguely remembered going on a guided tour of the old distillery many years before with her parents. She'd never expected to spend over half her life living there. She remembered the humidity, the mouth watering aroma of the steam from the enormous mash tuns and the oppressive scalding heat given off by the tall copper stills when it had been a thriving place of work for many of the villagers since 1798. She'd been far too young to sample a dram of the distillery's produce back then, and now, with the world in ruins, it was too late.

Loud, hacking coughs and the odd squeaking fart from the rows of sleeping figures around her broke the silence in the draughty warehouse. The racks of enormous oak whisky barrels, with their precious liquid contents, were long gone, the wood repurposed years before for more vital building projects. Quality single malt whiskies were no longer a priority.

A rat snatched up a carelessly discarded morsel and scampered off into the dusty, cobwebbed shadows. Jessamy was already awake. She had been for some hours, unable to relax. Today was the day. It was her eighteenth birthday. She was classed as an adult and could finally ask to leave the island of Mull and take her chances over on the Scottish mainland.

Being careful not to wake old Snook or Calgary, sound asleep and snoring on either side of her, Jessamy pushed back her thick woollen blanket, already wearing her scuffed work boots and only set of clothes. She listened, her breath clouding in the freezing early morning air. It sounded like the kitchen staff had already arrived and were getting ready to prepare the day's breakfast - whatever that might be. Much as she loved fish, the thought of their watery Cullen Skink for breakfast yet again was enough to make her want to go hungry. She hoped for mutton, or even seal but knew she'd probably not have the appetite for either. Not today. She'd pocket some bread for later if she got the chance.

She crept out of the warehouse, stepping carefully over the sleeping figures sprawled out between her and the iron gated entrance.

Outside in the courtyard, one of the mess staff raised a hand in silent greeting as he toted a sack of potatoes into the kitchens. He grinned at her showing crooked, yellowing teeth. Angus, a scarred warrior old enough to be her grandfather. He had reputedly been in the Royal Air Force, when there was still a Royal Air Force to be in.

Before the first strikes...

Jessamy ignored him. He'd tried to grope her breasts or kiss her on more than one occasion, pressing his paunchy, sweating body against her when they 'accidentally' met in a doorway, "Y'ever get sick o' sleepin' wi' all the scum, ye can always cum and sleep wi' me instead," he'd always put an emphasis on the word 'cum' as if it had some hidden meaning. A private joke that only Angus knew about.

With his job came certain privileges, such as his own room in one of Tobermory's harbour front buildings. But the more important your job, the further up the hill behind the harbour you lived, away from the stench of fish and communal latrines and the continuing threat of further tsunamis.

She held her nose as she neared the latrines and quickly peed, wiping herself with a sheet of old newspaper from the pile left there for that purpose. The papers were worthless now, filled with years old stories about people and places that no longer existed. Thousands of meaningless words written by dead men.

The huge distillery gates were left ajar, as they always were at night. There was nothing inside the place worth stealing anymore and even if there was, no one would take the chance with the death penalty now in force for even the most minor indiscretions. Jessamy stepped outside on to the shingle and seaweed littered Main Street and looked across the oily black water of the harbour towards the distant snow-capped Morvern hills. The rising sun was turning the snow a golden yellow. Much less snow than there'd been in previous years she noted. It was usually knee deep everywhere at this time of year - the middle of July. Ardnamurchan Point was over there somewhere - the most westerly spit of land on the mainland of what was once the United Kingdom.

"Halt. State your business," called a voice to her right. A uniformed figure strode towards her, crossbow at the ready, from what had once been the village's main car park. On summer days it would have been packed with coaches bringing in tourists from all over the world to see this tiny little harbour village, famous worldwide for its brightly painted buildings and associations with a children's TV show from before Jessamy was even born.

Jessamy waited for the man to approach. He wasn't much older than her. Pale, with a shock of red hair that looked as if he'd cut it himself with something blunt. Even though the armed forces were supposed to be getting extra rations, the tattered military uniform hung on his gaunt frame as if it were a few sizes too big. A square green shoulder patch told Jessamy he was Fodder, nothing more.

If the patch had been red she might have been worried. She smiled, trying to put the guard at ease, "I uh, just came out for some air," said Jessamy.

The guard nodded, "You're up early. When's your work detail?"

"S-seven?"

"You've got a long wait, it's only five AM," he shouldered his crossbow, relaxing now he could see she wasn't a threat. The majority of the patrols carried stringed or bladed weapons now that ammunition for firearms was in such short supply.

"I-it's my birthday," Jessamy blurted out. She shivered and pulled the collar of her grimy greatcoat around her neck, tugging her blonde ponytail inside.

The guard glanced around, but other than another guard patrolling around the edge of the pontoons across on the car park's far side, they were alone, "Ssh. It's probably best you don't tell everyone that."

"W-why not?" asked Jessamy loudly, "it's part of the c-covenant. I'm not a child anymore. Once we're eighteen we have the right to go wherever we like. I want to go to the mainland."

The guard raised an eyebrow, then regarded her silently for a few moments, watching her clear blue eyes. Snook had once told Jessamy she was one of the prettier ones and warned her that because of that she would spend much of her life in danger. She didn't understand what he'd meant but didn't complain either when he gave her shabby, shapeless clothes to wear that concealed her developing curves, "What's your name?" asked the guard.

There was something hungry about the way he stared, his eyes roaming up and down her, that reminded her of Angus.

"Jessamy. Jessamy Beech," she answered.

"And you're eighteen?"

"Today."

"You're not from around here are you, Jessamy Beech?"

The guard didn't sound like he was either. She shook her head, "I'm from C-cornwall. M-my parents sent me up here when they heard the n-news. Thought it would be safer in the north."

"And you've been here all this time?"

Jessamy thought for a moment, "About t-ten years, working the crofts."

She wondered why she'd never seen this guard before, unless he'd rotated in from elsewhere. Like Craignure or Salen perhaps.

"Have you ever been to th-the mainland?" she asked eagerly.

The guard peered across the harbour at the ruin of the old clock tower, the rows of patched and repaired fishing boats waiting for the high tide to put to sea, the rusting hulk of an enormous car ferry lying half submerged just offshore, the words 'Caledonian MacBrayne' just visible in dirty white letters through the layers of barnacles and seaweed clinging to the pitted metal hull. He turned back to Jessamy, "No, not since. But I've heard stories. You really don't want to go there. The major cities are all gone and any survivors have turned to cannibalism, or worse. Why would you want to go there?"

Now it was Jessamy's turn to peer off into the distance, swallowing hard as her eyes began to sting with tears, "My family. I..."

Their conversation was interrupted by the grating squeal of the distillery's gates being pushed all the way open behind them. It was Snook and a few of the other croft workers, come outside for a smoke before breakfast. He looked uneasily at the guard then addressed Jessamy, "You comin' in for some grub before work girl?"

Snook was ancient, in Jessamy's eyes at least. Ever since she and hundreds of other refugees had stepped off the Oban ferry on to the island ten years before, he'd kept an eye out for her. Making sure she ate properly, was warm enough at night and left unmolested by the likes of Angus.

"I'm not a g-girl anymore Snook," she snapped. Then immediately regretted using such a harsh tone with the old man.

Snook rubbed his bristly jaw, squinting at her with his good t it?" he asked.

Jessamy nodded, trying to look more confident than she felt, "Today's the day."

"You sure you want to do this girl?"

Snook's refusal to accept she was an adult made Jessamy more determined. She nodded.

"I better notify Torosay," said the red haired guard, "tell them there'll be an extra passenger on today's transport." Jessamy studied his face as he turned away. Was that pity in his eyes? What did he know that he wasn't telling her?

...

Grey snowflakes spiralled lazily down from the overcast sky as Jessamy and a few others were herded into the back of the transport. A canvas covered army truck, much like the rusty wreck that took her and all the workers to the crofts dotted around the island, where they spent their days clearing land, planting and tending food crops. But the work transport wouldn't be leaving for another hour and would be packed with perhaps thirty or forty others, both men and women. She shared this one with just three. Though it was impossible to tell their ages or even genders underneath the layers of clothing they wore against the cold, she noticed two of them had their wrists tied together with thick black cable ties.

Criminals. Being taken to Torosay for either trial or execution.

Two soldiers watched them silently, indicating with their weapons where the passengers should sit. Big lethal looking automatic rifles, a world away from the crossbows used by the patrols. Each man wore opaque goggles and the red shoulder patches of the elite Preens.

The Preens climbed in after them, sitting opposite one another.

Jessamy peered out of the open back end of the truck as the engine coughed and spluttered, looking to see if Snook or any of her friends had come to wave her off. But the hunched figures shambling past the slipway all looked the same. She assumed she'd get the chance to return and say her goodbyes later on, but the truck trundled slowly past the distillery and up the rutted track out of the village and Jessamy left Tobermory - her home for the last ten years - for good.

...

The road south climbed steeply until the truck juddered and bounced along high above the narrow strait separating Mull from Morvern, the Sound of Mull. The shattered trunks of bleached wood were all that remained of forest and plantations that had run down the hillside to the water's edge, once covering hundreds of acres. This land would eventually be reclaimed and repurposed for growing food if the soil was any good. But hopefully, thought Jessamy, she wouldn't be here to see it.

Fresh craters peppered the bleak landscape, evidence of the strikes two nights before when the old lighthouse on the northernmost tip of the island, just outside Tobermory, had been utterly destroyed after sustaining a direct hit. A reminder that a bigger strike was long overdue...

Passing through the settlement of Salen, she remembered that there used to be two derelict fishing boats beached in the shallow bay. Photogenic wrecks that would have entire coach parties snapping pictures of them in their picturesque setting. Now there dozens of them. Cannibalised for wood and parts, the craft rotted, their paintwork faded to nothing and grey ribs open to the elements where their thick wooden hulls had been ripped away.

One of the Preens motioned to the other up the hillside in the direction of old Ben More, the island's highest mountain. It took Jessamy a few seconds to see what he was pointing at. A red deer stag, looking scrawny and malnourished compared to the old postcard pictures of healthy, noble creatures she'd seen back in Tobermory, but with still enough meat on its bones to provide the croft workers with a decent meal. It sprinted up the hillside, stepping nimbly over deadfall, clumps of heather and ruts in the steep ground.

The other Preen aimed his rifle, peering through the telescopic sight, but with the truck's bald tyres jouncing through so many potholes on the neglected road surface it was pointless. He snarled his frustration and slumped back against the canvas side, "Fuck!"

Jessamy felt someone's gaze on her. She glanced up to see the figure opposite watching her intently, their dark eyes the only part of them visible under the obscuring layers. A woman's eyes?

With the Preens and the prisoners close by, Jessamy felt self conscious about making the first move. But as the two soldiers leaned closer to one another and started chatting in low voices, she lowered the scarf that covered her face and held out a hand, "I'm J-jessamy," she said, trying to sound friendly.

The Preens ignored them, their banter punctuated with the odd barking laugh. The figure opposite watched Jessamy for long seconds, glancing down at her outstretched hand as if they didn't know what to make of it. Then finally the figure tugged down their hood and scarf. It was indeed a woman. Older than Jessamy by at least fifteen or twenty years, with clean, clear skin and glossy red hair wrapped around her head in elaborate plaits. Jessamy had never seen hair like it. She smiled and shook Jessamy's hand, "Maria. Pleased to meet you... Jessamy."

Jessamy couldn't help staring at the side of the woman's face. An ugly red scar, like a burn covered her cheek all the way down to her jaw. Maria watched her.

"Oh sorry, I didn't mean to stare..." good manners were a luxury nowadays but Snook had taught Jessamy to always be polite to strangers.

"No problem," said Maria making a dismissive gesture, "you're not a prisoner. Why are you on the transport to Torosay Castle?"

Castle? Jessamy had never realised Torosay was a castle, "I'm eighteen today," she explained.

Maria nodded, as if that explained everything, "Ahh, so you'll be wanting to see Colonel Beaconsfield then. Ask permission to go your own way eh? What do you have planned?"

"I want to go to the mainland, to Oban," said Jessamy.

"Oban is it? You're braver than me girl. A pretty young thing like you..."

Jessamy shuffled on the rough bench seat, "What do you mean?"

Maria studied her for long seconds. The transport rumbled through another small settlement with crofts, a few pre-strike buildings still standing and an enormous jetty stretching out into the sound on massive wooden pilings. From what little she knew of the island's geography, Jessamy guessed it must be Craignure where the Oban ferry landed. Once she'd got Colonel Beaconsfield's permission, this is where she'd be leaving from.

"Haven't you ever had a man force himself on you?" Maria asked abruptly.

"F-force himself?"

Maria grinned and shook her head, "You know - fuck you? Don't you know what it's like?" she tilted her head on one side, "have you never actually been with a man?"