Jessamy Beech Ch. 06: Gloucester

Sorry it's late but 2019 has been a busy year so far. Thanks for the high scores you've all given JB and I hope this one's worth the wait.

"So you're awake finally," said a voice close by. It sounded echoey to Jessamy's ears as if they were inside a bare room somewhere. It was difficult to be sure as her hearing seemed somewhat muffled. Her head was buzzing. She remembered a crowd on the steps of Kirkwall's St Magnus Cathedral. Surging forward ... the militia ...

She lifted her head gingerly and tried to open her eyes. One was swollen almost shut and her eyelashes stuck together with a glue of dried blood.

"You okay JB?" asked another voice, this one more familiar.

Jessamy stiffly pushed herself up to a sitting position, wincing at the myriad bruises all over her body and the sharp, splintery pain coming from her ribs. She opened her good eye.

She was in a cell. A white walled cell with a concrete floor, basic cot, toilet and wash basin attached to the wall, and floor to ceiling iron bars. From across the passageway beyond, Hamnavoe watched her, concerned. He looked like shit.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused with your little stunt earlier on?" It was Keaton. Flanked by two armed militia men and a scrawny youth holding a bunch of keys.

The ex-North Link Ferries employee and now self proclaimed leader of the community brushed a liver-spotted hand self consciously through his thick white hair and regarded Jessamy, his bushy black eyebrows knitting together in a frown.

"Hamnavoe is innocent," Jessamy croaked, her throat parched. How long had she been out?

"So you said. But if Hamnavoe is innocent, who pray tell IS the guilty party?" Keaton demanded.

"Trevithick."

Keaton ignored her, "The mob are baying for your blood. If I release Hamnavoe I'll have a rebellion on my hands. He'll be executed tomorrow as planned."

"What if I speak to them? Explain?" Jessamy pleaded.

"They won't care," said Keaton simply, "they want Hamnavoe dead ... and that, is what they shall get. And for spreading dangerous rumours and inciting a riot, you will join him."

"Now hold on a wee minute," Hamnavoe protested, "ye cannae do that. The lassie's done nothing wrong."

"I can," Keaton fixed him with an imperious glare, "and I will. I've told the people and if I renege on my word now I will appear weak. Until tomorrow ..."

"Bring Trevithick in," Jessamy cried, "question him."

"Too late. Hamnavoe's friend Trevithick left the islands days ago and headed back south to the mainland," Keaton spun on his heel and strode off down the corridor, his bodyguards hurrying to keep up.

"Fuckin' wee shite," Hamnavoe swore.

"Hold your tongue," shouted the skinny youth with the keys, evidently their jailer. He couldn't be more than about seventeen, thought Jessamy. Full of himself because he'd been put in charge of two such important prisoners.

"Just ... just hold your tongue or, or you'll be sorry."

Hamnavoe smirked as the youth scurried off in the direction Keaton had gone.

"Where are we?" Jessamy asked, glancing around. She slurped a handful of water from the tap to quench her thirst. Checking inside her boot she discovered that, sure enough, they'd even taken her trusty Royal Marines Commando knife.

"The old police station cells I think. What the fuck're we gonnae do JB?" Hamnavoe looked as if he'd been badly beaten. Two black eyes, a split lip, swollen nose and dried blood from a head wound matted his hair.

True to what Keaton had told them, Jessamy and Hamnavoe could faintly hear an angrily chanting crowd of townsfolk, somewhere beyond the thick walls.

"Without Trevithick there's not much we can do," Jessamy pressed her ribcage with trembling fingertips, wondering how many ribs were broken. She hated the smell of blood, especially her own, and she was covered in it, "I could do with freshening up a little ..."

"JB, we're gonnae be fuckin' executed tomorrow and ye're worried about the way ye smell?"

Jessamy regarded the steadily dripping tap in the wash basin for a moment, then smiled grimly across the passageway between them, "I've got an idea ..."

CHAPTER SIX: GLOUCESTER

Just under nineteen years earlier.

THWAP!

Jessamy Beech's head snapped painfully back, her teeth clacked together and despite the gumshield, she tasted blood as Mpenzi landed another punch.

"Cummon Beech," taunted the older woman, "at least ... PRETEND to put up a fight!"

The dozens of other soldiers, both men and women, gathered together in the dilapidated gymnasium shouted encouragement and insults at the two combatants as Jessamy shook her head to clear her double vision. Despite the regulations, she had no doubt there were a few wagers on the outcome of the fight. She spat blood on the faded laminate floor, wondering if any of her teeth were loose while Mpenzi danced nimbly around her, a sheen of sweat on the bare ebony skin of her toned shoulders, her long dreadlocks swinging around her head.

Jessamy smiled grimly, and charged. Mpenzi raised her gloved hands in readiness to fend off blows, but at the last moment, Jessamy dropped to the ground and slid under her guard, one leg sweeping around in an arc and scooping her opponent's legs from under her.

Mpenzi yelped with surprise as she stumbled back and landed in a heap, hard, "OOF!"

But she was instantly rising to her feet ... just as Jessamy rolled back towards her and swung a leg over, clamping her thighs around the South African woman's waist.

"That's more like it!" Mpenzi breathed, in the moment before Jessamy's punches rained brutally down on her head.

The first blow knocked Mpenzi's fluorescent pink gumshield loose. The second split her lip. The third ... never landed, as Mpenzi's knee slammed upward into Jessamy's unprotected groin.

Pain exploded through Jessamy's pelvis as she rolled away clutching herself. A blow there could almost always be guaranteed to incapacitate a man. But it could be no less excruciating for a woman.

"Better luck ... next time ... Private Beech," Mpenzi panted as she shakily stood up and addressed the watching crowd, "let that be a lesson to you all. NEVER ... let your guard down. NEVER assume ... your opponent is on the ropes ... or you'll regr ..."

Mpenzi lost all sensation in one leg as Jessamy slammed a fist into the back of her knee. A roar of applause rose like thunder around them as Mpenzi collapsed into a crouch with Jessamy's arm wrapped around her throat, "Submit?"

The instructor struggled, trying to use Jessamy's own weight to throw her off. Jessamy planted her feet firmly and squeezed harder.

Desperately Mpenzi scrabbled for Jessamy's legs, hoping to hook them out from under her. But Jessamy gritted her teeth and tightened her grip, exerting just enough pressure to immobilise her opponent.

Eventually after perhaps a minute, knowing that she was finally beaten, Mpenzi smiled and tapped Jessamy's arm, "Sawa ... nin-ninawasilisha. Okay, okay," she grunted, laughing. Jessamy immediately released her grip and stood to attention.

"Well done Private Beech," Mpenzi croaked as she drew herself up to stand before Jessamy, wincing as she put weight on her deadened leg.

"Thank you Sergeant."

"Hit the showers before you get a bite to eat and I'd, uh ... like to have a word with you in my office later. Class dismissed."

Jessamy nodded, noticing with dismay that one of her eyes was swelling shut. But after months of trying, she'd done it. She'd actually beaten Sergeant Mpenzi in a fair fight. She couldn't help but grin to herself as she headed for the showers with the congratulations of the other members of her platoon ringing in her ears.

. . .

Jessamy found it hard to believe that it had been four months. A third of a year since Seoras had rescued her from being gang-raped on Southport's filthy, oil-streaked beach.

On that day, the young red haired soldier had been just as she remembered him. Jessamy's thoughts had instantly returned to the previous time they'd met - on the windswept ferry dock at Craignure, the night she'd escaped from Mull.

"I'll create a diversion. Good luck ... Jessamy Beech," Seoras had said.

"You remembered my name," she'd replied, pleasantly surprised.

He'd raised an eyebrow, "I was hoping to get to know you better."

Seoras had helped Jessamy to her feet and averted his eyes as she adjusted her torn underwear and trousers. After spending much of the night floundering in the sea or unconscious on Southport's beach, she was shivering with cold.

"So you made it to the mainland then?" Seoras asked.

"Yes, but ... wh-why aren't you on Mull anymore?"

"The night Torosay Castle was hit, the island's commandant, Colonel Beaconsfield was killed as well. Murdered."

Jessamy cast her eyes down in case something in her expression betrayed her part in Butcher Beaconsfield's death. But Seoras continued, oblivious, "There was a ... revolt. We were ordered by the Preens to crush it and round up the ringleaders. Which we did, and ..."

Jessamy's eyes stung with tears, "Tobermory?"

Seoras shook his head, "I'm so sorry Jessamy. It was a massacre. But you've gotta believe me, we were ... just following orders. With our HQ, half the crofts and work camps destroyed and most of the workers dead, Mull was evacuated. Abandoned. We were reassigned here to the old airfield at Woodvale, just outside what's left of Southport."

Her friends, Snook and Calgary. Even Angus, the old letch from the kitchens were most likely all dead. Although it had only been a couple of days, Jessamy realised just how much she was missing her brother Ross and Merida back in Threlkeld. She sniffed and muttered bitterly, "L-looks like you did well out of it th-though."

Seoras glanced down at his sergeant's stripes, "Wh ... oh, those. I didn't ask for them. But we lost so many good men on Mull there had to be a few promotions to fill the gaps in the chain of command. We're overstretched as it is. So ... how did you get here?"

Leading her gently by the elbow, Seoras guided Jessamy up the wreckage littered beach towards the road. The previous night's debris storm had moved on.

"I," Jessamy wasn't certain why she decided to omit Merida and Ross from her story. Seoras had saved her life but was nevertheless a fodder. A professional soldier. And was therefore not to be entirely trusted.

"I walked south to Glasgow," Jessamy told him, "I was starving by the time I got there. A group, more of a weird cult really ... called New Dawn took me in and looked after me. I was there for a year. Then I, uh ... stole a boat and ... sailed down here."

"Wow, you're lucky the Reivers didn't get you," Seoras glanced at a battered military Humvee idling by the roadside, "listen, I'll have to take you in. I'm sorry Jessamy. There's a work camp at Woodvale. They'll feed you, give you shelter, dry clothes ..."

Jessamy remembered the blur of the last ten years. Working in the freezing cold on Mull, in muddy fields for twelve hours a day. Never having enough to eat. Never having warm enough clothes or somewhere dry to sleep. The beatings. The disease. Jessamy stopped and turned to Seoras, "I'm not going to another fucking work camp," she snarled.

Seoras seized her by the shoulders, whispering urgently, "There's no alternative. The three guys who ... tried to rape you. Newald, Sikorsky and Weitzman ... they're waiting in the transport. They've seen you. If I don't take you in they'll report it ... just to have a fucking go at me. I have to turn you over to the work camp."

Jessamy crossed her arms, "I won't go. If you don't like it you'll ... you'll just have to shoot me."

"Jessamy, please."

Jessamy fumed. To have come all this way only to be sent to another work camp. Seoras stared at her and huffed, thinking hard, "There ... is one alternative ... but I guarantee you won't like it."

Instead of replying, Jessamy merely raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"You could, uh ... you could always ... join the army."

. . .

With no central government, the United Kingdom had been in dire straits. The police force had been hard pushed before Thanatos, but faced with the anarchy of a worldwide apocalypse, they admitted defeat and surrendered their authority to what was left of the country's armed forces. After ten years of martial law, most survivors were by now resigned to live out the remainder of their lives at the end of a gun barrel.

The army were no longer paid. Equipment, uniforms and ammunition were often in short supply. But wherever there was a work camp or a refugee camp or some futile project to repair a portion of the country's infrastructure, any men and women of the army present would always be the best fed and best clothed.

In return, their commitment was to keep order, defend civilians against Reivers or other roving gangs and to generally ensure that the fragile threads of society didn't completely disintegrate into anarchy. If you were physically fit and inclined to respect authority and follow orders it was the perfect job in which to see out the end of the world.

. . .

Jessamy had had little choice. There was no way she could escape four armed fodders with motorised transport on foot. But there was no way she was going to end up in another work camp either.

Joining the army might have advantages too, she considered. Being part of the military could bring her closer to locating the other people on Bromden's list and perhaps even the satellite control centre itself - if it still existed. But being stuck here on the outskirts of Southport wasn't getting her any closer to her parents in Cornwall which had been her original reason for escaping Mull.

And so Jessamy signed the necessary papers and resigned herself to the regimented monotony of basic training in the British Army.

. . .

Knowing that she had no intention of staying any longer than necessary, Jessamy made no attempt at making friends among the other recruits. She trained hard and proved herself to be determined, resilient, and an accomplished marksman with any weapon she cared to pick up. Not the best Woodvale had ever seen by any means but certainly among the top few percent.

Jessamy joined routine patrols as far afield as Blackpool, Liverpool and Wirral, rounding up survivors with the promise of food and shelter back in Woodvale, foraging for supplies and salvaging spare parts to keep their aging weapons and equipment functional.

Despite her earlier misgivings, Jessamy found that she enjoyed it. She was part of something worthwhile now. Doing valuable work that was actually making a small difference to people's lives ...

... until Thanatos wiped them all out. Jessamy knew that if Bromden's calculations were correct, in just over nineteen years all this would be gone.

Jessamy's one stumbling block had come in the form of the recruits' physical training instructor, Sergeant Lupita Mpenzi. She was a tall, athletic black South African woman who made it her purpose in life to push them all to the very limits of their endurance ... and beyond.

The other recruits merely disliked her. Jessamy absolutely hated her.

Jessamy thought hard about why Mpenzi wanted to see her as she showered - an intermittent cold dribble in the draughty shower block - before drying her shivering body and putting her mismatched uniform back on. She grabbed a quick bite to eat in the mess and headed across the cracked concrete of the airfield to the NCO's quarters.

No matter how you looked at it, Royal Air Force Woodvale was a shithole. Several crumbling accommodation blocks, half a dozen temporary hangars housing rusting vehicles and the garrison's barely airworthy Chinook and two Merlin helicopters, and a sea of hundreds of draughty, patched canvas tents sheltering both refugees and soldiers - a twenty foot high razor wire fence separating the two.

Jessamy had no knowledge or recollection of what the place had been like when it had been first built, during the Second World War at the height of the Liverpool Blitz, but compared to where she'd grown up in Tobermory, it was paradise.

She ignored the shouts and jeers from beyond the fence. Some offering one form of sexual gratification or another in return for food or extra blankets. Others simply begging. Jessamy's heart had hardened over the last few months, grown colder. She'd finally realised that to simply survive one had to put oneself first. Repressing that side of her personality, and to some degree part of her humanity, troubled her. Leaving Merida and Ross, her kindred spirits hundreds of miles to the north hadn't helped.

She reached the NCO's block, a crumbling concrete slab that had once been accommodation for junior ranks. Great. Weitzman was on sentry duty.

The shaven headed private, one of the three who'd pinned her down on Southport beach and tried to rape her, sneered and blocked her way, "Halt and state your business."

"Sergeant Mpenzi wishes to see me," Jessamy responded. She tried to keep the tremor out of her voice, but being this close to Weitzman she realised she was shaking all over. Every instinct told her to run. But she wasn't going to give the little shit the satisfaction.

"I bet she does," Weitzman smirked, "prefer a bit o' muff do you? Is that why you were a bit ... off, with us on the beach?"

"I don't kn-know what you're talking about," Jessamy had heard rumours of course. She was well aware that Mpenzi was renowned for having certain 'appetites.' And if it carried the promise of extra rations, young, impressionable recruits were hardly going to refuse. But she hoped that Mpenzi had something else in mind.

"Have a nice evening ... private," Weitzman winked, standing aside, "and if you ever fancy a good hard cock instead ... you know where I am."

Jessamy ignored him and entered the building.

She scanned the directory fixed to the foyer's wall and made her way along the damp corridors. The sounds of singing, arguments and muffled shouts echoed through the building from behind closed doors along the way. Compared to the double decker bus Jessamy had been accommodated in for the last few months, this place was the height of luxury. She racked her brain trying to think why Mpenzi wanted to see her, skirting around the niggling suspicion that what Weitzman had suggested was true - that the imposing PEd instructor just wanted sex.

Stepping around teetering piles of boxes and obsolete electrical equipment, Jessamy arrived at Mpenzi's door.

Sergeant Lupita Mpenzi, Phys Ed / NCO Spec Ops - read an A5, neatly handwritten sign. Jessamy held her breath and listened. Faint, tinny music came from the other side of the weathered green door.

Recorded music from pre-Thanatos times was still a novelty for her so she had no idea who it was that was singing. There had been no such thing growing up in Tobermory.

She took a deep breath and knocked loudly.

"Beech," Mpenzi exclaimed as she swung the door open a few seconds later. She looked mildly surprised, "you came. Come in, come in."

Mpenzi glanced up and down the corridor as she showed Jessamy into her office / quarters and closed the door. The room was cramped. A cot, a cluttered desk and chair, a bulging canvas wardrobe and a battered table with a camping stove and various tinned foodstuffs left little free floorspace. A partly dismantled SA80 sat on the desk leaving smears of gun oil on the papers there. Despite the washbag and towel on the bed, Jessamy guessed that even NCOs used the communal toilets and showers.

A brightly coloured flag obscured one damp stained wall. Jessamy recognised it as the same one Mpenzi wore on a shoulder patch on her uniform. The 'Rainbow Nation' she'd heard the tall South African call it but had no idea where it was or whether it even still existed post Thanatos.