Jessamy Beech Ch. 07: Threlkeld

The sound of hooves grew louder and eventually the riders drew up twenty yards away. Three of them, wrapped up against the bitter cold sitting astride strong, healthy looking ponies - two chestnuts and a bay. Clouds of steam rose from the horses' glossy coats as the riders silently watched Merida and Mrs Taber, their faces unreadable, concealed with Buffs and snow goggles against the wind. They all carried compound bows and what looked like police issue MP5s.

What else did you say when you encountered strangers while trespassing on their territory?

"We come in peace," said Merida fearfully, spreading her hands to show she was unarmed - despite having the Glock concealed in the waistband of her jeans.

The riders exchanged looks. They were certainly not Reivers, thought Merida. And Fodders or Preens would be wearing uniforms. If they were hostile then so be it. She and Mrs Taber were both too exhausted to do anything about it.

Merida waited, until the waiting became too much to bear and she just had to say something more to fill the uncomfortable silence, "We have an injured man here. He's got an infected gunshot wound. Can ... can you help us?"

One of the figures jumped nimbly down from their horse and slowly walked over, tugging the flower patterned Buff down from their face ...

Sparkling blue eyes twinkled from the cautiously smiling, freckled face of a young woman, "I'm Laura, I used to be a nurse. Let me take a look at your friend."

"Where are we?" asked Mrs Taber of the others.

"You're safe," said one of the other riders gruffly, in a strong Northumbrian accent.

THE END OF CHAPTER SEVEN

At nightfall, Jessamy and Hamnavoe left the Ocean Princess behind and made their way south west across the flank of Wideford Hill. They carried no provisions or weapons and even their warm winter coats had been left behind in Kirkwall. Ascending the hill made them both pant for breath and with several cracked ribs between them, rest stops were frequent.

Hamnavoe made no comment about the leg wound he'd sustained on Ben Macdui when Jessamy had been hunting him. He realised how desperate their situation was and realised that whining about old pains that were almost healed would do nothing to help.

As the sky began to brighten, they took shelter in a ditch under a cracked sheet of corrugated plastic, straining to hear any sounds of approaching militia men over the persistent drizzle.

"How did you ever get to be a bounty hunter JB?" Hamnavoe asked.

"Bad people needed catching. I had the necessary skills to do it," Jessamy stated matter of factly. She gently pressed the swelling around her eye. Thankfully it felt like it was going down.

"But doing it for money?" Hamnavoe pulled a face.

"If somebody wants to give me money for doing the decent thing, so be it. Bad people are punished and my family are safe, clothed and fed. Simple."

"You've not told me anything about yer family JB."

Jessamy fixed him with a cold stare, "No. I haven't. Get some sleep, I'll take first watch."

. . .

There were a tense few minutes around noon when the fugitives heard the unmistakable shouts of approaching militia men. They listened intently with bated breath, but eventually the voices grew fainter and moved away.

They would try to cross the moorland south of the twin lochs of Stenness and Harray to get to the Bridge of Waithe - their quickest and easiest route to the town of Stromness. But Jessamy guessed that Keaton would have the route guarded. They'd have to be careful.

. . .

Torrential rain agitated the oily surface of the water as Jessamy and Hamnavoe studied the triple stone arched Bridge of Waithe from the shelter of a neolithic cairn on a nearby hill. The night's travelling had exhausted them both and they felt utterly miserable, - cold, tired and hungry - as they watched a decrepit looking Landrover and two of Keaton's militia blocking the bridge.

"How far to your friend's place?" Jessamy asked. Across the water they could clearly see Orkney's second largest town, Stromness.

"He lives on his boat. Just past the old ferry terminal," replied Hamnavoe.

On the first day in hiding, he'd been making lewd comments to Jessamy all day about passing the time having sweaty, anal sex. On the second day he admitted to being too tired for anything more energetic than a blowjob. On this, the third morning, he kept quiet and only spoke when spoken to.

"If I had a bow or a knife I could take them quietly," Jessamy whispered, idly picking up a rock.

"If I had an RPG, I could take them noisily."

Jessamy gave him a withering look, "Do you have any sensible suggestions?"

"Ye could get yer tits oot again an' ask 'em to soap yer back."

Jessamy couldn't help but smile, "I'd love to, but my tits are getting saggy ... and besides, it's your turn."

"Fine," Hamnavoe huffed, then stood up and strode down towards the bridge in plain view of the militia.

"You fucking dick," Jessamy whispered in disbelief, and ducked back behind the cairn.

There was no way the two men could not notice Hamnavoe, especially when he started shouting to get their attention, "EXCUSE ME? ARE YE LOOKIN' FER ME?"

"Fuck!" shouted one of the militia, "it's him."

Both of them unshouldered their weapons and hurried towards Hamnavoe, "Where's the woman?"

Hamnavoe laughed, "I FUCKED HER BRAINS OOT ALL NIGHT LONG. SHE'S SLEEPIN' IT OFF UP IN THE HEATHER SOMEWHERE, SORE BUT IMMENSELY HAPPY."

The closest militia man kicked the back of Hamnavoe's legs, forcing him to a kneeling position, "Hands on your head. Do it. DO IT!"

Hamnavoe complied, smiling up at the pair.

"Search him," ordered the first, circling around and keeping Hamnavoe covered.

The second man patted Hamnavoe down, smirking, "I can't believe this fuckwit was stupid enough to give himself up."

"Yeah, but stay sharp. Beech is still ..."

THUD!

Jessamy smashed her rock into the militia man's head as hard as she could, then caught the falling body from behind by both arms. A quick shift of weight and she had not only control of the man's MP5 machine gun but a human shield too.

"Drop it!" she snarled at the second man.

Unfortunately the other militia man had decided to play the hero. He raised his own weapon ...

BLAM!

Jessamy shot him in the head. She let her unconscious shield drop to the blood stained tarmac and strode over to Hamnavoe, "IF YOU EVER PULL A STUNT LIKE THAT AGAIN, I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU MYSELF!"

"Worked though, didn't it?" said Hamnavoe, wincing as he clambered to his feet, "what now JB?"

Jessamy looked down at the two militia men, "We need to get them off the bridge before anyone comes along. I've got an idea ..."

. . .

As the rain stopped and murky sunlight beamed down between the grey clouds, the people of Stromness woke up to another day and went about their business. Housewives bustled along the narrow, winding main street to the harbourside market to see what the local fishing fleet had caught - some of the few herring left in the sea perhaps, or maybe seal or Minke whale. When there was so little, Orcadians couldn't afford to be choosy.

The men headed off to the fields and allotments outside the town. Though with the perpetual wind blasting away the top soil, growing anything in this environment was difficult at the best of times. Others headed over in small boats to the neighbouring island of Hoy to check their nets laid out along the clifftops to catch seabirds.

A battered militia Landrover pulled up next to the old ferry terminal with a squeak of brakes, and two of Keaton's militia climbed out, their hoods up against the bitterly cold wind and faces obscured.

"Catch em yet?" asked one of the locals, a grizzled old man.

The taller of the two, walking with a pronounced limp shook his head and moved on towards the harbour.

The crowd parted for the pair as they made their way to a rusting orange beam trawler moored alongside, where once the big car ferries from Scrabster had docked. Its white storm bow was heavily streaked with rust and carried the words 'Millennium Falcon' painted in foot high black letters.

The limping militia man stepped cautiously across the gangplank and knocked at the wheelhouse door.

"Fuck off," shouted a muffled voice.

The militia man knocked again.

A string of colourful profanity sounded from inside the wheelhouse. Bolts were drawn back and the door angrily wrenched open, "Look, I dunno what ye want but ..."

The man's bloodshot eyes widened behind his thick rimmed glasses as he saw the militia standing on his doorstep.

He was average height, mostly bald and in his sixties. An enormous red birthmark across the top of his hairless head had years before earned him the nickname Gorbachev. The name had stuck, "Listen, if this is about those explosives found on Flotta ..."

Hamnavoe tugged down his scarf, "It's me ye prick. Are ye no' going to invite us in?"

"Hamna ..."

"Ssh," Hamnavoe clamped a hand over Gorbachev's mouth and shoved him back inside. Jessamy followed and closed the door behind them.

"Hamnavoe. Ye old bastard," Gorbachev hugged his old friend, "what the fuck are ye doin' here? Ye know Keaton's men are searching the whole island fer ye? Is it true what ye did to them wee girls?"

Jessamy tugged back her hood, "He's innocent."

"Wow," gasped Gorbachev, studying Jessamy as if she were a prize cow, "the bruises, tats an' dreadlocks make her look a bit scary but apart from that she's a good lookin' woman. How much you want for her Ham?"

Hamnavoe shuffled, "She's, uh ... she's not for sale."

"Why the fuck not?"

"She's ..." Hamnavoe glanced sidelong at Jessamy, "she's my wife."

Jessamy raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Sorry, uh ... Mrs Hamnavoe."

"Look," continued Hamnavoe, "we're in a wee spot of bother. And ... well you remember when I led the fodders away after we, uh ... requisitioned those guns from RAF Lossiemouth?"

Gorbachev nodded, "Aye lad. I owe you ..."

"We need a lift to the mainland," interrupted Jessamy, "and soon. We also need weapons and supplies for at least a couple of weeks' travel."

Gorbachev looked from Hamnavoe to Jessamy and back. He nodded, "Soon's I've made some coffee fer ma fuckin' ragin' hangover we can be on our way. Welcome aboard the Millennium Falcon."

. . .

An hour later, Jessamy stood on the wildly pitching deck of the Millennium Falcon as it steamed south past the enormous sea stack of the Old Man of Hoy. In the distance, the north coast of Scotland spread across the horizon.

She wondered what would become of Dougal the jailer and the militia man they'd left tied up in the back of the Landrover. Keaton was an evil little bastard and she didn't rate their chances. Hamnavoe wordlessly handed her a battered tin mug of steaming coffee.

"Your wife?" Jessamy asked, smirking. A cormorant flew low over the water close by, searching like everyone else, for food.

"That was just to put him off. He's done a bit of bartering and selling people in the past. But he's not a bad person."

He's a good man I can tell," she said, "a rogue and a bit of a wanker but a good man. A lot like you ... hubby."

Hamnavoe grinned, "Any time you feel like consummating our marriage I'd be happy to ..."

"Why does he call it the Millennium Falcon?" Jessamy butted in. Gorbachev waved at them cheerfully through the wheelhouse windows.

Hamnavoe gave a fake look of surprise, "You've never heard of the Millennium Falcon? She's the ship that ... never mind. Before your time."

The sky above them abruptly grew darker, as if evening had fallen in the space of a few seconds. They both looked up ...

A black shape was gradually eclipsing the sun.

Smooth on one side and jagged and splintered on the other where it had been blasted in two decades before, the rogue asteroid named Thanatos moved silently across the sky hundreds of miles above their heads.

"We're running out of time ..." said Jessamy.

COMING SOON - CHAPTER EIGHT: BRISTOL