Jessamy Beech Ch. 08: Bristol

Scrabster, less than two miles west of the town of Thurso on Scotland's north coast had once been a major fishing port and ferry terminal serving the Orkney and Faeroe islands.

It was now a refugee camp for hundreds of displaced souls from the south, wanting to travel north to Orkney, hoping for a better life. Patched tents and ramshackle shelters crowded against one another along the harbour front where once there had been expensive seafood restaurants and quaint tearooms.

As the beam trawler Millennium Falcon neared the harbour entrance, Hamnavoe peered suspiciously up at the throng of people watching them silently from the harbour wall, "You ever had any trouble?" he asked Gorbachev, the boat's skipper.

In response, Gorbachev leaned out of the wheelhouse and tossed him an M16 assault rifle, "If they get too close, fire some warning shots."

An enormous ferry still bearing the branding of North Link Ferries lay half submerged near the old ferry terminal.

"Is that the one?" Jessamy asked. She hoisted a rucksack containing a few days' provisions on to her shoulder.

"Mmm?" Hamnavoe turned and looked, "oh, yeah. The MV Hamnavoe. That's where I got ma name."

Jessamy gratefully accepted a Heckler & Koch handgun Gorbachev passed out to her. She hated being defenceless, "So, what IS your real name?"

Hamnavoe tapped the side of his nose, "Ye willnae tell me about your family, so I willnae tell ye aboot my name. Now we both have a secret, eh?"

"Fair enough," Jessamy scanned the crowds of refugees, her trained eye looking for potential troublemakers. Gorbachev planned to steer the trawler in close enough to let them jump off, then quickly head back out to sea.

THUD!

Jessamy spun around as one of the more desperate refugees leapt off the wall onto the deck off the boat. She spun full circle and kicked the scruffy youth in the abdomen, sending him splashing over the side into the oily water.

Jessamy winced and clutched her injured ribs.

"Stay sharp!" Hamnavoe called, "there may be more o' them."

"Please, take us with you. I'll give you all I have," shouted a pleading voice from above.

"My children are starving," called another.

"Poor bastards. I fuckin' hate this part of the job," growled Gorbachev through gritted teeth, "but we cannae save everyone."

He steered the Millennium Falcon in close to a seaweed stained flight of concrete steps and told Hamnavoe and Jessamy to stand by.

"What about the guns?" Hamnavoe called.

"Keep 'em," Gorbachev yelled, "ye might need 'em. Consider ma debt repaid and the best o' luck to ye."

"Thanks Gorb."

Gorbachev peered out of the grimy wheelhouse windows at Jessamy, "I knew who ye were lass the moment ye stepped on board. I don't ken why ye're hangin' about with this useless wanker, but if ye ever fancy a change o' career I could dae with a canny lookin' fighter like yersel' ..."

Jessamy nodded, "Thankyou Mr Gorbachev. I'll bear that mind."

"It was an honour to meet ye lass."

As one, Hamnavoe and Jessamy leapt the few feet onto the concrete steps and took up defensive positions as refugees surged forward at the top of the flight. The Millennium Falcon turned a tight half circle and headed back north with a final blast of the ship's horn. They were back on Scottish soil.

It took only a few warning shots fired into the still morning air to persuade the crowds to let them pass. Many of them were visibly starving. Jessamy paused, about to distribute some of her food but Hamnavoe grabbed her wrist, "If you're right, we can save all of them, not just a few. Besides, we'll need it."

Leaving the jeers and insults of the refugees behind, Jessamy and Hamnavoe jogged up the hill towards the coast path leading into Thurso ...

CHAPTER EIGHT: BRISTOL

Nineteen years earlier.

The few cities Jessamy had passed through had either been in ruins or they simply hadn't had time to stop. So as Alison Nethybridge led them cautiously through the middle of Bristol's Broadmeads shopping centre, she gazed around in awe, fascinated by the number and variety of different stores.

Broken glass littered the ground, and discarded stock where looters had changed their minds. Widescreen TVs, half naked mannequins, polystyrene packaging. After over ten years of neglect, much of the signage was faded or falling into disrepair too, but Jessamy could still read Marks & Spencer, New Look, Waterstones, Forbidden Planet ...

She'd been moved to the island of Mull to escape the meteorite strikes when she was only eight so memories of her early life were vague. This was like discovering a whole new world.

They'd been running for two days. Jessamy, Alison Nethybridge and Lupita Mpenzi. South from Gloucester along the Sharpness Canal then inland along the motorway, now choked with abandoned vehicles, corpses and sickly looking weeds sprouting through the cracked and melted tarmac.

They'd encountered a family of three from Cheltenham - parents and teenage daughter - who'd decided to take their chances crossing the Severn Bridge into Wales. It was from them that they'd learnt that the scavengers who'd hunted them in Gloucester were actually part of a much bigger force. Practically an army, under the command of an ex-pub landlord calling himself General Chinnor. Jessamy had shared her meagre rations and wished them luck.

Alison had belatedly informed them that she'd grown up in Bristol as they trudged past the airport at Filton, so she was appointed temporary guide. The three of them stared through the broken perimeter fence at a dozen huge airliners lying on top of each other in a crumpled heap of twisted metal like discarded toys. Jessamy shuddered to think what kind of freak weather had wrought such devastation.

It was decided they'd scour the shops in the city centre for badly needed provisions, then make their way to Clifton - Alison's former home, on the edge of Bristol to rest up for a few days and decide on their next move.

. . .

"Superdrug!" Alison pointed across the street to a smashed in shop front much like all the rest, and started picking her way between the debris and roots of ornamental trees grown wild.

"Will there be food?" Jessamy asked Mpenzi.

"No, it sold cosmetics, over the counter medicines, toiletries," answered Mpenzi. She watched Jessamy worriedly. The nineteen year old had been quiet and withdrawn since hearing the news about the Reiver attacks in Cumbria.

"Stay alert," Mpenzi hissed, "this is as good a place as any for an ambush."

"You go ahead," said Jessamy, "I'll stand watch out here."

But there was no ambush. After ten minutes searching the ransacked store, Alison and Mpenzi emerged with toothpaste, soap, wetwipes and some basic medical supplies. Mpenzi thrust a plastic bottle into Jessamy's hands, "For you."

"Shampoo and conditioner ..."

"I know you like to take care of your hair," Mpenzi smiled. Jessamy nodded her thanks, touched by the simple act of kindness from the tall South African woman.

They moved on, Jessamy studying the enormous works of art on the sides of some of the buildings as they passed. Alison explained that Bristol had once had an annual graffiti festival where artists from all over the world had come to show off their skills. It was as she was studying a beautifully rendered thirty foot high illustration of some outlandish steampunk creature, that Jessamy spotted movement on one of the roofs ...

"Movement. KFC rooftop, two o' clock," she whispered and dropped into a firing position. Mpenzi followed suit, scanning the rooftops through the sight of her SA80.

Alison crouched down, frowning, "Are you sure? I don't see any ..."

"Ssh," Jessamy snapped, "there."

As if on cue, a piece of loose tile skittered off the rooftop and smashed to pieces on the paving slabs just yards away.

"Whoever it is they're none too careful," Mpenzi observed.

An angry chittering noise came from farther down the street. The three women watched as a troop of perhaps a dozen creatures - like grey, furry monkeys with long black and white striped tails emerged from an alleyway and scurried up a lamppost, squawking at something out of the three humans' field of vision. All the while watching with their big golden eyes.

"Ring-tailed Lemurs," laughed Alison, "harmless. They must have escaped from the zoo in Clifton and bred in the wild."

Jessamy took aim as the not so stealthy straggler came into view, a large female with a young one clinging on tightly to her neck, "That's tonight's meal sorted ..."

But Mpenzi pushed her gun barrel down, "Let them go," she said calmly, "these might be the last of their kind. We shoot them just to eat and we could be responsible for their species' extinction."

Jessamy glared at her. Mpenzi didn't know what she knew about Thanatos, "Everything's going to die anyway Sergeant."

"Please ..." said Mpenzi. Jessamy lowered her weapon. The Lemur mother rejoined her waiting companions and they all scampered off down the street.

"Not today," Mpenzi whispered.

. . .

They continued, scavenging whatever they could find after ten years' worth of refugees, gangs and survivalists had stripped each shop almost bare before them. Alison found packets of something called Haribo that she insisted made the perfect nutritious snack. They found a couple of 3 season sleeping bags in a branch of Cotswold Outdoor - a bit damp and inadequate for the current low nighttime temperatures, but they took them anyway.

Jessamy had the luckiest find. Tucked away at the back of a small independent sports shop, a compound bow complete with steel-tipped arrows. Knowing what a crack shot she was with almost any weapon, Mpenzi insisted she take it.

. . .

The feeble light of the afternoon sun was fading as they finally decided to head up towards Clifton to find shelter for the night. Alison's family were long gone like much of Bristol's population but they would have plenty to choose from among the terraces of grand Georgian houses.

"Do you see what I see?" Alison gasped.

Jessamy was struggling to find a comfortable way to carry a bergen, an SA80 AND her new bow so didn't immediately look up.

"Ann Summers!" Mpenzi exclaimed and cautiously crept towards the ruined shop front.

"Who's Ann Summers?" asked Jessamy.

"Lingerie, toys ... you'd love it. Come on," Alison hurried after Mpenzi.

Jessamy remembered the last time she'd encountered lingerie. On Mull when she'd been dressed in skimpy bits of satin and lace for the benefit of the rapist Butcher Beaconsfield. She had no interest in whatever was in the shop. And toys? She was nineteen, not a little girl, "You go on, I'll stand watch."

Alison looked as if she were about to argue, then turned and left Jessamy alone, "We'll be five minutes, tops."

Mpenzi and Alison were gone for almost half an hour. Jessamy heard one or two girlish squeals and giggling from the shop as her two comrades found something or other new to get excited about - totally out of character for both of them. But she was glad of the time alone. Merida, Ross, and now Seoras, were dead. Fleeing from General Chinnor she'd not had time to process that fact and every time she gave it her full attention it threatened to overwhelm her.

Perhaps it was being run down that was making it seem worse. She felt exhausted and emotional. They all needed a few days rest before deciding what to do next. Mpenzi and Alison wanted to get back to Woodvale - if the Reivers hadn't already overrun it. All Jessamy wanted to do was get back to her family in Cornwall.

"Sorry to keep you hanging around," Mpenzi apologised as she and Alison emerged from Ann Summers.

"Did you find anything useful?" Jessamy asked, already turning away.

"Not really," grinned Alison, fastening her bergen, "not without a shit load of batteries at least."

Jessamy didn't have a clue what she was talking about. Alison seemed more confident here on her own turf than she had since their first meeting, she thought.

Soon after, they passed the old Bristol Hippodrome theatre, the fountains outside long dried up and clogged with rubbish, climbed Park Street past its trendy cafes and boutiques, and on up the hill past the museum and University buildings to finally arrive in Clifton.

The last of the watery sunset was barely enough to illuminate one of Brunel's great triumphs, the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Still spanning the muddy Avon gorge almost two hundred and fifty feet below, it now looked its age. The two lane road surface was cracked, with daylight showing through in one or two places, the bridge's great cables coated with orange rust.

"Are we crossing this?" Jessamy asked, eyeing the dilapidated bridge with trepidation.

"No," said Alison, "not today. We don't need to. There are a few good hotels nearby that should give us a view over the entire city if we can find a room that's still habitable."

They froze as the sound of distant gunshots echoed up along the gorge from the city behind them.

"I don't know who the fuck that is," said Mpenzi, "but I suggest we get inside as soon as."

. . .

They decided on the second hotel they came to. The Avon Gorge Hotel, a great Georgian pile overlooking the gorge itself. As Alison had guessed, from the top floor they could look out over much of the city. If Chinnor and his followers came along they would have plenty of warning.

After checking they had the place to themselves and securing the entrances as best they could, the three women settled themselves into a suite, closed the thick blackout curtains to shut out the night and any prying eyes, and lit some candles. Despite the unsightly watermarks and stains on the carpets and walls, the furnishings were pretty much intact. Alison flopped backwards onto the mattress with a moan of purest delight.

A bonus came in discovering that there was still water in the loft tank, albeit cold. They took it in turns to freshen up in the ensuite bathroom. Even with only cold water and wet wipes it felt good to be clean for a change. Mpenzi investigated the kitchen and returned not with food, but a dusty bottle of wine.

"Is that like whisky?" Jessamy asked, not really interested. She sat on the bed wearing one of the hotel's complementary bathrobes, towelling her long blonde hair dry, "I've only ever had whisky."

"Starting out on the hard stuff, eh? ... and I thought you were so bloody sweet and innocent," laughed Mpenzi. She took a swig straight from the bottle, then headed for the roof with a sleeping bag draped around her shoulders to take the first watch.

"It'll help you sleep," suggested Alison, passing Jessamy the bottle.

"Sure, whatever ..." Jessamy took a long swallow.

"Are you okay?"

Jessamy studied Alison's face, flickering in the candlelight, "My three best friends are dead, Alison. Why the fuck would I be okay?"

"It might help to talk about it," Alison suggested.

Jessamy took another long swig of wine and huffed, "Merida saved me about a year ago. I was being chased in Oban by men with guns. She, she was ..."

Jessamy's face screwed up and a strangled sob escaped her. First one tear, then another forced themselves out. Then, the trickle became a stream and the stream became a flood, as if a dam had burst. She held her face in her hands and cried uncontrollably, physically shaking as sobs wracked her tired body.

Alison set the wine to one side and rushed over to the bed, gathering Jessamy into her arms, "You have a bloody good cry, eh?"

Jessamy bawled into Alison's shoulder as the petite Corporal tenderly stroked her back.

"What was Merida like?"

Jessamy's voice was muffled, quavery as she answered, "Kind. She put ev-everyone else first. F-funny ... and beautiful. Sh-she had red hair like some Disney princess she said ..."

Alison stroked Jessamy's damp hair, "And what else?"

"W-we were lovers," mumbled Jessamy, "we had THE most amazing sex. When I was in bed with Merida I didn't want to be anywhere else. Nothing else mattered. She was ... everything ..."

Alison's hand strayed to the back of Jessamy's neck, softly caressing, "Do ... do you miss it?"

"Miss what?"

"The sex. With Merida ..."

With her head against Alison's shoulder, Jessamy could feel her friend's heart pounding. Or was it the wine that was making her own heart beat faster? "Yes. I ... miss everything about her. B-but I had to leave."

"Jessamy?" asked Alison. She sounded nervous. The atmosphere in the room had changed, suddenly loaded with expectation.

"What?"

"I-if you like, you could pr-pretend that I'm Merida. Just for tonight ..."

Jessamy was still for a moment. Thinking. What would it be like if Merida were suddenly here, alive and well and in this room? How would she react? What would she do? Dear, sweet Merida ...

She'd apologise first for leaving Threlkeld. Then she'd hug Merida as tightly as she could.

Jessamy's arms unconsciously tightened around Alison's waist.

Then she'd pull her face down towards her ...

Jessamy's hands tangled in Alison's fine, blonde hair and gently guided her head down. Her lips parted.

And kiss her ...

Alison was every bit as willing as Jessamy as their lips touched. First a peck, then a proper kiss, then more forcefully. Their mouths met, touched, parted, touched again. Jessamy's tongue glided into her friend's open mouth, tasting.

Alison hesitated for a second, as if taken aback by Jessamy's enthusiasm, then slowly abandoned her inhibitions as her own body started to respond. This had been her idea after all.

After that it no longer mattered to Jessamy who was in her arms, Merida or Alison Nethybridge. She needed this. She needed to lose herself in the oblivion of the pleasure she was being offered, if only for an hour or two.

Jessamy untied her bathrobe and opened it, all at once revealing her nude body to Alison. An offering. Alison grinned and stood up from the bed.

"Where are you going?" Jessamy asked, the tiniest hint of fear in her voice. Had she completely misinterpreted Alison's actions?

Alison took off her outsized MTP jacket, fumbling with the zipper in her haste. She gazed longingly down at Jessamy as she pulled off her brown army issue t-shirt and thick hiking socks. Gazed at the shadows dancing across Jessamy's firm, high breasts as the candles flickered. At the toned muscles of her abdomen, her taut thighs.

Jessamy seemed different to the other female recruits at Woodvale, thought Alison. Nineteen years old, experienced, but still very naive about so many other things. Almost ... innocent.

With a flourish, Alison dropped her MTP uniform trousers and stepped out of them ...

"Wow," said Jessamy.

The dark blue basque Alison had picked up in the Ann Summers shop pinched her tiny boobs a little, pushing them together to make her cleavage more impressive than it actually was. It was probably a size too small, but it felt absolutely right around her narrow waist. The matching thong had been chafing her most intimate places since she'd slipped it on in the ensuite an hour earlier. So she knew that if Jessamy refused her she was going to have to go next door and bring herself off. She hadn't worn holdup stockings for so long, she'd almost forgotten how to put them on. Their dark blue material accentuated the paleness of her thighs beautifully.

She stepped forward for Jessamy's appraisal, "How do I look?"

Jessamy didn't answer. She leaned forward and cupped her hands around Alison's bare ass, pulling her gently forward towards the bed, so that the blonde's blue satin panties were level with her face.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"Kissing your pussy," Jessamy answered softly and lowered her lips to nuzzle at Alison's blue satin covered mound.

Alison gasped aloud, "W-wait ..."

Without another word Jessamy leant forward and extended her tongue. Alison relaxed and let her head fall back, giving herself over to the younger woman's caresses, all the time uttering little trembling cries.