Tamsin Beech Ch. 01: Lindisfarne

... and stopped dead.

Sat in an ornate hand carved chair across from Volk, a dishevelled looking boy of roughly Tamsin's age glanced nervously around to see who'd just entered. His brown matted hair was in need of a brush, his clothes had definitely seen better days and he stank of body odour.

"Aah, Tamsin. I was about to send for you," Volk's smile was that of a shark about to lunge at its prey.

All the questions Tamsin had planned to demand the answers to had gone. Her mind had emptied. Who the hell was this strange boy? What was he doing in Volk's office?

Weak sunlight poured in through the grit flecked glass of the room's leaded windows. One of the castle's smaller bedrooms converted to accommodate an enormous desk and floor to ceiling book shelves. Volk motioned to the remaining empty chair, "Tell me Tamsin, are you familiar with the phrase 'whipping boy'?"

Tamsin shook her head, trying to steal a sidelong glance at the stranger to see if he was anyone she recognised. Volk continued, "A whipping boy was supposedly an individual from one of the poorer classes, educated alongside someone of royal blood in early modern Europe, who would receive corporal punishment for their superior's transgressions. The theory being that seeing a friend punished would provide the motivation not to repeat the offence."

"And?" Tamsin glowered at Volk. He was a cold blooded murderer. She wasn't remotely interested in his history lessons.

"This," Volk indicated the boy, "is Craster. He will be your companion from now on. Wherever you and your armed escort go on the island, Craster will go also."

"I don't need a companion!" Tamsin snarled, "I don't need anything from you, you fucking murderer!"

Volk stood, and in a fluid movement leaned across the desk and backhanded Craster across the face. The boy fell sideways off the chair and landed on the threadbare carpet nursing a split lip.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" Tamsin yelled, beating her balled fists on the desk, "if you want to hit someone, hit me!"

"Weren't you paying attention Miss Beech?" Volk stared at her, a cold fire in his steel grey eyes, "any transgressions, any more petty acts of rebellion from now on, it won't be you that gets punished. It'll be Craster. We'll see how well you can behave when you have someone else's welfare to consider."

Tamsin felt stinging tears gather in the corners of her eyes. She hated herself for showing weakness in front of this monster, but this was all too much. If she stepped out of line, would Craster end up like Timur, with a bullet in his head?

"At least ... t-tell me once and for all," she sobbed, "how long am I going to be held prisoner here? And ... are my p-parents still alive?"

Volk regarded her silently for a moment or two, as Craster climbed unsteadily to his feet. Tamsin saw an unfamiliar expression touch the General's eyes for just an instant before quickly vanishing again. It was almost like ... pity, "Your parents ... are both alive. And you'll be leaving Lindisfarne sometime in the next few months."

"But why am I ..."

"No more questions. I have work to do," Volk interrupted, "take Craster and get him cleaned up. I'll expect to see you both looking presentable at dinner this evening."

. . .

Life on Lindisfarne continued. After thirty years of unpredictable seasons caused by the rogue asteroid Thanatos, the weather grew pleasantly warmer as spring merged into summer. Though in mid June the island was hit by a freak arctic blast that saw blizzards tearing against the castle walls, and in early July a massive debris storm deposited tons of masonry, human bones and rusting car parts on the scrubland and cultivated land outside Tamsin's bedroom. The planet would take many years to heal itself from the grevious injuries inflicted by mankind and meteorites.

The 'whipping boy' Craster was made presentable by the castle staff, his hair neatly trimmed and his tattered rags replaced with a surplus Coalition uniform. He barely uttered a word but followed Tamsin and her escort wherever they went on the island like a mute shadow. After a few days, Tamsin had given up asking him questions about his family or origins, when it became apparent he had no intention of telling her.

Volk was true to his word. Whenever Tamsin stepped out of line or talked back to one of the guards, Craster received her punishment. At first she simply watched uncaring as he was punched to the ground or savagely kicked in the shins. She hadn't asked for this, so whatever happened to the young man was none of her concern.

But after a beating that left Craster with a broken nose and cracked ribs because Tamsin had dared to walk fifty yards out onto the causeway separating Lindisfarne from the mainland, she began to reconsider. He was her responsibility. How would she feel if it had been her own brother in Craster's position? He might have people out there somewhere, a family perhaps, that loved him.

Tamsin bathed his bleeding face that evening and apologised. Something Volk had said struck her as odd. When he'd explaining about whipping boys he'd used the phrase 'educated alongside someone of royal blood'. How was that relevant to her? Her parents were Merida and Ross Beech, so it didn't make any sense. Why didn't the guards just beat her? She was nothing to them.

There was also the nagging suspicion at the back of her mind that Craster might be some sort of spy. Brought here to keep a close eye on her while those dear to him were held hostage elsewhere. Tamsin tried not to dwell on that too much. Without hope she had nothing.

Tamsin had already resolved to be well away from the island before she discovered the answers. On one afternoon stroll past the old lime kilns, she'd stopped Craster and her escort, explaining that she desperately needed to pee and would like some privacy. Miming the need to urinate had taken some time with the Coalition guard who'd seemed stupider than most, but eventually she was given a couple of minutes to herself in the cool shadows of the lime kilns.

The rust coloured blood stain where Timur had died still marked the wall. And beneath it, the upturned boat that the amorous young soldier had pushed her up against. Tamsin examined it closely in the gloom. Apart from one jagged rent where rotting timbers had been snapped away, the hull appeared sound. If she could find the right materials and some tools, patching it would be easy.

. . .

"I need your help," she blurted out the following morning as they walked back from the village with fresh bread from the island's bakery. As usual she'd ordered Craster to carry the wicket basket containing the warm loaves while her escort walked ten paces behind, rifle at the ready.

"Why?" Craster grunted. His monosyllabic responses grew frustratingly tiresome.

It was now or never. If the whipping boy really was one of Volk's spies she was about to risk everything. Putting her freedom and possibly her life on the line, "I've ... found a way off the island. But I need your help."

Craster said nothing. The stony path past the black boat sheds constructed from old herring boats, curved around the rocky bay towards the distant castle. Tamsin needed to get him on her side before they were back indoors, "I've found a boat. But it needs repairing. I think I can get the materials if you can find nails."

Still Craster said nothing. In the distance Tamsin could see Volk high up on the terrace of the Upper Battery giving some junior Coalition officer a dressing down. Tamsin's eyes prickled with tears, "Please. I don't know what they've got planned for me but I don't want to stick around to find out. I can't do this alone."

Craster glanced at her sidelong, "Take me with you."

He'd spoken so quietly that Tamsin couldn't be entirely certain he'd said anything. Had it been the wind? "Wh-what?"

"Take me with you."

"Well of course. I was going to anyway," she lied. In truth, Tamsin hadn't even considered what would become of the whipping boy.

Craster stomped off along the path, "I'll see what I can do."

THE END OF CHAPTER ONE

Seven years later ...

Tamsin wiped Leonid's drying semen from her belly. With pre Thanatos methods of birth control so scarce and herbal potions unreliable at best, they had to be careful. It wouldn't do for the leader of the United Kingdom's resistance to become pregnant.

The sex had been quick, unglamorous and dirty but nevertheless satisfying and exactly what she'd needed. She watched the tall blonde Russian dress in the flickering candlelight, admiring his washboard stomach and sinewy forearms, wondering if she would have found him as attractive in less hostile times.

Probably.

He certainly had his moments. But Leonid was a damned good fighter. Not to mention an incredible fuck.

Tamsin rolled onto her side and tore open the velcro fastening on one of her jacket pockets to extract what was inside. They'd lost eight good people to obtain this one sheet of paper. Such an inconsequential thing. But if she was right, the laminated list of names could eventually spell victory over the Coalition invaders ...

General Sir Kenneth Turkle, Admiral Dale Fredrickson, Air Chief Marshal Charles Harding, Major Angus Banavie ...

COMING SOON ... CHAPTER TWO: SCARBOROUGH