Tamsin Beech Ch. 02: Scarborough

AUTHORS NOTE: I've used Google Translate for much of the Russian in this chapter. If there are any Russian speakers reading this who notice any stupid grammatical errors, please let me know and I'll tweak it. Thanks.

*

Despite McTavish's incomparable skills as a scout and tracker, and despite having known him for many months, Tamsin Beech knew that she would never grow entirely used to having a Reekie as part of her team.

The eight of them rose at first light, gathering in huddles on the edge of what had once been a council estate on the outskirts of Lincoln, the houses gutted by over thirty years of meteorite strikes, freak weather and human intervention. Arson, looting and war. Many of them now no more than a couple of walls supported by heaps of mouldering rubble. This was how the world was now. Stuttering flames of civilisation amidst the darkness, the devastation and the bones of the old world.

They had what they'd come for. The list. The priceless laminated list of names that would potentially forge the first nail in the coffin for the Coalition invaders.

A warm drizzle turned the air hazy and reduced visibility to a few hundred yards. If Volk's people came hunting for them the weather would work against them. But it would also be more difficult for Tamsin and her followers to detect any pursuit. Volk wouldn't realise the importance of what they'd stolen. But he'd guess that the resistance wouldn't have entered the Coalition stronghold of Lincoln for anything minor and would want to know what.

McTavish squatted amongst the rubble, chewing on a dried strip of some unidentifiable meat from his battered leather bag. Tamsin shuddered. Squirrel? Deer? Human? She didn't know and frankly didn't want to know what it was.

"We need to get going," Tamsin pressed.

McTavish glowered at her, the rain trickling down his naked torso, leaving meandering trails in the mysterious blue swirls that covered him. Clan markings she'd heard from someone. There was a feral wildness about the Reekie, lingering just below the surface that Tamsin found in equal measure intimidating and fascinating. Thankfully he'd put his tattered kilt back on. She felt distinctly uncomfortable seeing his thick, dangling cock and pendulous balls impinging on her peripheral vision every time they talked.

"Soon."

Talked was probably the wrong word. McTavish communicated in monosyllabic grunts, shrugs and shakes of the head. Cooped up in the volcano ravaged ruins of Edinburgh, living on scraps and the odd unwary traveller, language it seemed had become a redundant part of day to day survival.

When she'd lived with her parents back in Berwick Upon Tweed, her older brother John had led hunting parties north to the outskirts of Edinburgh to ensure the Reekies stayed within their own territory. Culling the subhuman creatures with crossbows. Tamsin had accompanied him once. And it was on that fateful expedition they'd discovered their Aunt Jessamy and her friend Angus Hamnavoe.

Leonid crouched down beside them, leaning his weight on his longbow. With ammunition so scarce the resistance were becoming more and more reliant on homemade weapons, such as bows and crossbows, slingshots, tomahawks and swords. Tamsin still carried a scratched and tarnished Glock handgun. But for how much longer she had no idea. Once her ammunition was depleted it would be useful only as a relic of the old world.

"We better get moving," Leonid whispered.

Tamsin lifted her chin to indicate McTavish, "Tell our blue friend here. He wants to hang around a while longer."

"Radi vsego svyatogo!" the Russian shook his head, "be forceful. You're leader of the resistance Tamsin."

Tamsin fixed him with a cold stare, "If you speak Reekie, be my guest."

McTavish watched them silently, picking at one of the sores clustered around his mouth. Under the matted hair and stinking beard, Tamsin couldn't even begin to estimate how old he was. Over thirty she guessed, because without a rudimentary pre Thanatos education she doubted he'd be able to speak at all. She wondered what he'd look like, washed and groomed and properly dressed. Would he be handsome? Would he be a man she'd invite into her bed?

McTavish used a filthy fingernail to dig a morsel of unchewed meat from between his yellow teeth. Tamsin looked quickly away, repulsed. Probably not.

A low, muffled clattering noise rose from the ancient city behind them. Lincoln was waking up to a new day. From their vantage point, Tamsin could make out the soot stained cathedral and the castle from where they'd fled the previous evening.

She cocked her head to one side, listening, as the clattering grew louder ...

THOKKA-THOKKA-THOKKA ...

Tamsin urgently signalled to the others. They tugged their mud coloured waterproof ponchos over themselves and lay still amongst the rubble and bones as two grey gunships displaying the red star of the Coalition zoomed noisily overhead, banking swiftly away from each other. One heading south, the other to the north.

McTavish abruptly stood up, before the helicopters were even out of sight, "We go now."

Tamsin huffed. The searchers would have expected them to flee the area immediately, not take shelter for the night in the immediate vicinity. McTavish's hunch had been spot on. Now there would only be Coalition ground troops to avoid on the long journey back to what had once been Birmingham ...

CHAPTER TWO: SCARBOROUGH

Seven years earlier. Northumberland, 2055 ...

PART ONE: FLIGHT

The forty year old Kamov Ka-31 helicopter swept low over the choppy sea midway between Holy Island and the Farnes, its searchlight illuminating the battered dinghy below in a circle of dazzling bright downwash. Sea water from the boat's leaking hull already sloshed over the bag of hastily gathered supplies and what appeared to be two figures huddled under a filthy tarpaulin. It would only be a matter of minutes until the vessel was swamped.

A small launch arrived on scene soon after. A repurposed RNLI lifeboat - formerly the RNLB Grace Darling from the coastal village of Seahouses, now manned not by brave volunteers but by a squad of armed Coalition soldiers.

In seconds, the rapidly sinking dinghy was snagged by a boat hook and drawn alongside. One soldier dropped cautiously down into it, fearful of the unpredictable swell and the increased weight accelerating the vessel's watery demise. He prodded the tarpaulin with the toe of one boot. The fugitives were undoubtedly sheltering under it from the unseasonal cold and stinging sleet that was sweeping along the east coast, "Vy mozhete vyyti Tamsin Beech. Vy izbezhali begalirovku. General Volk khochet slovo."

No response. The soldier tried again, this time kicking the tarp, "YA SKAZAL VYYTI!"

He grabbed hold of it and tugged the sodden material away ... revealing the bundles of fishing net and rolled up sail cloth beneath.

"Chert! Volk ne budet schastliv!"

. . .

It had taken Tamsin weeks to accumulate sufficient material to repair the abandoned boat she'd found, hunting through the detritus left by a debris storm on the scrubland outside her bedroom window. Wood, plastic, masonry, pieces of rusting machinery - it was all there for the taking. Each day rooting through the scattered junk with other islanders, hiding small pieces of timber or useful plastic sheeting inside her jacket while her escort's attention wandered elsewhere for a second. Then storing it all inside the old lime kilns near Castle Point under the pretence of needing to urinate in private.

The objective was to gather the materials together quickly and get the work done. General Volk had already hinted that Tamsin's time as a prisoner on the island of Lindisfarne was nearing an end. So speed was of the essence. Each day she feared that the boat - the only one on the island, would be discovered and destroyed.

Craster, her so-called whipping boy, was thankfully not afforded the same scrutiny. He could come and go as he pleased without a guard constantly watching his every move. In that way he'd secured nails, a hammer and a rusting handsaw from a bungalow on the outskirts of the village, currently being renovated to become liveable accommodation for junior officers.

Patching the boat's hull and making it watertight had been a painstaking task. Waiting for the days when Coalition soldiers were on the firing range up on the headland and carefully timing hammer bows so they were masked by bursts of automatic weapons' fire. They took it in turns to cover the jagged split in the dinghy's bottom with plastic sheeting both inside and out, before nailing flat strips in place smeared with oily tar collected from the beach. All under the noses of the Coalition guards. It wasn't pretty by any stretch of the imagination, but Tamsin hoped the patch would last just long enough to get them across to the mainland.

It wasn't unusual for Tamsin to ask the kitchen to prepare her a picnic before she headed off to the beach for the day. Keeping a little aside each time she was able to store enough food to last her and Craster at least a few days. Mostly coarse black bread, cheese and oatcakes wrapped in waxed paper.

"I've not given any thought to where we should go," she admitted one warm afternoon. She lay stretched out on a blanket at the edge of the dunes on the island's north side, while Craster perched on a tussock of marram grass close by. Despite the sun he still wore his second hand Coalition uniform jacket, while Tamsin had stripped to cut off jeans and her bra.

Their guard watched impassively from a few yards away, smoking the foul smelling herbal concoction that seemed popular amongst them. Zabveniye they called it. Oblivion.

"South," muttered Craster.

"South? Why?" Tamsin asked, "if my family are alive they'll surely be here in the north."

Craster turned to face her, eyes blazing, "And how are you gonnae look for them? Ask every vodka swigging Coalition wanker you meet? You don't have a fucking clue do ye?"

Tamsin reeled. Craster had never spoken to her like that. In fact he'd hardly spoken a full sentence since they'd met. She noted he had a Northumbrian accent. Like her own, but much stronger.

Was it her imagination or did his eyes briefly flicker to her chest?

She loved the effect the sight of her body had on men. Weak willed, with their behaviour governed by hormones and the instinct to reproduce, most males could be influenced merely with a coy smile or glimpse of cleavage. Tamsin rolled onto her side and leaned on one elbow, feeling suddenly mischievous, leaving the soft curve of one small but firm breast on display, "And why ... should we go south, whipping boy?"

Craster's eyes darted from side to side, trying to look anywhere but at the swell of Tamsin's chest oozing out from the cup of her plain white bra, "I've heard ... rumours."

Tamsin glanced over to the guard to ensure he was still out of earshot, "Rumours? What about?"

She casually stroked her throat with one fingernail, purely to see what effect it would have on Craster and secretly delighted in the knowledge that it was probably making him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

Craster lowered his voice, "Resistance."

Tamsin let her hand drop. A cool breeze sent spindrifts of fine sand dancing across the beach, raising gooseflesh on her bare arms, "Resistance?"

"Aye. There's ... apparently a resistance movement. Fighting back against the Coalition. If we can make contact with them, we'll be safe."

Had Tamsin heard right? "Fighting back? Why? Sure, most of them are twats. They've invaded us ... but they're not all bad. They're helping rebuild the country for us."

Craster shook his head in disbelief, "You don't know, do you lass? Living here on your fuckin' island, in your fuckin' castle. You don't have a clue what's really goin' on."

It was true. She'd had no contact with the outside world beyond Lindisfarne for over four years, "What? What's going on?"

"The labour camps? The death squads? The brandings? The organised brothels for their high ranking officers, the reprisals ... when anyone stands up to 'em. They're fuckin' animals! Monsters! That ... is what the resistance is fighting."

Tamsin was dubious, "How come you know all this?" she sneered. Their escort was still some way off, oblivious.

Craster smiled briefly and tapped the side of his nose, "That's ... for me to know. Now, admit it your ladyship. Neither of us knows how to handle a boat. We need to be across to the mainland before the current takes us oot to sea. I'd guess make landfall at Budle Bay, then continue on foot and at least try to contact the resistance."

Tamsin didn't have a clue where Budle Bay way, but it seemed she had no alternative but to trust the youth. She nodded, "Maybe you're right. But we need to get off the island first. We can climb down the castle wall from my balcony easily. I've done it before. But if we're spotted, they'll be coming after us right away," she shifted her weight, unwittingly allowing Craster a glimpse of one pink aureole peeking out from her bra.

The youth swallowed hard, struggling to stop himself staring. Tamsin glanced down, realised what he'd been looking at and smiled, making no effort to cover herself.

"You think I'm pretty?" she asked, all talk of escape forgotten for a moment. She trailed her fingertips down one bra strap, lifting it away from her smooth shoulder just a fraction.

Craster nodded dumbly.

Was the whipping boy still a virgin, like herself? She had to be careful. The last guy she'd attempted to seduce - Timur, had ended up dead. Tamsin hadn't even considered Craster as a potential mate before. But if they were going to be spending any amount of time together on the run from Volk's forces, she admitted there would be no better way to seal their alliance.

Craster could protect her while they searched for a safe haven. And if she got a decent fuck out of him once in a while, all the better.

"You can kiss me if you like," she told him.

"Are you s-sure that's such a g-good idea?" Craster stammered.

"The guard's half asleep and he's looking the other way. Come on ... just one kiss. Then we can head back," Tamsin leaned forward, gazing into the youth's eyes, "call it a free sample."

Despite himself Craster grinned as he bent closer, "Free sample of what?"

"Me," Tamsin leaned forward, lifting her face, and let her lips hover in front of his, making him wait. Craster closed his eyes and she felt his breath hiss in and out. After a few tormenting seconds she let her mouth brush his, no tongue yet, just a delicate touch.

Craster let out a little moan as Tamsin pressed her lips on to his a little more firmly. The tip of her tongue slipped just into his open mouth, questing and withdrawing almost at once, their noses bumping as her tongue probed against his lips.

"CHTO, kak ty dumayesh, vy oba delayete?" demanded a harsh voice from behind them. Tamsin and Craster pulled apart.

Their escort stormed towards them across the dunes, and without waiting for a word of explanation slammed the stock of his Kalashnikov into Craster's shocked face.

THWACK!

"STOP IT!" Tamsin screamed.

But the guard ignored her, striding forward to deliver kick after brutal kick to the cowering whipping boy, "Net kontakta! Ya budu zastrelitʹ, yesli ob etom uznayet ob etom!"

Tamsin grabbed the guard's arm, tugging at it, pleading with him to stop. But it was no use. The big Coalition soldier continued to beat Craster until the youth lay bleeding and unconscious on the windswept sand.

. . .

That night, Tamsin lay awake watching the searchlights of two Coalition helicopters zigzagging across the sea to the north. Searching for someone. Or something. The aircraft were a worrying new addition. With these at General Volk's disposal, escaping from the island by boat was going to be nigh on impossible she realised.

How had the Coalition come by so much equipment? Before her incarceration on Lindisfarne she'd only ever seen one other helicopter in her life. The Phoenix - the battered Merlin that her Aunt Jessamy had flown to Gloucester in, to save the world. Now a rusting pile of wreckage outside Berwick Upon Tweed's town walls, after its crash landing.

Tamsin squinted as one of the searchlights swept across her window for a split second. What or whoever they were looking for, they were being very thorough about it she thought. She hugged the duvet around herself, thinking. Wishing that she could share some of its warmth with Craster, who as usual was bedded down under a thin blanket on the stone floor outside her bedroom door. Tamsin was of course forbidden to allow him inside her room and the guards patrolling the corridors would make certain of that. If she chose to flaunt that rule it wouldn't be her that was punished, it would be Craster - her whipping boy.

Why the fuck had she kissed him? It was all her fault. The guard had left the youth with an ugly head wound that had bled for hours and angry, boot shaped bruises on his ribcage all the colours of the rainbow. As usual it had been left to Tamsin to offer medical attention as a reminder that she was responsible for his injuries.

She clenched her jaw, now all the more determined to escape. She'd caused the death of one young man already, and had no intention of making it two.

A rattling engine noise drowned out the distant drone of the helicopters as an ancient British Army truck trundled along St Cuthbert's Way - the rutted track from the village outside. Tamsin recognised the sound without even looking. The monthly supply delivery for the kitchens. To be arriving this late at night, it must have been waiting on the other side of the causeway for the tide to go out, she guessed. The vehicle would be unloaded and then return empty, back to the mainland a couple of miles away before the tide turned.

She peered out through the ancient grit flecked glass at the circling helicopters in the distance, an idea beginning to form in her mind ...

. . .

"So ... when're you planning to go?" Craster mumbled. He clutched the side of his head, clearly in pain.

Tamsin glanced down the wide flagstoned corridor, conscious that the guard would be returning at any minute, "Now."

"What the fuck do you mean, now? We don't even have oars for the boat yet!"

Tamsin grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, "We're not taking the boat. Are you with me or not?"

Craster hesitated for a second, then nodded.

. . .

It took moments to bunch up her feather filled pillows under Craster's blanket to resemble a sleeping figure. When the guard returned it would hopefully fool him, buying them precious seconds if not minutes. Tamsin was already dressed. Jeans, hooded softshell, a goretex jacket that had become threadbare over the years and patched with horse leather, and boots.

She seized Craster's hand and pulled him into her room.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Tamsin asked. She searched Craster's face in the sweeping glow of the helicopter searchlights from the window.

"Do I have a choice?" Craster winced, clutching his ribs.

Tamsin smiled, then stretched up to kiss him lightly on the lips, "No."

"Then let's go."

. . .

The old hinges squealed as Tamsin eased her bedroom window open and they clambered out over the stone sill onto her narrow balcony.

"How the fuck're we gonna get off the island if we're no' usin' the boat?" Craster asked, zipping up his jacket against the chill wind blowing in off the North Sea. The air felt damp, with the promise of rain, "an' what about them?" he nodded towards the circling Coalition helicopters, barely two miles away off Castlehead Rocks.

"Just follow me. Mind how you go. The stones can be a bit slippery," with that, Tamsin hoisted herself over the parapet and lowered herself down the side of the castle, clinging on with her fingertips. She guessed the distance to the ground to be no more than twenty, perhaps twenty five feet. But even that might be enough to break a leg.