Tamsin Beech Ch. 02: Scarborough

The Coalition NCO clamped a calloused hand over her mouth, "You ... bounty. Nothing more. We sell you to Scarborough. Now ... shut up English!"

She was forced back into the truck, this time with an armed guard. And a minute later the convoy of vehicles separated. The truck and lead APC roaring southward while the other remained, guarding the border crossing from the Red Zone into Yorkshire.

PART THREE: THE GRAND HOTEL

Leonid Denisovich deftly steered the stolen motorcycle around the rusting wrecks of abandoned cars, mounds of corpses and the worst of the potholes, giving the villages of both Haggerston and Fenwick a wide berth. Any concentration of Coalition troops guarding the Lindisfarne causeway would no doubt be billeted there.

As far as his countrymen were concerned he felt quite confident of being able to second guess their tactics and movements, having served with the Russian military himself. But the North Koreans remained an unknown. The country that had shut itself away from the outside world for so long had survived Thanatos relatively unscathed and its military might remained formidable.

Putting a stop to what Volk and Zhakvatchikov were planning would only delay the inevitable, but it might just inject a soupçon of mistrust into the uneasy alliance between the two nations.

It was growing dark as Leonid reached the outskirts of Newcastle. The Red Zone. Despite not having a working headlight on his transport, he guessed it was not a place to stop and spend the night. He twisted the throttle and continued south.

. . .

Many of the women had been lured to the hotel with the promise of food and shelter, refugees from border towns sacked by Reivers or blasted by the last few chunks of the rogue asteroid Thanatos as they plummeted to earth. Some were what the Coalition regarded as criminals who'd had the audacity to speak out against the injustices of the new regime. Enemies of the state. But she had also heard disturbing rumours of military patrols actively combing the blighted countryside for women and girls in return for payment. Or men as slave labour for the steel works.

If there was human misery, there would always been someone waiting to profit from it.

Whatever their history and origin, every single waif, stray and lost soul that ended up at the Grand Hotel as entertainment for the Coalition's high ranking officials and officers, bore the same mark. The angry red W brand on one cheek that would forever label them as 'shlyukha'. Even in the unlikely event any managed to escape the town, they would never be able to escape this part of their past.

Merida pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the sash window, watching the street below as dusk gathered. Myrtle had been fed but her own dinner of steamed fish and locally grown vegetables lay untouched and cooling on her dining table. An antique mahogany affair that would comfortably seat four.

As if she would ever have guests.

Gibson, the short, gaunt faced ex-stock broker from the far south east who'd been assigned the job of running the establishment, kept everyone well fed if nothing else. Many of the girls were kept so busy they certainly needed the calories. A shame he didn't give a shit about their mental wellbeing too, thought Merida. There'd been twelve suicides in the last month alone.

She utterly loathed Gibson. Everyone did. Because of who she was, Merida was untouchable by the clientele, but it didn't stop the hotel's 'manager' from undressing her with his eyes every time they were in the same room together. His pale eyes roving over her body as he wiped his sweating palms on his ill fitting suit, his very gaze made her feel dirty and violated. Not only was the man a collaborator, he was an obsequious little runt.

On first arriving at the hotel, when it was being renovated and set up as a place where the Coalition's top brass could relax and unwind, Merida had taken an active interest in trying to improve conditions for the women. But witnessing such despair and desperation on a daily basis had quickly taken its toll. She now kept herself to herself, blocking out the noises and averting her gaze as she passed through the building's lower storeys.

Merida watched as one of the Coalition's ancient British Army supply trucks drew up outside the hotel's entrance. With the electricity supply temperamental at the best of times, flaming braziers had been lit along the pavement to make the place seem more inviting.

Two soldiers lowered the tail gate and jumped out, each brandishing one of the AK47 assault rifles that had been instrumental in crushing any remaining pockets of British resistance.

With a lump in her throat, Merida realised that neither of them were officers. Too lowly a rank to be customers, which could mean only one thing. Another poor wretch had been captured and dragged here against her will to live out her days satisfying the lusts of the invaders.

A young woman clambered cautiously down out of the truck, wearing a jacket and a dark hooded top. One of the soldiers seized her arm, to ensure their merchandise didn't slip and get damaged. The woman, or girl shrugged them off angrily and pulled away.

"G-get the fuck off me!" her hood slipped off and masses of tumbling red curls fell free about her shoulders as she spun around, eyes blazing. Merida's breath caught in her throat ...

It couldn't be.

Not after all this time. Merida rifled through her memory, trying to compare her hazy recollections with the sight of the bedraggled teenager standing defiantly down on the pavement. Four years older. Considerably taller, with a woman's curves now ...

It was her. Not some cruel trick of the light or imagination and no hallucination either, as far as she could tell. It really was her.

Merida's heart leapt. She shook her head in horror, tears stinging her eyes as she pressed her face desperately against the window. Wanting more than anything to scream out a warning, 'Get away, far away!'

Please no, not here. Anywhere but this place, she thought.

But there was no denying who it was she could see, right there before her eyes. After weeks, months and years of not knowing.

It was Tamsin, her daughter.

THE END OF CHAPTER TWO

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

Leonid prodded the embers of their campfire to stir it back into life, "Do you realise all these people could already be dead?"

Tamsin carefully refolded the laminated list and tucked it back inside her jacket, taking her time to answer, "It's a long shot but it's all we've got Leonid."

"And you're certain this super weapon exists?"

"I already told you. My Aunt Jessamy used it to destroy Thanatos."

"The same mysterious Aunt Jessamy that no-one has heard from in four years?"

"For fuck's sake! Can't you just believe me?" Tamsin spat irritably. She found it difficult to believe that there were still people in the world who had never heard of Jessamy Beech before the Coalition had invaded, "there are control bunkers dotted all over the United Kingdom. But we need one of the people from this list to show us where they are and gain access to one."

"What about the one your aunt found?"

Tamsin shrugged. An icy wind was blowing through the dilapidated churchyard they'd chosen for their camp and the proximity of so many grave markers all around was doing nothing to lighten her mood, "The Gloucester bunker. No, they left that one completely open. It'll have been trashed by scavengers long since."

Leonid smirked, "Can't we just break the door down? Blast it open with explosives?"

"We've discussed this. It's old world technology. Fingerprints and shit like that. Once we're inside we can control the satellite network and blast the Lenin from space. Then if the Coalition doesn't surrender ... we start on each one of their bases across the country, until they do."

Leonid sat back against a slab of broken stone. The others had eaten and were preparing to bed down for the night while McTavish took first watch, on the look out for any sign of pursuit, "I can see a lot of ifs and buts in your plan Miss Zhakvatchikov."

Tamsin ground her teeth. It had been a long day's march across open country, in constant fear of pursuit or detection by Volk's gunships. And she was really not in the mood, "Don't fucking call me that. My name's Beech. Alright. I admit it. If ... we can find someone alive from the list ..."

"After thirty five years?"

Tamsin counted to ten and started again, "If ... we can find someone alive from the list after thirty five years, and if ... they remember the access codes and whereabouts of the bunkers, and if ... any of the satellites are still functional ... then we can blow the fuck out of my grandfather's flagship and end this occupation once and for all."

"Ty prekrasna, kogda zlish'sya," said Leonid.

"If you're going to insult me at least do it in English," Tamsin snarled, "you know my Russian's shit!"

"I said you're beautiful when you're angry."

Tamsin shook her head slowly, trying her hardest to stifle a grin. But it was no use. His accent had the effect of turning her knees to jelly every time. One corner of her mouth lifted, "You're a bloody smug twat, Major Leonid Denisovich."

He leaned forward to grip her slim hand, "And you are the most stubborn, but bravest young woman I have ever met, Tamsin Beech. Your plan is madness. Utter madness. But I will see it through to the end alongside you, moy lyubovnik."

"My lover? D'you think you can get into my pants just by sweet talking me?"

"It's worth a try, don't you think ... moya angliyskaya roza."

Tamsin clambered quickly to her feet and shook out her sleeping bag, "I think we should get some sleep. My parents will both be worried and we still have a long way to go."

"Mozhet byt', prosto potseluy spokoynoy nochi?"

"No. Because a kiss goodnight will lead to other things. Goodnight ... Leonid."

COMING SOON ... CHAPTER THREE: SCUNTHORPE