Tamsin Beech Ch. 03: Scunthorpe

Redheads were particularly popular and sought after. It seemed that every officer in the Coalition, or the Russian ones at least, harboured the fantasy of fucking their commander in chief's daughter Merida, so lookalikes were in high demand. And now, if his suspicions were correct, his granddaughter Tamsin as well.

There'd been dozens of suicides. The only way out for women who would rather die than submit to a hopeless life as a sex slave. It would be impossible to free them all, as much as he wanted to. But that wasn't why he was here. There was one reason, and one reason alone now. To assassinate Tamsin Zhakvatchikov.

The hotel would be swarming with guards. He'd need a distraction ...

. . .

KNOCK-KNOCK!

Tamsin had no idea why anyone was bothering to knock. The hotel's staff had been moving in and out of her rooms completely unannounced all day. Feeding her, dressing her and bringing hot water to be sure, but without so much as a single warning.

"Who is it?" Tamsin called. She'd changed into the clothing that had been supplied. Lingerie, holdup stockings and dress. She guessed that was what was expected of her. There was always the possibility she'd be expected to have sex with some overweight middle aged Russian officer as well. She sincerely hoped not, and doubted she'd be able to go through with it.

Despite the time of year, the hotel was draughty and gooseflesh on her bare arms made Tamsin shiver. Surely they couldn't just expect her to spread her legs and have sex with anyone that came in? Perhaps it was time she explained just who she was and that General Volk himself would be searching for her.

The door opened. And in walked Gibson, eyeing her up and down as if imagining her naked. Behind him, an imposing grey haired man in a neatly pressed Coalition officer's uniform.

"This ... is our new acquisition Lieutenant General," announced Gibson, wringing his sweating hands together nervously.

The officer stared down at Tamsin, perched on the edge of her bed, "Bozhe moy. She looks just like her, but younger ..."

Like her, thought Tamsin. Like who?

"I'm glad you approve sir," Gibson turned to Tamsin, "this is Lieutenant General Nasilnikov ... Merida. He's paid a considerable amount to ... spend some time with you this evening. I trust you'll be ... accommodating and not cause a scene?"

Tamsin nodded tentatively. Once Gibson was gone, she could explain to this Nasilnikov character who she was and be heading back to Lindisfarne on the next transport. Volk might even send one of his helicopters to collect her. One of the hotel staff carried in a tray with glasses and an opened bottle of red wine, wordlessly set it carefully down on the table, and left.

"Have a good evening Lieutenant General," Gibson smiled as he executed a little bow and stepped backwards through the door, closing it after himself.

Tamsin listened intently for the sound of the key in the lock, but the big Russian distracted her, "Ya budu trakhat' tvoyu zadnitsu tak sil'no, chto ty ne smozhesh' khodit' nedelyu, suka," he said amiably. He gently took hold of her hand and kissed the backs of her knuckles. Whatever it was he'd said wasn't as tender and loving as his tone of voice, Tamsin thought.

Suka. Bitch. Every word this man uttered was sugar coated poison.

Nasilnikov poured the wine and handed her a glass, looming over her intimidatingly. It was now or never.

"I n-need to tell you something," Tamsin began.

Nasilnikov raised an eyebrow, "Oh?"

"Y-yes. Up until yesterday I was under the protection of General Volk. On Lindisfarne? He'll be searching for me. I'm s-sure he'll make it worth your while if you take me back."

Nasilnikov stared at her for long seconds, wearing a bemused expression. Then he slapped his thigh with a meaty paw, spilling wine on his uniform trousers in the process, and let out a bellowing laugh, "Very good. VERY good. Haha! You've been told to play the part ... and I must say my dear you do it admirably."

Tamsin was confused, "I'm not playing a part. I really am Tamsin Beech. Er, Zhakvatchikov ... whatever you want to call me ..."

Nasilnikov drained his wine and set the glass down, his expression changed, "I ... don't want to call you anything. I want to fuck you. Now ... take the dress off."

Tamsin felt tears stinging her eyes, "PLEASE! I'm begging you. I am who I say I am ..."

Nasilnikov reached out a hand, grabbed one of the dress's thin shoulder straps and wrenched it down. Sequins skittered across the bare floorboards as the material tore, revealing the dark green bra Tamsin wore underneath.

Tamsin grabbed the closest thing to a weapon, her wine glass, and threw it at the Lieutenant General. It bounced harmlessly off his broad chest and shattered, sploshing red wine over his tunic.

"Ty malenʹkaya chertova shlyukha!" Nasilnikov barked. Shlyukha. That word again that she'd heard over and over coming from the other rooms. The Russian tore open the velcro fastenings on his jacket and advanced towards her. Tamsin scrambled backwards onto the bed attempting to cover herself with her ruined dress.

"SUKA!" Nasilnikov growled, seizing Tamsin's ankle and yanking her towards him. She kicked out at him, sending one of her shoes flying across the room, guessing that if he managed to get on top of her it would all be over. She'd be pinned by his weight and strength and completely at his mercy. The Lieutenant General impatiently hooked a finger into the waistband of her briefs ...

KA-BOOM!

"Chto, chert voz'mi, eto bylo?" Nasilnikov exclaimed and glanced towards the window. Tamsin craned her neck to see over the big Russian's shoulder. An orange fireball appeared to be erupting skyward from the Coalition fuel dump near Scarborough's harbour.

KERRASH!

Distracted by the activity outside, Nasilnikov hadn't even noticed the suite's door opening behind him. He caught just a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision a moment before a terracotta plant pot was smashed over the back of his head.

He fell forward, bounced off the bed and landed awkwardly on the floor, unconscious amid a spray of damp earth and aloe vera plant.

"What the ..." Tamsin looked from the Lieutenant General to the flame haired figure who'd crept so stealthily into her room, not believing her eyes, "mum? ... MUM!"

With tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, Merida gathered her frightened daughter in her arms, "Tamsin. It IS you. I saw you brought in last night. My baby, I never thought I'd see you again."

Tamsin had imagined this moment for four years, only half convinced it would ever happen. She hugged her mother back with all her strength, their tears mingling, "B-but mum, what are you doing here?"

"It's a long story sweetheart. It's taken me all day to actually find out which room you were in. It's not as if I could just ask that prick Gibson."

As if on cue, Gibson appeared in the open doorway.

"Shit," Merida swore. She moved protectively in front of her daughter, acting as a shield. But Gibson made no move to enter the room and remained silent, staring into space as if daydreaming.

"What's wrong with him mum?" Tamsin asked.

A second later her question was answered as Gibson fell forward into the room with a crude looking knife embedded deep in the back of his head.

"What the hell?" Tamsin glanced towards the prone figure of Nasilnikov, noticing for the first time the MP-443 Grach handgun in a concealed shoulder rig the man wore. Would she have time to grab the weapon before Gibson's killer showed up? Whoever it was, she wondered if the explosion at the harbour was somehow linked.

"Quick Tamz, grab his gun!" Merida hissed, as if reading her mind.

Too late. A Coalition soldier in what appeared to be a scout's uniform stepped over the threshold, stooping to retrieve his knife as he levelled a Grach handgun of his own at the two Beech women, "Ha! Dva po tsene odnogo! Two for the price of one."

"You killed Gibson! Who the f-fuck are you?" Merida pushed Tamsin behind her, taking a bold step towards the intruder.

He wiped the bloodied knife blade on his tunic before tucking it into his belt, then gripped his Grach with both hands, "I needed him to show me the right room. He's of no more use to me now. My name is Denisovich. Major Leonid Denisovich. I am, how d'you say in English ... patriot? You are Merida Zhakvatchikov are you not?"

Merida remained silent.

"And I assume Tamsin Zhakvatchikov, the president's granddaughter ..."

"President?" cried Tamsin, "mum, what's he talking about?"

Denisovich continued, "The president intends to cement the alliance with North Korea. I cannot permit that to happen. So I must regretfully inform you both that ..."

"Bros' oruzhiye! Drop your weapon!" shouted Lieutenant General Nasilnikov as he drew his handgun and clambered to his feet beside the bed.

BLAM! BLAM!

Denisovich's face was utterly without expression as he shot the man twice in the head.

"Would somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?" Merida panted, as the officer's body collapsed to the floor with a loud thud. Coalition officers didn't usually go around shooting each other.

Denisovich once again swivelled to face them, his Grach pointed steadily and unwavering in their direction. In one of the other rooms, someone screamed. A door slammed open and running feet could be heard pounding along one of the downstairs corridors, "Strelʹbu! Eto prishlo ot naverkhu!"

"Shoot us if you're going to!" Tamsin cried, "but I'd guess you have less than a minute before every fucking guard in the building shows up outside that door!"

Escape through the barred windows would be impossible. The corridor was the only way out. Denisovich's jaw clenched as he gritted his teeth. What had he been thinking? He could've taken out the Lieutenant General silently, then assassinated both the Zhakvatchikov women before making his escape.

He glanced at the younger of the two. The one called Tamsin. She was truly beautiful. Despite his training he knew that he'd never be able to bring himself to put a bullet in that lovely face. Even the mother, in her forties was an exceptionally good looking woman ...

Shouts from the floor below brought him back to his senses. He needed time to think. To reconsider his options.

"Yerunda!" Denisovich cursed, "follow me. We can escape down the back fire escape."

"A-and why the fuck should we trust you? You were g-going to kill us a moment ago!" Merida spat accusingly.

The would be assassin nodded towards the dead Russian officer, "The enemy of my enemy is my friend. And besides ... do you have a better plan?"

Tamsin snatched Nasilnikov's MP-443 Grach from his lifeless fingers, "There's no alternative mum. I say we trust him."

The weapon felt heavy in her small hand, the rubberised grip already slick from her sweating fingers. It was the first time Tamsin had ever held a gun in her life. But she wasn't going to let Denisovich know that.

Merida looked from the daughter she'd only just been reunited with after four years, to the man who had a minute before been about to execute them both, "Shit! I bet even your Aunt Jess never had to make a choice like this. Tamz, keep that gun on him. Okay ... let's go. But I need to make a stop first."

"There's no fucking time!" Denisovich growled exasperatedly.

"I'm taking a friend with us, Major. And it's not open for discussion!"

Denisovich threw up his hands in frustration, "Very well! We'll get your friend! Then we go. What's your friend's name?"

"Myrtle," said Merida.

PART THREE: LEONID

"I can't believe how easy that was," whispered Craster, "why the fuck haven't all the slaves escaped before now?"

He and Ross Beech crouched in scrubby gorse bushes and rubble beside Brigg Road waiting for the transport they'd been promised. Behind them, generator powered floodlights illuminated the sprawling complex of Scunthorpe steelworks. Any Coalition guards' eyes would be turned inward to watch the activity of the night shift, not to the darkness outside.

"Where would they go?" asked Ross, "they'd be hunted down like dogs and executed. There'd be reprisals and the Coalition's brand of martial law would become more brutal than ever. And at least while they're here, they're getting fed."

"But you could get out whenever you wanted?" Craster added.

Ross shrugged, watching the closest guard tower, barely two hundred yards away, "I'm more valuable on the inside. Or was. As a source of information for the resistance. That ship's probably sailed now though. I'll be missed the minute the day shift starts, so ... I guess this time there's no going back."

"Won't the resistance be depending on you? Isn't this irresponsible?"

Ross raised an eyebrow, "Pfft, maybe. I have a deputy who can fill in for me though."

"But like you said you're not going to able to go back into that. And you're just sacrificing it all, pissing it away ... for your daughter?" Craster asked incredulously.

Ross stared at him, "You ... don't have kids I take it?"

Craster shook his head.

"You'll find, that when you do ... nothing else matters. I saw my son die in front of me when Berwick Upon Tweed was hit. So ... if my daughter's out there, I'm finding her ... tonight."

. . .

"Ya ne mogu poverit', chto nas chut' ne zastrelili iz-za grebanoy sobaki!" Denisovich muttered as he hunched over their stolen APC's steering wheel.

"What's he saying mum?" Tamsin yelled over the roar of the engine. She clung on to a couple of ceiling straps in the rear troop compartment as the Russian Major threw the eight wheeled vehicle into tight bends along rutted back roads leading inland across the moors. Myrtle the collie gripped the ridged metal floor with her claws, whining with her ears flat against the sides of her head.

The Grand Hotel's guards had recognised him. And hadn't seemed too happy about it. Tamsin realised then that Major Leonid Denisovich was just as much of a fugitive from the Coalition as them. Luckily as they'd emerged from the hotel's rear fire escape after collecting the dog from Merida's quarters, the Russian had already had his escape plan in place. A BTR armoured personnel carrier fuelled and waiting.

Amid volley after volley of small arms fire pinging and ricocheting off the thick armour plate, they'd fled the town with Denisovich driving and Merida keeping a watch for pursuers from the passenger seat. Headlights would give away their position instantly so they navigated with varying degrees of success by moon and starlight.

"He, uh ... said he's relieved we went back for Myrtle," Merida called.

"I said nothing of the fucking sort!" Denisovich retorted. The APC skewed to one side as it broadsided the rusting carcass of an ageing Peugeot.

"Don't you think we should slow down a bit?" asked Merida. Her thick red curls swung wildly around her face as the vehicle bounced.

Denisovich shook his head, "I was seen. And recognised. Volk, the entire Coalition ... want me dead. We need to get away, far away ... before he sends in air support."

"So you're not going to kill us anymore?" Merida asked matter of factly.

Tamsin glanced down at the handgun on the seat next to her, ready to snatch it up and defend her mother if the Russian gave a wrong answer. She wished they'd hurry up and get to wherever they were going. After so long apart the Beech women needed time to get reacquainted.

Denisovich shook his head, not looking up, "I ... haven't decided yet. I can only concentrate on one thing at a time. So ... if you'll please shut the fuck up and let me drive?"

"Where are we going?" Tamsin called, "do you have any idea ... or are you just driving around for the hell of it?"

Denisovich shrugged.

"She's right Major," Merida added, "do you have a destination in mind?"

"Well, er ... not as such ..."

Tamsin butted in, "W-we could always rescue Craster from Scunthorpe."

Merida peered over her shoulder at her daughter, "Who the hell's Craster?"

"The friend who helped me escape from Lindisfarne?"

"Boyfriend?" prompted Merida with an eyebrow raised.

But before Tamsin could answer, Denisovich slammed on the brakes. Myrtle whimpered as she skidded across the floor of the APC and Tamsin's Grach clattered noisily to the deck.

"Why've we stopped?" asked Merida.

Denisovich lifted his chin to the dark road ahead as he reached down beside himself to retrieve the Kalashnikov he'd stowed there. Up ahead, the weak beams of twin headlights pierced the darkness. Another vehicle, coming straight towards them ...

. . .

She knelt down to rinse the seal's blood off her knives in the nearest rockpool. It seemed a shame to waste so much of such a beautiful creature. But her bags were already full and making another trip out here to the beach to collect the rest would be too dangerous. Nighttime predators would have disposed of it by morning.

Over the years she'd come to know every path, every lane and every animal track across the entire island and she had no doubt whatsoever that she could find her way back here in total darkness.

But others came out at night. Perhaps not here on the island, but certainly over on the mainland, the closest part of which lay only a quarter of a mile away to the east. Any light would be seen for miles. If her parents realised she'd defied them and returned here against their express wishes, she'd be grounded for months. No more fishing, no more foraging, no more hunting, until they'd calmed down.

A punishment so harsh it was unthinkable.

She shouldered the bags, grunting under the combined weight. One filled with blubber and seal meat which would be smoked for winter provisions, the other filled with the mottled grey skin of the seal which would be scraped and used for clothing or mittens.

The silhouette of Gylen Castle loomed over the rocky bay as she reluctantly turned away from the butchered remnants of the seal and headed back up the muddy track towards home. She supposed that in the time before Thanatos had wrought havoc on the world, not many other thirteen year old girls would have lived such a colourful and fulfilling existence.

But then probably none of them had had a real life legend for a mother either. Phoebe checked that her mother's old Glock handgun was still secured in its holster in the event she needed to defend herself, then carefully picked her way up the rocky hillside.

THE END OF CHAPTER THREE

2062, seven years later ...

"How exactly are we gonna use that fuckin' list to turf the Ruskie cunts out of the UK again, Miss Beech?" asked Cooper around a mouthful of dried biscuit. Crumbs sprayed down the Irishman's MTP jacket.

Leonid glared at him from across the room.

A week after fleeing Lincoln, the four of them had discovered an abandoned farmhouse in which to spend the night. After securing mouldy blankets they'd found over the windows to prevent any light escaping, they'd built a small fire in the middle of the living room floor. Despite the warm days, the temperature plummeted at night.

"Sorry big fella," Cooper apologised, "present company excepted."

Leonid grinned, "Don't sweat it. I used to be what you call a Ruskie cunt. And I was very good at it. If your commander here wasn't so good looking I'd've executed both her and her mother years ago."

Tamsin smirked and returned to stirring the rabbit broth they'd prepared. McTavish had caught the unlucky animal using a snare before taking first watch outside, while she'd used her foraging skills to hunt in the hedgerows for some edible roots and berries.

Cooper nodded, "I heard about that. You were gonna plug both Queen Merida and Tamsin here to get back at your bosses, yeah?"

Leonid nodded.

"They must have really pissed you off," Cooper added.