Tamsin Beech Ch. 07: Kerrera

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

The island of Kerrera IS a real place and if you ever find yourself on Scotland's west coast near Oban, I'd recommend it for a peaceful day out. Small but perfectly formed. All you need to take is a picnic, walking boots and a camera.

. . .

Edinburgh, August 2021 ...

"COME BACK HERE YE WEE SHITE!"

Ruaridh weaved nimbly in and out of the crowds thronging the wide pavements of Princes Street, casting a cautious eye back over his shoulder to see if the security guards were still gaining.

They were. Barely twenty feet behind him. The big bearded one looked hardly out of breath - this pursuit was like nothing more than an additional workout for him, whereas his slightly overweight companion was already struggling, looking flushed and gasping for every breath.

With the stolen tablet clutched to his chest, Ruaridh ducked into the midst of a coach party of Japanese tourists, all designer label clothing and enormous cameras, who'd stopped as one to take photos of the imposing spectacle of the castle across the way, "Sorry, sorry! Can I jus' squeeze past there?"

The security guards both skirted around the group, gaining Ruaridh precious seconds. With impeccable timing, he stumbled into the road just as the traffic began slowing at a red light. Ignoring the squeals of brakes and shouted curses from bus and taxi drivers he sprinted across to the other side, narrowly avoiding being crushed by a tram. East Princes Street Gardens would be packed with picnickers and sunbathers on a warm summer's day like this he guessed. Best to avoid it.

He looked back. The fat security guard had apparently given up, standing in the middle of idling traffic with hands on his knees quaking from the exertion. But barely five paces behind him, bearded gym bunny was still there, looking red-faced and furious.

"Ferfucksake!" Ruaridh muttered. It wasn't as if they could actually do anything if they caught him, he reasoned. He was only ten. It wasn't like in some countries where you could lose a hand for shoplifting a £500 tablet. He could most likely get into more trouble for bunking off school. The police and a social worker would no doubt escort him back to the flat and 'have a word' with his mother. As if she actually gave a shit.

No, this was strictly about money. He could sell the tablet on for maybe as much as £50. Not a lot considering its value but he wasn't a greedy boy.

He shoved past more tourists videoing the piper that frequented the stretch of pavement opposite the station on Waverley Bridge. Americans this time, lapping up every crumb of Gaelic culture they could find. Would they be at all interested in the aspects of life in Scotland's capital they couldn't see he wondered? The stuff that didn't appear in any guide books? The unemployment, the crime, the poverty? But then all big cities were the same, Edinburgh was no exception.

As he passed the ranks of open top tour buses Ruaridh shielded his eyes as a sudden bright light flared high up in the cloudless blue sky making him flinch. Almost like a second sun exploding into existence. Others around him had spotted it too, gazing up into the air with shock and puzzlement. What the hell was it?

"I'VE GOT YE NOW YE LITTLE SOD!"

He'd taken his eye off the ball for perhaps two seconds. Long enough for the bearded gym bunny to snag the thin shoulder strap of his rucksack, "Geddoffome!"

Ruaridh strained as the security guard angrily yanked him back, but it was no use. He'd been caught. Fifty quid down the toilet. He squirmed sideways, letting first one arm go limp, then the other ... and as the rucksack's straps slipped off his shoulders he was off again, worn trainers slap slapping along the hot pavement of Market Street.

The bearded security guard threw the bag down in fury and started after him once more ...

He'd head up towards the castle. With the fringe festival on there'd be thousands of tourists milling about and Ruaridh'd be able to lose his pursuer easily. Across the other side of the cobbled Royal Mile there was a veritable rabbit warren of back streets and cut-throughs, alleyways and lanes winding their way through what had once been Edinburgh's Old Town. 'Auld Reekie' it had been nicknamed because of the stench and choking miasma from hundreds of coal fires.

A dark shadow momentarily blocked the sun as something thundered overhead ...

... and a moment later, Ruaridh was literally knocked off his feet by a massive impact close by. A shockwave overturned cars, swept chimney pots and slates from roofs and sent them crashing down into the streets, filling the air with lethal spinning shards as the ancient buildings around him juddered and shook. He looked quickly away in abject terror as a high stone wall collapsed on his pursuer barely metres away. Car alarms, screams and a dull roaring filled the air as all hell broke loose, impossibly loud mixed inexplicably with the smell of sulphur.

The stolen tablet forgotten, Ruaridh desperately covered his head with his arms and cried out for the chaos to stop.

"Ye cannae stop there lad," called a gravelly voice.

How long had he lain there? Minutes? Hours? Ruaridh had no way of telling. He glanced blearily up into the soot stained face of an old tramp, as around them flakes of ash drifted down from the sky like grey snow. The man hooked a grubby hand under Ruaridh's arm and urgently pulled him to his feet.

"What's happening?" he coughed. Bodies littered the street, not all of them whole, but every one half buried under rubble and a thick layer of ash.

"The end o' the fucking' world lad," the words sounded muffled, as if Ruaridh's ears were clogged by something, "that asteroid that's been on the news. Thanatos? The Russians launched a missile at it. Now it's all comin' doon on oor fuckin' heads! We need to get tae high ground. The castle. NOW!"

"W-why?" Ruaridh stammered. Somewhere off to the east a series of deafening explosions set the ground shaking once again. What had been a blue sky above was now dark with towering black clouds boiling up from the direction of the country park at Arthur's Seat.

The tramp pointed back down the hill towards Princes Street, "Can ye no' see?"

The gardens were gone. Collapsed down into the railway tunnels of Waverley Station beneath as the ground had split asunder. And up from the deep rents in the earth, in a hundred different places spurted glowing orange lava, oozing, spraying and engulfing everything in its path.

Ruaridh stared in terror. A volcano. A fucking volcano slap bang in the middle of the city. The boy needed no second bidding. He scrambled to his feet and hastily followed the tramp up the cobbled lane towards Castle Street. Being collared for shoplifting was now the very least of his worries it seemed.

"What's yer name lad?" asked the old man.

"Ruaridh. Ruaridh McTavish."

CHAPTER SEVEN: KERRERA

The Coalition aircraft carrier Lenin, anchored somewhere in the Firth of Forth, 2063 ...

PART ONE: REUNION

"My North Korean counterpart has been in touch by shortwave radio," announced Vladimir Zakhvatchikov.

Volk had felt disgruntled to say the least at having been summoned north to his second audience with the president in the space of just a few days. There were things in Northumberland and Yorkshire that demanded his urgent attention. He simply didn't have the time or the patience to keep getting distracted from his duties, "Kim Napp Gylan?"

President Zakhvatchikov, the 'Old Wolf' nodded behind his immense desk and picked up one of the three framed portraits there, "He's in a coastal town in Scotland, called Ayr. He says ... that he has reason to believe my granddaughter ... Tamsin? ... is still alive."

Volk swallowed hard to avoid bursting out laughing at the preposterousness of it, "Alive? Sir, the resistance were wiped out when the North Koreans nuked their base ... over six months ago."

Zakhvatchikov nodded, studying the colour portrait of a pretty redhead in her teens - Tamsin Natalya Zakhvatchikov, "Nevertheless, he's convinced. Our alliance is a shaky one at best, but now Kim Napp Gylan wants vengeance for being made a fool of. He thinks the resistance survivors - if indeed they exist, took a fishing boat - which leads me to think they're hiding out on one of the Scottish islands."

Volk took a breath, carefully considering his next words. It wouldn't do to take a patronising tone with the president, "He has one helicopter, sir. Searching an area that size could take weeks ... or even months. And where will they find fuel?"

Zakhvatchikov fixed him with a steady gaze, "That's where you come in general. Take a couple of our own Kamovs. One with a squad of men, one as a tanker. Provide support, but ..."

Volk waited nervously, feeling a bead of sweat tickle its way down the back of his neck.

"I want him watched. If he finds and kills my granddaughter the North Koreans no longer have any reason to stay, as part of our alliance. So eliminate him. Blame Reivers or whatever other scum are local to the area."

General Volk left the president's quarters and quietly closed the door behind him. He knew what Zakhvatchikov was up to. If he ordered Kim Napp Gylan disposed of and made it appear that Reivers or bandits had been responsible he would be one step closer to assuming control of the entire Coalition. And furthermore he would have access to the North Koreans' nuclear arsenal on board their flagship - the Baekdusan.

"You don't look too happy general, has the 'Old Wolf' said something to upset you?" Volk glanced up to see Major Ludmila Mudak, the president's personal assistant perched on the edge of her desk pretending to sort through some papers. The split down the side of her too short uniform skirt clearly revealed her stocking tops and a few inches of naked thigh.

Volk looked away. He wasn't about to step into that particular mantrap, "It's nothing. I have to go away for a few days, that's all."

Mudak lowered her chin and peered at him through thick lashes, "Do I get a goodbye kiss?"

If anyone else had spoken to him that way, he would have had them flogged for insubordination. But Ludmila Mudak unfortunately had the president's ear. And eye, and whatever else she wanted. It was no secret that as long as she kept the old man satisfied between the sheets, she was virtually untouchable, "Do you have work to be getting on with? Real work?"

Mudak ignored the question, none too subtly arching her back to draw his attention to her chest, "Will it be dangerous?"

Volk stared. He was tired. His defences were down and he simply couldn't help it. After months of remaining impervious to Mudak's substantial charms, she'd caught him unawares and finally found a chink in his armour it seemed, "Perhaps. I ... leave immediately."

"It's a pity we don't have chance to ... spend some time together before you go," she purred.

Volk knew exactly what that would have entailed. He'd heard the stories. Herself, him and at least a couple of the fittest young recruits - gender irrelevant, in a soundproof cabin. He'd never even availed himself of the facility in Scarborough before the resistance had closed it down for good.

"Maybe some other time major," Volk responded curtly. Images flitted through his mind though. Possible scenarios involving him and a naked Ludmila Mudak. Sweating and compliant. Tempting. He realised with embarrassment that he was getting hard.

Mudak tutted loudly and leaned forward slightly, giving him an immodest view of her cleavage, "I'm honestly beginning to think you don't like women, general. You're not ... gomoseksual'nyy, are you?"

"Watch your mouth," Volk glowered, "I'm still your superior Major Mudak."

Mudak lowered her gaze, "Apologies ... sir."

For fuck's sake. The woman had only been engaged in some harmless flirting. With the stress of the occupation, everyone needed a little bit of light relief. Including himself. Perhaps it was time he let his hair down and allow himself some relaxation. He let out a deep sigh, "Meet me for dinner when I fly back. My appetites may not be as ... diverse, as the president's, but I can assure you I'm not gomoseksual'nyy."

Ludmila Mudak winked, "I look forward to finding out for myself. Have a safe trip General Volk."

Once Volk had left, Mudak switched off the intercom between her office and the president's quarters. She'd eavesdropped on their entire conversation. Before joining the military her adolescence had been a struggle. Growing up as an orphan below decks on the Snezhnaya Koroleva, she'd had nothing. Rags for clothes and not enough food she'd vowed never to be like that again. Now, if what Zakhvatchikov was planning went without a hitch, Volk just might, in a very short while be the second most powerful man in the Coalition.

. . .

Slatrach Bay, on the Scottish island of Kerrera.

"THAT'S FAR ENOUGH! STAY THE FUCK WHERE YOU ARE!"

Tamsin peered around the cove, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice - a woman's, but with the light in her face could see nothing but flashing spots before her eyes. She guessed the spotlight might be some kind of lantern with a powerful reflector behind it, "We're peaceful," she called out, "we just want somewhere to rest a few days and we'll be on our ..."

"QUIET," shouted the woman's voice again, "one word from me ... my husband and daughter will cut you down where you stand. You're not Reivers. So who are you, and why the fuck are you on my island?"

A silhouette appeared, blocking the light as it paced slowly and deliberately towards them holding a fearsome looking longbow.

The voice sounded subtly different. After all it had been twelve years since any of them had set eyes on the woman in front of them. Indeed, Leonid and McTavish never had before. But the fierce blue eyes, the blonde dreadlocks and the intricate Celtic knot tattoo covering one entire side of her face were unmistakable.

Merida squeezed past her husband, raised her hands and took a careful step forward into the light, "Jessamy Beech. So this is where you've been hiding ..."

Jessamy Beech froze, staring open mouthed and unable to process what her eyes were showing her. She slowly loosened her bow string and lowered the weapon, "M-meri? Merida?"

A man's voice shouted from the darkness across the cove, "Are ye okay there JB? Are they givin' ye bother?"

Jessamy shouted back, "I-it's okay Angus! They're friends. It's ... it's Merida."

As she walked the last few yards towards them Jessamy's eyes lit up as she realised who else was with her dearest friend, "Ross? ROSS!"

She dropped the bow and the three of them ran into each others' arms - the legend who'd been presumed dead for the last eleven years, her brother Ross and her oldest friend Merida, reunited at long last.

Tamsin relaxed a little. Her Aunt Jessamy - incredibly alive and well after all this time. Who would've thought? She shielded her eyes from the glare of the spotlight as another figure stepped onto the crumbling quayside. A slightly taller blonde woman, hair tied back in a rough ponytail, wearing an odd mishmash of clothes - a mixture of patched and reclaimed old world garments mixed with animal and seal skins. Intelligent blue grey eyes studied Tamsin as she approached, slotting an ancient Glock pistol back into a homemade leather holster with a gloved hand, "Ye've no' changed much lass."

At first the accent threw Tamsin. The last time they'd seen each other face to face had been in Berwick Upon Tweed. Her cousin had had a Cornish accent back then and been only nine years old when she'd stowed away onboard her mother's boat - the Lupita, to help save the world, "Phoebe? Is that really you?"

Phoebe Beech opened her arms and pulled Tamsin close, grinning as she hugged her fiercely, "Tamz. It's so good to see ye again. How the hell did ye find us?"

Tamsin wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, "To be honest we weren't looking for you. We're on the run from Reivers a-and a few others ..."

Phoebe immediately stepped back, hand dropping to a vicious looking axe hanging from her belt. Something changed in her eyes, now suddenly alert and tinged understandably with fear and suspicion, "Reivers? You've got Reivers after ye?"

Tamsin raised her hands in a placating gesture, "Phoebe, it's cool. We left them miles back on the mainland ..."

"MUM!" Phoebe Beech called urgently to her mother, "we better get indoors."

Jessamy Beech turned, her smile fading, "What is it?"

"They've got Reivers after them," Phoebe spat, almost as an accusation.

Jessamy quickly snatched up her bow and turned, "We better go. Follow me."

"We can't," Merida grabbed her friend's arm, "we have a wounded man onboard the boat. He needs attention."

"Wounded man? How many more of you are there?"

As if in answer to the question, McTavish leapt off the Novaya Nachalo's foredeck onto the quay. Jessamy Beech's face turned instantly as in one smooth movement she nocked an arrow, "A Reekie? You've brought a fucking Reekie here?"

McTavish growled a warning, baring his stained teeth.

"Jess," said Ross, moving swiftly between his sister and their scout to block Jessamy's line of sight, "he's a friend. He's our scout and I trust him. We've ... a lot to tell you."

Jessamy glared. How many hunted men had lost all hope and surrendered under that gaze Tamsin wondered, when her aunt had been a legendary bounty hunter? The once starving refugee from Mull, just across the water from where they stood, who'd gone on to save the entire world not once but twice.

"Well, this is a proper fuckin' family reunion an' nae mistake," said a voice behind her. A tall man, dressed much like Phoebe in an assortment of patched clothing stepped up onto the quay from Slatrach Bay's shingle beach carrying an ancient SA80. Angus Hamnavoe looked older, his once full features and square jaw grown gaunt and grizzled. But the twinkling mischievous eyes hadn't changed a bit. He slapped a hand on Tamsin's shoulder, "Tamz lass, ye've grown bonny just like yer mother."

"Uncle Angus."

But Hamnavoe moved past her, "JB? If there's any chance there're Reivers after these good folk, can I suggest we get their wounded man back tae the hoose and their ... friend, can stay an' guard the boat?"

Jessamy snarled, not shifting her gaze from McTavish, "Always the fucking diplomat, eh Angus?"

"I'm no' bein' diplomatic JB, I'm just freezin' ma fuckin' balls aff oot here."

Jessamy watched McTavish for several more uncomfortable seconds, then finally lowered her bow, "Tell it to stay on your boat, Ross. We have traps between here and the house. If it strays ... it'll end up dead."

"Jess, 'it' has a name. He's called McTa ..."

She grabbed her brother roughly by the front of his jacket, "I don't give a fuck if 'it' has a name. I don't want 'it' on my island. Understood?"

Ross looked as if he were about to argue. But if they alienated his sister, where else could they go? Without fuel the trawler would be at the mercy of the currents, and without proper care he didn't rate Leonid's chances of survival. Clenching his jaw, he nodded, "Understood ... sis."

Hamnavoe too gave McTavish a wide berth, casting suspicious glances at the Reekie as they quickly constructed a stretcher to carry Leonid back to their house. Two lengths of timber threaded through the sleeves of a couple of jackets with rope crisscrossed between to add extra support.

Ross and Tamsin had to more or less carry Leonid between them, up from the trawler's fish hold on to the deck and over to the quay. He looked dreadful. Grey skinned and dripping with sweat, his wound was beginning to give off a sickly sweet smell.

"Who is he?" Jessamy asked.

"Leonid Denisovich," Tamsin explained haltingly, as she draped her jacket over Leonid's torso to keep out the chill night air, "he's ... he's an ex-major ... from the Coalition."