Tamsin Beech Ch. 08: Kirkwall

Kirkwall, Orkney, 2051 ...

"So you're awake finally," said a voice close by, sounding echoey to Jessamy Beech's ears as if they were inside a bare room somewhere. It was difficult to be sure as her hearing seemed somewhat muffled. Her head was buzzing. She remembered a crowd on the steps of Kirkwall's St Magnus Cathedral. Surging forward ... the militia ...

Jessamy lifted her head gingerly and tried to open her eyes. One was swollen almost shut and her eyelashes stuck together with a glue of dried blood.

"Ye okay there JB?" asked another concerned voice, this one more familiar.

Jessamy stiffly pushed herself up to a sitting position, wincing at the myriad bruises all over her body and the sharp, splintery pain coming from her ribs. She opened her good eye.

She appeared to be in a cell. A white walled cell with a concrete floor, basic cot, toilet and wash basin attached to the wall, and floor to ceiling iron bars. From across the passageway beyond, Hamnavoe watched her, frowning. He looked like shit.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused with your little stunt earlier on?"

The first voice again. It was Keaton. Flanked by two armed militia men and a scrawny youth holding a bunch of keys. The ex-North Link Ferries employee and now self proclaimed leader of the community brushed a liver-spotted hand self consciously through his thick white hair and regarded Jessamy, his bushy black eyebrows knitting together in a frown.

"Hamnavoe is innocent," Jessamy croaked, her throat parched. How long had she been out?

"So you said. But if Hamnavoe is innocent, who pray tell IS the guilty party?" Keaton demanded.

"Trevithick."

Keaton ignored her, "The mob are baying for your blood. If I release Hamnavoe I'll have a rebellion on my hands. He'll be executed tomorrow as planned."

"What if I speak to them? Explain?" Jessamy pleaded.

"They won't care," said Keaton simply, "they want Hamnavoe dead ... and that, is what they shall get. And for spreading dangerous rumours and inciting a riot, you will join him."

"Now hol' on a wee minute," Hamnavoe protested, "ye cannae do that. The lassie's done nothing wrong."

"I can," Keaton fixed him with an imperious glare, "and I will. I've told the people and if I renege on my word now I will appear weak. Until tomorrow ..."

"Bring Trevithick in," Jessamy cried, "question him."

"Too late. Hamnavoe's friend Trevithick left the islands days ago and headed back south to the mainland," Keaton spun on his heel and strode off down the corridor, his bodyguards hurrying to keep up.

"Fuckin' wee shite," Hamnavoe swore.

"Hold your tongue," shouted the skinny youth with the keys, evidently their jailer. He couldn't be more than about sixteen or seventeen, thought Jessamy. Full of himself because he'd been put in charge of two such important prisoners.

"Just ... just hold your tongue or, or you'll be sorry."

Hamnavoe smirked as the youth scurried off in the direction Keaton had gone.

"Where are we?" Jessamy asked, glancing around. She slurped a handful of water from the tap to quench her thirst. Checking inside her boot she discovered that, sure enough, they'd even taken her trusty Royal Marines Commando knife.

"The old police station cells I think. What the fuck're we gonnae do JB?" Hamnavoe looked as if he'd been badly beaten. Two black eyes, a split lip, swollen nose and dried blood from a head wound matted his hair. True to what Keaton had told them, Jessamy and Hamnavoe could faintly hear an angrily chanting crowd of townsfolk, somewhere beyond the thick walls.

"Without Trevithick there's not much we can do," Jessamy pressed her ribcage with trembling fingertips, wondering how many ribs were broken. She hated the smell of blood, especially her own, and she was covered in it, "I could do with freshening up a little ..."

"JB, we're gonnae be fuckin' executed tomorrow and ye're worried about the way ye smell?"

Jessamy regarded the steadily dripping tap in the wash basin for a moment, then smiled grimly across the passageway between them, "I've got an idea ..."

CHAPTER EIGHT: KIRKWALL

Twelve years later, early autumn 2063 ...

PART ONE: BETTER THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

Malcolm 'Buster' Keaton never grew tired of the views over Orkney. The archipelago of over seventy islands just off the northern tip of Scotland had escaped the meteorite strikes of the disintegrating Thanatos virtually unscathed. The landscape had been settled since the Neolithic period - over 8,000 years, and with the rogue asteroid destroyed would probably remain so for at least another 8,000. From the top windows of the Kirkwall Hotel, he squinted across the harbour towards Gairsay, Rousay and Shapinsay. Every day as the seasons changed, so did the landscape. The summer's vibrant purple heathers would be gradually dying off soon and the surrounding hills and smaller islands would turn a dozen shades of rain soaked brown. Snow or 'snaa' in the winter months had once been a rare occurrence - but since Thanatos, was now almost guaranteed.

But always there was the wind. The one constant whenever an Orcadian stepped out of their front door was the wind. Keaton remembered his former life when he'd been a baggage handler at the Stromness ferry terminal. The winter 'skreevars' whipping spray from the harbour and blasting it at them as they loaded up for the crossing to Scrabster on the mainland. Or the playful summer 'tirls' carrying the scents of salt and seaweed all the way across from Hoy and Graemsay. As the Inuits had dozens of words to describe snow, so the people of Orkney had dozens to describe wind.

Curtains opened, Keaton rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stumbled back across the bedroom of his suite, yawning. From a dead end job with North Link Ferries to this in just a few short months, he recalled. Thanks to his organisational skills, bolshy attitude and big mouth he'd proclaimed himself 'community leader' soon after the rogue asteroid Thanatos had started raining fiery annihilation down on the planet. He'd seen the people of Orkney safely through the dreadful years-long winters that followed, earning their grudging respect by making life and death decisions, ruling with an iron fist and dealing out summary justice for anyone who broke the numerous new, but necessary laws.

His well armed militia men had once been feared across the entire archipelago. But since the Coalition invaders had swept through, paying him handsomely to smuggle their weapons into the mainland town of Wick, Keaton knew that he was no longer top dog. He was sixty six years old, single, and living out life in a luxurious hotel suite but finding it more and more of a struggle to cling on to what little real power he had left.

Shrugging on an imperial purple silk robe, Keaton opened the door to his sumptuous ensuite bathroom ...

... and was more than a little surprised to find a small, but vicious looking crossbow aimed at the centre of his chest. The woman holding it had barely changed. A woman he'd never expected, even in his worst nightmares to ever set eyes on again. The blonde dreadlocks, the intricate tattoo covering one side of her face, and eyes the cold blue colour of glacial ice.

"Oh fuck," he whispered.

"Yeah, oh fuck. Hello again Keaton," said Jessamy Beech cheerily.

. . .

The stolen fishing trawler Kerrera II had drifted into Kirkwall harbour under cover of darkness. With sea conditions less than ideal, it had taken them almost four days to steam up Scotland's west coast from Kerrera, keeping a nervous lookout for signs of Coalition pursuit along the way.

Leonid Denisovich's bullet wound was healing, though he insisted he felt more recovered than he actually was and popped his stitches more than once, much to Merida's annoyance. Tamsin would take longer to heal. The knife wound inflicted by Kim Napp Gylan had cut deeply and she had only partial use of the arm. On top of that she'd lost at least a couple of pints of blood and while her dislocated knee had been popped back into place, she was still unable to walk without a crutch.

Hamnavoe denied it but they could all see his condition was worsening. Travel hadn't done him any favours and Tamsin wasn't alone in guessing that Orkney might well be his last resting place. While remaining guarded around the Reekie scout, Jessamy made her peace with McTavish. She recognised that she owed him her life and had never been one to take honour and the repaying of debts lightly.

Ross and Phoebe took it in turns to steer the boat, with Jessamy's help. She was the seasoned yachtswoman after all, having learnt from her first husband Jiff Wiseley. Trying their best to navigate with outdated charts when many of the landmarks ashore had disappeared wasn't easy.

. . .

"Y-you're alive," Keaton blustered, wrapping his robe more tightly around his paunchy middle, "wh-why have you come back?"

"Get dressed Buster," Jessamy snarled, "we're going to meet a few friends of mine for a chat."

"Look ... if this is about what happened with H-hamnavoe all those years back I can explain ..."

Beaten, thrown into a cell, then hunted all the way south to Edinburgh. How could she ever forget? Jessamy grinned wolfishly, raising her jacket's hood to hide her face, "Explain it to Hamnavoe. He's here too."

Keaton's already pale face grew paler and his hands began to tremble, "Ham-hamnavoe's here? Now? Oh sh-shit."

Jessamy paced idly around the bedroom as Keaton washed and dressed. She wanted him to appear as composed and calm as possible so as not to arouse suspicion. It was early morning but still broad daylight after all and the people of Kirkwall would be starting to go about their business.

With a murmured warning not to raise the alarm to the militia men guarding the hotel's entrance, she tucked the crossbow inside her jacket and finally marched Keaton downstairs, outside and across the road to the harbour. As usual he'd dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and tie - impractical old world garments that were showing their age but nevertheless lent him a businesslike air of superiority.

"I'm g-giving my guest a tour," Keaton explained rather abruptly to the two sentries, "I'll be back sh-shortly."

One of the guards, a grizzled old Scot with an ear missing, winked, "Right ye are sir," it obviously wasn't the first time Keaton had emerged in the morning with female company, albeit one dressed outlandishly in sealskin trousers and MTP goretex.

"Th-that's not one of our boats," Keaton noticed as he caught his first sight of the Kerrera II a couple of minutes later. Jessamy guessed that the piles of fish boxes, crab pots and gear stacked along the stone quay would shield them somewhat from the eyes of the hotel guards barely a hundred yards away, as they boarded the trawler.

"That's because your harbour master's not doing his job properly," Jessamy told him, "we've been here since late last night. Took me a while to get up the fire escape and find your bathroom window though."

Two strikingly beautiful women - a redhead and a blonde, and a one armed man watched Jessamy and Keaton approach from the trawler's cluttered deck, "This him?" called the man.

Jessamy nodded, "Mr Keaton, may I introduce my brother Ross, my good friend Merida, and my eldest daughter Phoebe."

Keaton hesitated for a heartbeat as he looked at Phoebe, a barely perceptible frown crossing his face, "Why are you b-bothering to introduce me?" he whined, "aren't you just going to kill me?"

"On the contrary Mr Keaton," smiled Merida sweetly, "we want you very much alive. Because believe it or not ... we need your help."

. . .

Nervously sipping a mug of herbal tea in the Kerrera II's hold a few minutes later, Malcolm Keaton looked around at the circle of people watching him. Jessamy Beech, once the country's most feared bounty hunter and her twenty year old daughter. Hamnavoe, the man wrongly accused of the brutal murder of two Orcadian families years before, now looking gaunt and pale as if some mystery illness were consuming him. The one armed man Ross and the redhead who looked somehow familiar to him. The two casualties - a tall blonde man with a gunshot wound, and a younger redhead with her arm in a sling and one leg elevated.

And the Reekie. One of the half naked subhuman savages from Edinburgh, kilted in tartan and every inch of his bare skin decorated with swirling blue clan markings. Keaton had been introduced but had forgotten the thing's name already. Being this close to just one of them nauseated and terrified him.

"So ... m-medical attention?" Keaton clutched his drink tightly trying to control the tremors in his hands, "painkillers, clean d-dressings and accommodation ashore for a few weeks. That's all you want from me ... a-and you won't kill me?"

"That's all. And no questions asked," Jessamy confirmed, "you do this for us and I'll consider ... what happened before, to be forgiven and forgotten. Do we have a deal?"

Keaton's eyes narrowed, "Who exactly are you? All of you? How come you're travelling together? Do you have a permit for this boat?"

Ross spoke up, pointedly ignoring all the questions but one, "Permit?"

"Coalition decree. Every fishing boat of a certain size requires a permit."

"Who says?" Jessamy demanded.

"The local governor. A Russian colonel called Zmelya ... has his HQ just south of Kirkwall in St Marys. The main road to the John O' Groats ferry."

"So, ye're no' pullin' the strings anymore ye wee shite?" Hamnavoe asked, then immediately started coughing violently into his sleeve.

"Uh, not exactly. The Coalition keep me on as ... like a go between. They feel the populace are more likely to follow what I say."

Ross sneered, "Collaborating eh? Shrewd move."

"How about we have a word with this governor?" Jessamy interrupted, "get him off your back? Will you help us then?"

Keaton shook his head, "He has troops. At least two dozen ... and well armed, with APCs. On the main road guarding the Churchill Barriers."

Jessamy folded her arms, "Let us worry about that. Now, do we have a deal or not?"

Keaton stared up at her, but was unable to hold her gaze for more than a few seconds before he had to look away, "We're peaceful here on Orkney, and don't appreciate trouble. So frankly I'd prefer it if you didn't rock the boat. But if you're willing to conduct yourselves accordingly ... we have a deal."

. . .

To make the trawler a little less conspicuous, the Kerrera II's old Heysham registration was quickly painted over and Kirkwall's harbour master bribed by Keaton himself to turn a blind eye. With their faces hidden to protect their identities, they were hustled across the road and accommodated on the floor directly beneath Keaton's suite, ushered in through a rear entrance and up the back stairs.

"I bet this isnae the first time ye've taken young ladies up the back passage is it?" asked Hamnavoe trying to make light of the situation.

Keaton ignored him. He was petrified. His guards and the servants at the hotel would all have to be bribed handsomely to keep their mouths shut, but if the governor Zmelya even suspected Kirkwall's 'community leader' was harbouring persons unknown - possibly even fugitives, facing the wrath of Jessamy Beech would be the least of his worries.

McTavish deemed it wise that someone should stay onboard the boat so quickly volunteered. At least if they needed to make a quick getaway, the Kerrera II would be already manned. With Jessamy, Hamnavoe and Phoebe ensconced in one hotel room, Ross and Merida in another, and the two wounded - Tamsin and Leonid, together in a third, the others settled in to regroup, recover and decide on what, if anything, they could do next.

PART TWO: OCCUPATION

Kirkwall, Orkney, 2051 ...

"I'm no' feedin' ye if that's what yer after," shouted the spotty jailer. Outside the cell's high, narrow window, the sky over Kirkwall was growing dark. It would be night soon. Their last night, if Keaton had anything to do with it.

"I didn't expect you to," said Jessamy in a low voice, "it's just that ... if I'm going to be executed tomorrow I'd like to look my best and ... well ..."

She indicated the dried rivulets of blood on her face and clothes.

"There's running water in the sink," mumbled the youth in a surly tone and turned to leave. So much for the legendary bounty hunter and war hero Jessamy Beech, he thought.

"Wait," called Jessamy, "I don't suppose you could bring some soap and a towel, could you?" she slowly unzipped her softshell as if preparing to undress, arching her back to push her chest forward. Not taking her eyes off the youth's face for a second.

The jailer gulped, "I'll ... see what I can do. But no funny business okay?"

Jessamy smiled, "Okay."

"The wee shite probably doesnae know what soap is from the smell of him," whispered Hamnavoe as soon as the youth was out of sight.

"Ssh," hissed Jessamy and quickly stripped out of her softshell and stained t-shirts. She stood shivering, naked from the waist up but for her sports bra, noticing with dismay the angry purple bruises over her ribcage from numerous kicks.

Seemingly interminable minutes later, the jailer returned and handed a towel and a bar of some greenish soap made from seaweed through the bars. His eyes went wide as he noticed Jessamy's state of undress. She smiled her most charming smile, "Thanks ever so much ... sorry, I don't know your name ..."

"D-dougal."

"Thankyou Dougal. I'll make sure I tell Mr Keaton what an ... attentive jailer you've been."

Hamnavoe coughed, simultaneously muttering, "Bollocks."

Jessamy worked up a lather with the soap and washed the blood from her face and neck with long, slow hand movements. Tracing the lines and contours of her celtic tattoos with her fingertips. Working steadily downward she soaped the tanned skin of her shoulders and throat. Dougal watched, like a hungry dog watches someone with a pocketful of biscuits.

"Ouch," winced Jessamy, "I think I've got a bruised shoulder too. Your militia men were really quite rough. If I take this bra off, would you soap my back for me please Dougal?"

Without waiting for a response, she turned away and slipped her sports bra off over her head. She giggled as she passed the soap behind her to Dougal, "It must be quite chilly in here, my little nipples are stood out like corks."

Dougal simply stared with a dopey smile. His hands, trembling with anticipation, dropped the soap and he took a while to find it again in the gathering gloom of the cell block. Jessamy backed up to the cell's bars, pulled her dreadlocks to one side and presented her naked back to him, "Be gentle please Dougal, I'm a bit sore."

Dougal licked his lips, "Alright, but really ... no funny business, okay?"

"Of course not," Jessamy purred, "if you do a good job, I may let you do the front as well."

That was all the invitation the young jailer needed. He eagerly stretched a hand through the bars and started lathering Jessamy's smooth back ...

With one quick movement, she spun around, grabbed Dougal's hand and snapped two of his fingers. She roughly yanked his arm towards her, slamming his face into the metal bars with a resounding clang. He collapsed to the concrete floor, out cold.

Jessamy crouched down, reached through the bars and hooked the keyring from his belt.

"Nice tits JB," observed Hamnavoe.

She ignored that and tossed him the keys, "Make yourself useful, unlock the cell doors while I get dressed."

"What's to stop me hightailing it out of here and leaving you locked up?" he asked as he unlocked and opened his cell door.

"Because I believe ..." said Jessamy, pulling on her t-shirts, "that under that fuckwitted wankerish exterior you're actually a good person."