Tamsin Beech Ch. 08: Kirkwall

Hamnavoe didn't respond, but quickly unlocked Jessamy's own cell. They dragged the unconscious Dougal into one of the empty cells and locked him in.

"Now what?"

"We get off the islands and go after Trevithick," Jessamy answered. Or real name Admiral Dale Fredrickson, she told herself.

Hamnavoe shook his head, "We havnae a clue where the fucker's gone. He could be anywhere on the mainland."

"Was there somewhere Trevithick holed up while he was here on Orkney?"

"Yeah," Hamnavoe listened at the door leading through into the main part of the old police station, "he used an old flat on the way to Hatston Pier. He's no' gonnae be there though."

"No, but there might be something that'll give us a clue."

"We've got to get there first JB."

. . .

Twelve years later, 2063 ...

"Devyanosto vosem' ... devyanosto devyat' ... sto," Leonid Denisovich clambered back to his feet after completing one hundred press-ups as part of his morning exercise regimen. After a week recuperating in the comfort of the Kirkwall Hotel, his bullet wound was almost healed.

"Why do you always count in Russian?" Tamsin called from the bed. She lay fully clothed on top the covers with faded Ordnance Survey maps scattered around, her splinted right leg raised up on a couple of pillows and right arm still in a sling. Keaton's personal physician had recommended some daily exercises to strengthen the knee but she was still unable to walk without a crutch.

"Habit? My instructors all spoke Russian in the Spetsnaz," he answered, pulling on a t-shirt, "I just got used to counting in my own language," he sat on the edge of the bed, making the old mattress springs creak, "why? Does it turn you on?"

Tamsin ignored him and sat up straight to look out their room's front window, "I see that little girl go past every single morning."

"What little girl?" Leonid stood to one side of the old sash and peered out.

"The little blonde haired one in the white sheepskin jacket. I guess she's walking to school with the older boy. Perhaps her brother?"

Leonid watched as two young children - a girl of about seven and a slightly older boy ambled along past the harbour below. He raised an eyebrow, "They still have schools?"

Tamsin nodded, "Keaton told me. They start early. Have lessons until lunchtime then help out in the fields or whatever for the rest of the day."

"Good system. Everybody needs educated farm hands," Leonid muttered sarcastically.

"I wonder who she'll be when she grows up?" Tamsin pondered, "what does fate have in store for her?"

Leonid shrugged and turned away from the window, "you ... avoided my question."

Tamsin frowned quizzically, "What question? About turning me on when you speak Russian?"

"If it does, I could ... perhaps speak it when we make love if you like."

The girl in the sheepskin jacket forgotten, Tamsin set the map of Northumberland she'd been studying aside, "For example?"

Leonid smiled and bent down to nuzzle her breasts through the material of her softshell, "Ya khochu oblizyvat' tvoyu grud ..."

It had been weeks since they'd last had sex, onboard the Kerrera II the night before they'd fled Ayr. Tamsin had made no mention of what had happened with her cousin Phoebe however, not knowing how Leonid would react. They'd made no commitment and therefore had no claim on one another, and as far as she'd been concerned their relationship had been based purely on mutual respect and need.

But then in the heat of battle he'd said something that had changed it all, 'Ys lyublyu vas. I ... love you Tamsin Beech.' As if a door to a whole new range of choices and possibility had opened in her mind, she began to wonder. Could she really have a relationship with Leonid Denisovich once all this was over and done? Even children? If indeed it ever was over.

Love in the middle of a war might be problematic - putting someone else's welfare first in a combat situation. But for now, it was still possible to have fun. Tamsin giggled, "Okay, okay. I can guess what that means."

Leonid slid further down the bed, his face hovering above Tamsin's lap, "Mne nravitsya, kak ty na vkus."

"Mmm. Now that's more like it ..."

KNOCK-KNOCK!

"Oh for fuck's sake," she muttered under her breath, "WHO IS IT?"

"Me. Angus," came the muffled reply, "are ye decent lass?"

'Later,' Tamsin mouthed to Leonid, then turned to the door, "Come in Angus."

Even though they were seeing each other on almost a daily basis, Tamsin noticed immediately just how gaunt Hamnavoe was looking. The cancer, if that's indeed what it was, was visibly changing his appearance more every day. But without a qualified doctor to make the correct diagnosis and the appropriate tests, they were all just guessing. Even Hamnavoe knew what the prognosis was likely to be however.

"How ... are ye today lass?" he carefully lowered himself into an overstuffed armchair, wheezing and sounding breathless, his eyes bloodshot.

She knew that the last thing her uncle would want was sympathy. So she and Leonid had proposed to treat him no differently than they would if he'd been perfectly healthy. Tamsin raised a hand and waggled it, "So so. I reckon I can pull a trigger, but not a bowstring. Kim Napp Gylan's knife didn't cut any tendons fortunately but I've lost some strength. It's going to be a while."

"An' the leg?"

Tamsin's smile faded, as she shook her head, "Keaton's quack had a look. 'Doctor' Fraser? That's if he was ever a real doctor. I'm trying to stay mobile but he reckons another month before it'll be back up to scratch."

"A month? Jeez, that's shite," the old Scot shook his head, regarding her seriously. He indicated the OS maps strewn across the bed, "ye plannin' on doin' what I think ye're plannin' on doin'?"

Tamsin nodded, "Going back to Lindisfarne. Getting inside the bunker. Yeah."

"Any idea how?"

Leonid spoke up, "If Volk has realised they have one of the Soteria bunkers inside the castle, he'll have the place locked up tight. It might be guarded by a whole battalion by now."

"But we've got an idea for that," interrupted Tamsin breezily, tapping the side of her nose with a finger, "... unfortunately, just getting back into the castle is going to be the easy part. When it comes to the bunker, we're going to need a shit ton of explosives."

Hamnavoe let out a long sigh, "No amount of explosives will do ye any good lass. The Soteria bunkers were built to withstand a nuclear blast."

Tamsin clenched her jaw but said nothing. But Hamnavoe wasn't finished, "Tamz. Lass. I'm dyin'. Nothing I do or say is gonnae change that. But ... sittin' aroun' here in this hotel isnae goin' to do anyone any good. I've no' said anythin' to Jess ... because I know she'll fly aff the fuckin' handle. But if it'll help yer cause ... I'll get ye inside the bunker if it fuckin' kills me."

Tamsin was silent for a moment as she wondered how best to respond, "Thanks Angus. But ... with all due respect, you're not well enough to be fighting Coalition troops."

"I didnae say I was," Hamnavoe grinned, "I'll leave it up to you young 'uns to do the scrappin'. But once ye've taken the castle, I'll get ye inside the bunker. I promise. If it's the last thing I do in this life ... it'll at least be somethin' worthwhile."

Tamsin felt tears stinging the corners of her eyes, "For fuck's sake Angus. I don't know what to say."

"Ye could say yes lass," Hamnavoe smirked.

Tamsin slowly nodded, "Yes."

She held out her left arm, inviting him in for a hug. Hamnavoe squeezed her gently but she knew that her injuries weren't the only reason his hug seemed to lack any real strength.

"Somethin' else occurred to me," said Hamnavoe, perching on the bed, "I havnae told Jess this either cos I didnae want to get her hopes up. Ye say this Volk guy at Lindisfarne is the same one led the attack on Berwick years ago?"

Tamsin nodded.

"I don't ken much about the man, but he sent ye to live on the island and yer mother to Scarborough, yes?"

Tamsin had an inkling where her uncle's thoughts were leading, "What are you getting at Angus?"

"If ye were all together in Berwick when the Coalition got there ... isn't there a chance he knows where Jessamy's daughter Ada is?"

. . .

Jessamy Beech pulled her hood tighter around her tattooed face as a swirling gust whipped along Kirkwall's Albert Street, sending dead leaves and litter spinning across the wide flagstones. Why was Orkney always so bloody windy? It wouldn't do to be recognised by anyone in the town even after all this time, but as she couldn't stand being cooped up in Keaton's musty smelling hotel for a moment longer, despite the methane generated electricity and warm showers, she and Phoebe had decided to go shopping ...

Canvas covered stalls had been erected the entire length of the narrow street, attracting townsfolk, visitors from the outlying islands and refugees alike, to buy, sell and barter for goods. Clothing, both handmade and upcycled from pre-Thanatos garments; hand tools for wood, metal and agriculture, with a blacksmith taking orders for more bespoke items; hundreds of different foodstuffs from fresh, dried and smoked fish, meats and vegetables to fresh bread, eggs and fruit from the nearby cathedral's own orchards. Livestock, grain, herbs and natural remedies, soaps, homemade cider, wine, beer and whisky - Phoebe had never seen such choice, or as many people in such a small area.

Laughter, a hundred shouted conversations, stall holders hawking their wares and the mingled smells of hog roast, roasting chestnuts, a dozen kinds of animal dung, bacon rolls and toffee apples were making her head spin. After eleven years solitude on Kerrera the bustling market was sensory overload.

Jessamy grabbed her elbow and steered her daughter to one side, "You okay Phee?"

"Y-yes. It's ... just a wee bit overwhelmin', that's all," Phoebe grinned as a couple of small children ran past chasing an escaped piglet, "I didnae think it'd be this noisy. This chaotic."

Jessamy could understand how she felt. Eleven years on Kerrera with no-one but her and Hamnavoe to talk to couldn't have been easy for the girl. She grinned, "Growing up on an island never did me any harm."

"No," Phoebe agreed, "but ye had friends right?"

Jessamy nodded, "If ye can call them that. Two old men who looked after all us refugees - called Snook and Calgary," she lifted her chin, "keep your wits about you. Look."

Moving slowly along the street towards them, with the crowds parting respectfully came a pair of Coalition soldiers, each wearing body armour and carrying a Kalashnikov. Jessamy turned away to browse at a stall selling handmade leatherware until they'd passed, "New uniforms, AKs ... Zmelya's men no doubt."

"Why don't the locals just take them out?" asked Phoebe. At her mother's suggestion she'd left her Glock back at the hotel and felt naked with only an eight inch hunting knife to protect herself. Zmelya had apparently declared it illegal for islanders to carry automatic weapons on pain of death, "Keaton said there are only a couple of dozen. They're outnumbered a hundred tae one."

Jessamy huffed, "Fear? If what your cousin Tamsin said about these Coalition shits there would no doubt be reprisals if the locals so much as raised a finger against them. One of their soldiers gets killed, a dozen random islanders die in return. Something like that."

"They're no' so tough," Phoebe glared defiantly at the retreating backs of the two soldiers. Keaton's militia were also present at the market. Less conspicuous and well equipped than their Coalition counterparts, they stood in pairs, half heartedly scanning the crowds for pickpockets, unlicensed prostitutes or troublemakers.

Jessamy squeezed her arm, "Are you really that willing to take more lives Phee? I saw the state of you back on Kerrera. Believe me, the first time you kill a man it's tough on you. You feel like shit afterwards. The second is a little easier. The next even more so. Until it doesn't bother you one bit anymore."

Phoebe stared at her mother, brow furrowed.

"A part of you dies every time you kill. So do it only when absolutely necessary," Jessamy hissed, "and every time you do, keep telling yourself - this was someone's son, brother, father, husband. Every one of them has thoughts, hopes and dreams ... just like you."

Phoebe nodded solemnly, "I'll ... try to remember."

Jessamy touched a hand lightly to her daughter's cheek, her eyes filled with regret, "Please ... make sure you do."

As they reached Albert Street's southern end, the Beech women emerged into the wide area in front of St Magnus Cathedral, Kirkwall's iconic red sandstone centrepiece. The most northerly cathedral in the UK, it had dominated the town's skyline for 900 years.

"I hate to admit it but Keaton's done well," said Jessamy gazing around, "other communities have failed. But Orkney's still going strong. The people seem happy and well fed for the most part and if it wasn't for the fucking Coalition ..."

"Do ye think things'll ever be like they were before? In the old world?" asked Phoebe.

Jessamy shook her head, "Hopefully no. People will learn from their mistakes and get it right the second time around. Hey look ... it was on these very steps I protested Hamnavoe's innocence," she told her daughter, "I didn't realise I'd end up marrying the old fart."

"When Keaton double crossed ye?" Phoebe asked.

Jessamy nodded, "It's an impressive building. You wanna take a look around?"

"Yeah sure."

Squeezing past a crowd of onlookers watching a fire eater and a pair of jugglers tossing razor sharp hatchets to one another, Jessamy found herself standing next to a battered wooden noticeboard at the foot of the wide cathedral steps, "Oh shit."

"What is it?"

Phoebe's mother pointed to a simple black and white poster, "WANTED: Information as to the whereabouts of Kim Napp Gylan's murderers. The brave North Korean commander in chief was brutally slain by persons unknown on the Inner Hebridean island of Kerrera. There will be a substantial reward for anyone providing information leading to subsequent arrests."

"Any descriptions?"

"Um, no. Just small print stuff," Jessamy looked grimly at her daughter, "but with three of us out of action I really don't want to be spotted. Let's get back to the hotel."

Another strong gust of wind rattled the treetops and threatened to blow off Jessamy's jacket hood as she turned. She caught it just in time and quickly led Phoebe down a side street back to their accommodation.

. . .

Since being kicked out of Malcolm Keaton's militia, Dougal had spent almost every day begging on the front steps of the cathedral. Some days he ate reasonably well, but other times he might go hungry for a week. The islanders were fickle and would rather feed sweet looking child refugees than a scrawny man in his thirties with a disfiguring scar.

Keaton had ordered him beaten for letting Jessamy Beech and the fugitive Hamnavoe escape all those years ago. A beating that several of his so called comrades had been all too willing to administer. A little overzealously. He'd lost an eye because of that beating, and without any proper medical attention the shattered eye socket had never really healed, leaving his face concave and misshapen. Dougal could see the islanders' point of view.

He'd been shivering through another busy market day, not making much but at least not getting moved on by a Coalition patrol, when he'd spotted two women at the noticeboard. Dressed outlandishly in an odd mixture of old world military surplus and animal skins he'd studied them. A young blonde looking around wide eyed as if it was her first time on the main island, and her companion - a inch or two shorter, pleasantly curvy but unfortunately with a hood concealing her face.

Who was he kidding? No woman would look twice at him.

It was as Dougal was gathering up his sleeping roll to move on that a gust of wind swept along Albert Street and just for an instant tugged back the shorter woman's hood. With his one eye he caught a fleeting glimpse of blue eyes, blonde dreadlocks ... and a swirling celtic knot tattoo completely covering one side of the woman's face.

"If I take this bra off, would you soap my back for me please Dougal?"

He guessed he might one day forget the sound of her voice, the scent of her skin, the curve of her spine. But he knew with utmost certainty that he would never forget Jessamy Beech's face.

Leaving his meagre possessions tucked under a bush and staying at a safe distance, Dougal followed them ...

PART THREE: ONE SPARK TO IGNITE A FIRE

"All I'm suggesting is we keep a low profile," Jessamy explained to the others. After she'd mentioned the posters at the cathedral, they'd all gathered together in Tamsin and Leonid's room back at the Kirkwall Hotel, "Keaton is getting some weapons and supplies together. He's upholding his side of the bargain for now ... but he wants us gone. Just another couple of days and we can be shot of Orkney for good."

"And where do we go next, sis?" asked Ross, "the Coalition are still hunting us. They'll have every bounty hunter in the UK on our tails."

"We're going south," Tamsin announced loudly, "back to Lindisfarne."

Merida's jaw dropped, "Are you crazy? Volk is on Lindisfarne."

"So is one of the Soteria bunkers, mum," Tamsin replied, "it's our only hope ... and Angus has offered to get us inside."

Jessamy turned to stare at Hamnavoe, eyebrows raised, "Oh he has, has he?"

Hamnavoe held his wife's gaze for a second or two then had to look away, "I was gonnae tell ye when the time was right lass."

Jessamy folded her arms and scowled silently at him, fuming.

Tamsin threw her legs over the side of the bed and gingerly sat up, "Lindisfarne is the logical choice. It's relatively close and I know the layout of the castle like the back of my hand. I have a plan. And thanks to Angus's kind offer there's a good chance it might work."

"Tamz," Ross began, through gritted teeth, "I don't know if you remember ... but the resistance is led by four of us. Not just you. If you have a plan don't you think it might be an idea to run it by us first?"

"I was going to dad," Tamsin tucked her crutch under her arm and pushed herself upright, "but I need to speak with McTavish first. If he agrees to what I'm proposing ... myself, Leonid and he will sail south in a few days with a shortwave radio. Once the first part of the plan is complete and Lindisfarne castle is secure we'll contact the rest of you on the Kerrera II to rendezvous with us."

"Three of you against Volk?" Ross shook his head in disbelief, "we've only got one fucking boat and two of you are still fucking wounded!"

"I'll go too," Phoebe interrupted.

Jessamy placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder, "Not this time sweetheart. If your cousin is planning what I suspect she's planning ... you most definitely don't want to be with them."

. . .

It was dark by the time Dougal reached St Mary's, a tiny village of no more than a dozen cottages twenty miles south of Kirkwall. There'd been no point asking anyone for a lift. He knew of perhaps only ten vehicles on the main island and their owners all usually took one look at him and turned away in disgust. So he'd walked. Shivering and hungry along what had once been the A961, past the old Highland Park distillery and along the edge of Scapa Flow, imagining all the wrecked ships that lay rusting beneath the waves. There'd been Coalition soldiers patrolling the market of course, that he could've given his information to, but he wasn't about to risk someone else getting the credit for his patience and hard work.

Jessamy Beech - for he was certain it had been her, and the younger woman had entered the Kirkwall Hotel by the back entrance. He'd caught glimpses through the windows, of others moving about in the upstairs rooms as he'd stood watch in the cold. Everyone in the town knew that the place was normally deserted except for Keaton and a couple of bodyguards.