Tamsin Beech Ch. 09: Edinburgh

Tamsin's breath caught as his long fingernails simultaneously grazed deliciously around the puckered skin of both aureoles, then suddenly erupted in a gasp - as McTavish finished with a blob of blue dye pressed onto each of her nipples.

Oblivious to her discomfort, he stood back and admired his work critically, "Nì thu. Bana-phrionnsa Reekie."

"Is that it?" asked Tamsin, her voice sounding full of disappointment, "or ... c-can I get dressed?"

McTavish abruptly moved away from her, towards Leonid, "Leave it to dry for half an hour. Once I've finished with Major Denisovich I'll go hunting for food. Stay on the boat. If the locals see ye like that, ye'll both be lynched."

Tamsin nodded awkwardly, feeling useless and frustrated as she turned away, trying to ignore the tingling warmth between her thighs.

. . .

Some minutes later, with a squeal of rusting gears and clattering of chains the sally port's outer portcullis was slowly raised inch by inch using some mechanism hidden inside Fort George's wall above their heads. Warily, Jessamy and Phoebe scuttled underneath then waited as the portcullis was lowered back into place. For the moment, they were trapped. In a short passageway just wide enough for a vehicle, between solid walls, equally solid gates and an iron portcullis.

"I don't like this mum," Phoebe hissed, "this wasnae one o' yer better ideas."

"Well if he decides to leave us here until we starve you can say I told you so," Jessamy grinned, though the humour in her voice didn't quite reach her eyes Phoebe noticed. A long, nervous minute later, the thick oaken inner doors creaked open just wide enough for a person to slip through.

"See?" Jessamy smiled over her shoulder, "told you it'd be alright."

They squeezed through into Fort George's interior ...

A wide expanse stretched out before them. The old parade ground, now bare earth littered with scrubby gorse bushes, the remains of a few tents, makeshift grave markers, craters from small meteorite strikes and wrecks of vehicles so badly damaged as to be unrecognisable. Huge, solid ramps led up to the fort's ramparts, wide enough for troops marching five or six abreast to man the corner turrets or whatever artillery was at their disposal. To the left the garrison's sprawling three storey barrack blocks - arranged in a rectangle with archways leading to a covered walkway at ground level. Many of the windows were boarded up, others smashed with scorch marks up the walls from over forty years of neglect.

An old man, wearing canvas trousers and an army greatcoat watched them curiously from a few yards away, his Kalashnikov half raised. Not one of the Scandinavian imports that many of the Coalition seemed to be equipped with, but a true antique. The wind whipped long strands of thinning grey hair across his craggy, grizzled face and rheumy, bloodshot eyes.

"I'm Jessamy. This is my daughter Phoebe," Jessamy said by way of an introduction, but made no effort to approach the man. Was he truly alone? Or did he have snipers in the fort's buildings who were even now lining up the perfect shot?

"I ken who ye are," nodded the old man, "the tat's a dead giveaway. Ye're Jessamy Beech the bounty hunter. Everyone thought ye were dead."

"I've ... just been away for a while. Is that going to be a problem?" asked Jessamy.

"Ha! No lass," the man smiled with a mouthful of broken, yellow teeth, "from wha' I've heard about ye o'er the years, ye do good work an' ye don't hunt anyone who doesnae deserve it. They say ye've killed a hundred men."

Jessamy huffed, "I wish it was only a hundred. I know more about death than I know about living."

"All the same ... if I'd known it was you ... I'd a' let ye in sooner. I'm Finlayson."

"Good to meet you Mr Finlayson."

Finlayson led them past the barrack blocks to the fort's chapel at its western end. A blocky nondescript building decorated inside with faded standards of long forgotten regiments, the wooden pews long since burnt for firewood. One corner had been furnished with a camp bed, bookshelves and a wood burning stove - a less conspicuous and more easily defensible place to live than the more obvious main buildings. Animal skins had been stretched over crude wooden frames to dry, while the nearby wall had been decorated with yellowing pages from explicit pornographic magazines.

"How long have you been here?" Jessamy asked Finlayson. She watched him prop the AK against a half full crate of ammunition. She idly wondered how much else the Coalition had left behind.

Finlayson opened the front of the stove and poked the fire into life, "Couple o' years. Ever since the Ruskies moved on."

"An' it's definitely just ... yerself?" asked Phoebe. It was cool and gloomy inside the chapel, despite the sun beaming in through the cracked stained glass windows.

"Aye lass. Everyone else left as well ... except me," Finlayson shook a battered kettle, "tea?"

Jessamy nodded, "What do you live on?"

"Plenty o' sheltered ground here inside the walls to grow vegetables. I fish, trap, an' shoot a seal every now and then. Sell a few skins. I get by."

"There's a viable community up on Orkney now where ye'd be safer," explained Phoebe, "ye'd no' have tae hunt anymore."

Finlayson dropped a spoonful of dried ingredients into three chipped mugs, "Orkney? Pfft, how the fuck am I gonnae get tae Orkney?"

Jessamy peered around at the shadowy corners of the chapel, "We've got ... business to attend to down south, but afterwards we'd be more than happy to give ye a lift."

"On yer wee fishin' boat? I'll think on it," said Finlayson noncommittally, "ye ... said ye were after information. What, exactly?"

"We don't want to take advantage of your hospitality, so we'll leave you with some food and ammunition for your AK before we go," Jessamy gestured around them, "this ... was a Coalition holding facility ... for prisoners?"

Finlayson nodded his appreciation, "Aye. Women an' wee 'uns mostly."

"Children?" asked Jessamy, "do you know what happened to them once the Coalition pulled out?"

Finlayson unbuttoned his greatcoat, revealing layer upon layer of threadbare garments beneath, "I heard the resistance closed down their officers' whorehouse in Scarborough. So I'm guessing the women all went to a work camp."

Jessamy knew all about Scarborough from her talks with Tamsin. And the workcamps. But she doubted even one run by the Coalition could be as brutal as Butcher Beaconsfield's had been on Mull.

"A-an' the children?" Phoebe prompted, eager for any nugget of information about her sister.

Finlayson let out a long sigh, "Don't forget I was just an old man livin' in what the meteorite strikes had left of Ardersier when they were here. It was none o' my business. I'm lucky they didnae just shoot me fer sport. All their fuckin' tanks an' helicopters to guard women an' kids ... fuckin' overkill if ye ask me."

"The children," Jessamy urged once more, "what ... what happened to them?"

"The day they finally left, I was gatherin' shellfish down on the beach - limpets an' such for a broth - when one o' their armoured trucks reversed up to the sally port there. Plain as day I saw kids bein' herded into the back. Boys, lassies, some o' them couldn't a' been any older than thirteen or fourteen. All kitted out ... in their new Coalition uniforms."

Ada had been six years old when Berwick Upon Tweed had been attacked, Jessamy thought. If she was seventeen now, she would have been fourteen or fifteen when the Coalition had abandoned the fort. She felt an icy finger trail down her spine, "U-uniforms? What d'you mean ... uniforms?"

Finlayson looked her in the eye and nodded grimly, "Recruits."

. . .

In the damp atmosphere near the River Tay, the blue woad took a while to dry on their skin. Still naked on board the Girl Flora, Tamsin Beech and Leonid moved about the boat, staying inside and as much as possible away from any windows. And each other. After once again wrapping the filthy kilt around himself, McTavish had scuttled off into the undergrowth outside armed with bow and hunting knife. From the presence of boats at the quay, they knew there was a settlement close by and it wouldn't do for any of them to be spotted covered from head to foot in Reekie clan markings.

"The Coalition may have scouts on the road too, to watch for Reekie movements," said Tamsin.

Leonid ignored her, "You made a weird sound," he observed as he pretended to check his weapons. Beside him on the wheelhouse bench, their shortwave radio sat wrapped in a drybag, ready to contact the Kerrera II once contact with the Reekies had been made.

Tamsin glanced up from the dog-eared road atlas she'd been examining. If they spotted anyone on the motorway they'd need alternative routes to avoid them, "When?"

Leonid raised an eyebrow, "When McTavish was putting the woad on you."

"What sort of sound?" asked Tamsin. She could feel the colour rising in her blue painted cheeks.

Leonid stepped closer, "Like when you cum ... like you were enjoying it?"

It would be pointless denying it. But perhaps she could make light of it. She glanced down, noticing that the Russian's cock wasn't quite as limp as it had been a minute earlier, "Maybe I was. McTavish has remarkably soothing hands."

She wondered, had the Russian actually been aroused by the sight of her being touched by another man?

Leonid moved nearer, forcing Tamsin to take a step backwards against the bulkhead, "If I didn't know better I'd say you were turned on," he rested a callused hand lightly on her bare shoulder.

"Look ... we can't do anything," Tamsin blustered. In reality she wanted nothing more than to be bent over the trawler's console and taken from behind. She desperately wanted to feel the heat of his - anyone's, body against her own. But now there were unfortunately practical considerations, "not until this stuff is dry. It'll smudge. Probably."

"Pfft. You're right," Leonid leant forward and gently kissed the top of her head, "but, maybe there are places ... where smudges won't matter."

Tamsin hesitated for no more than a moment. She carefully leaned forward over the console, arched her back and let her thighs fall open. Her sex gleamed in the weak sunlight as Leonid let out a low whistle of approval. Smiling back over her shoulder, she stroked her clitoris with a fingertip, teasing and rubbing the little bud until her breath quickened, "Fuck me quickly ... before McTavish gets back."

Leonid needed no second bidding as he moved up behind her. Tamsin flexed her hips enticingly as she squeezed with her inner muscles at her probing finger. She shivered as Leonid spat directly in to the cleft of her buttocks, and began to stroke and fondle the flesh between them.

"What do you think you're doing?" she whispered casually.

"Blya tvoyu zadnitsu."

Tamsin's eyes widened as she mentally translated the Russian's words. Then his hand pressed and pushed at her anus, opening her. One finger slithered inside and she cried out with shock at the unexpected pleasure flooding through her.

"Do you want me to carry on?" the smooth hot head of his cock nudged insistently between the cheeks of her ass.

When herbs to make the concoction she used for birth control were in short supply, they occasionally resorted to anal sex. Tamsin closed her eyes and nodded. And at once Leonid withdrew his finger and replaced it with his cock, keeping up a steady pressure.

Tamsin moaned, part of her wanting to resist in case McTavish suddenly returned, but at the same time desperate to feel him inside her, "Mmm ... gently."

She forced herself to relax and at once Leonid began to slide inside. But once the head was in he chuckled and seized her arms.

"Ooh, masterful," Tamsin squealed.

"Da. Bend over," Leonid growled. More of a suggestion than an order, but he twisted his hand into the thick mass of her red hair and pushed her head gently forward anyway. With her buttocks offered lewdly towards him, he grunted with satisfaction and drove himself slowly but more deliberately into her.

"Uhh ... be ... careful of your stitches," she gasped as he began to push himself again and again into the tight grip of her anus. Tamsin had never felt so utterly filled - Leonid's movements wrenching her with sensations so extreme that she couldn't stifle her cries of pleasure. Thankfully the wheelhouse windows had condensed up. If their scout or any of the locals for that matter were outside, they wouldn't be able to see in. She pulled a hand from his grip and continued rubbing her slippery clitoris, drawing out every ounce of pleasure she could.

Is this how it might feel with McTavish, Tamsin wondered. Apart from adolescent fumblings with Timur and Craster she'd never had sex with another man besides Leonid. Was it wrong to think like that? The Reekie had always been a trusted comrade and adviser, but what would he be like as a lover? He was fit for his age and from what she'd seen would certainly be capable of satisfying a woman.

Leonid's now freed hand stroked her breasts softly, as he continued to fuck her. Tamsin sighed, turning her head towards him. He stooped to press his lips to hers and kissed her. Their tongues meeting and parting once more in their open mouths, his thin lips as soft as the touch of a butterfly's wings, but relentless. Both his hands pressed against her back, holding her close against his scarred, muscular body as his movements sped up.

Then with a strangled grunt, Leonid clutched tightly at her naked buttocks as he pulsed into her back passage.

"S-sorry ..." he panted, carefully withdrawing from her a few moments later, "I got a bit carried away."

Tamsin smirked and pushed herself away from the console, "I'll let you off this once."

"Look," offered Leonid, "shall we go below? It's your turn now ..."

But before she could respond, the wheelhouse door suddenly slammed back against the steel bulkhead and McTavish stepped in carrying two dead rabbits by the hind legs. He looked at them both, surprised, "Why are ye no' dressed yet?"

"We're ... getting into character," said Leonid.

Tamsin felt her face colouring, but quickly nodded in agreement, "Uh, yeah ... what he said."

. . .

After drinking Finlayson's pungent but refreshing herbal tea and reminiscing about what they knew of Myrtle's life - real name Eilidh, for over an hour, Jessamy and Phoebe climbed up onto Fort George's ramparts and signalled the Kerrera II that they were okay. They were overdue and the last thing they wanted was Ross and Merida mounting a rescue bid that wasn't needed.

Finlayson agreed to show them where the Coalition had housed the women and children captured when Berwick Upon Tweed had fallen. Living accommodation that had once housed English redcoats and later the British Army's Black Watch regiment had been repurposed to hold hundreds of civilians. Mess halls, kitchens and basic washing facilities. Rooms designed for individual soldiers had been installed with bunk beds, to cram the prisoners in six or eight to a room.

Each was the same. Broken bunks where Finlayson or perhaps others had scavenged timber slats for firewood in a bid to stay warm in the harsh Highland winters, a few pathetic belongings left behind to gather dust, and childrens' drawings and charcoal scribbles on the mildewy, whitewashed stone walls. Jessamy had become quieter and withdrawn after hearing Finlayson's opinion about the child prisoners' Coalition uniforms. It was too horrible an idea to contemplate. The enemy recruiting British children into their ranks - possibly even brainwashing them to do their bidding.

Phoebe shuffled uneasily from room to room along the narrow, echoing corridors of the fort's accomodation, each step becoming heavier as her mood darkened. What chance did they have of ever finding Ada alive now? If she hadn't stowed away onboard their yacht - the Lupita, all those years before she and her sister might still be together. But any records the Coalition might have kept had been either removed or destroyed, so no hard evidence remained of her sister ever having been at the fort. Was this all just a waste of their time? Behind her Jessamy Beech's expression was like stone. Jaw set, eyes cold and unblinking.

A beam of late morning sun shone on yet another child's crayon and charcoal drawing on the wall of the next room, as if highlighting it specifically for her attention. Four stick figures, two adults and two children - both girls, standing beside a tall house under a smiling yellow sun. The basic drawing had been added to and finessed over the course of time - possibly years, as the artist's skill had developed. Phoebe's heart raced as she squinted to read the names printed neatly underneath 'Granddad John, Aunt Lupita, Phoebe Beech, Ada Beech' - "MUM! Ye need to see this. Now!"

"What?" Jessamy snapped from the doorway.

Phoebe moved further into the tiny room and pointed, "Sh-she was here."

With wonder in her moist eyes Jessamy crouched down and traced the reversed capital 'B' in Beech with her fingertip, "Sh-she never got the hang of writing B the right way around ... maybe if I'd spent more time at home instead of hunting sickos and murderers all over the fucking country ... I could've taught her properly," she glanced up at Phoebe, "do you see who's missing in the picture?"

Phoebe put a hand on her mother's shoulder, "Mum, don't torture yersel' ..."

But Jessamy continued through clenched teeth,"Me!"

She remembered the last time she'd seen Ada. Her dearest friend Merida hugging the girl close to her on the quay in Berwick as she bawled inconsolably because her mother was leaving - again, "She's drawn my dad, Lupita ... and you with her. But not me. Not her own mother. Because I was never fucking there!"

"Ye were doin' good work mum. We were happy growin' up in Cornwall ... with yer dad an' Lupita lookin' after us."

Living on Kerrera with little else to occupy her mind, Phoebe had quizzed her mother about Jessamy's father John, Lupita Mpenzi, and her own real father, trawler skipper Geoff Wiseley. Details that had seemed unimportant and irrelevant while they'd been alive had suddenly taken on monumental importance now they were dead - all murdered by Jack Aubrey. They'd been good times. But Phoebe always felt a twinge of regret that she hadn't taken the time to really get to know better those she loved.

Jessamy stood stiffly, tears now streaming freely down her cheeks, "I will find your little sister, Phoebe. I need to make amends. So if it's the last fucking thing I do ... I will find Ada."

. . .

After a mid afternoon meal of cooked rabbit and boiled rice, Tamsin Beech and the others bedded down early. Before leaving Kirkwall they'd sourced a motley assortment of rags with which to complete their disguise. They'd add a layer of dirt on top of the woad and carry their shortwave radio, any modern weapons and their usual clothing stowed in rucksacks. With her wounded arm, she still lacked the strength to draw a bowstring so Tamsin had left her bow behind. Hopefully their disguise would fool any Reekie scouts for just long enough to reach Edinburgh's city centre.

When Jessamy and Hamnavoe had entered Scotland's capital years before, there'd been no such security. But that had been before the entire Coalition fleet had decided to anchor in the Firth of Forth just off Dunbar. Whether or not they realised, the Reekies were living on borrowed time.

They rose well before first light on a dismal, overcast day and passed quickly through the outskirts of Perth with McTavish leading the way to avoid any locals. Even after forty years, the M90 was littered with the gutted wrecks of vehicles - many blown across the road by some shockwave or freak weather, others stripped for anything and everything that might be useful. Charred bone splinters and windscreen glass crunched under their feet amongst fresh wolf tracks as they walked.