Phoebe Beech Ch. 07: Cheltenham
Fort George's defences were as complete as they were ever going to be. Certainly they could dig the pits deeper, sharpen the stakes sharper, prepare more bark pitch or wind the torsion springs on their mangonels tighter. But what good would it do? As long as their defence force didn't neglect daily training, they'd be ready for anything.
Ada Beech had barely slept in almost three days organising it all, and it had been her Aunt Merida who'd eventually ordered her to take a day off.
"Your problem is Ada, you're too much like your mother and your Uncle Ross. You don't know how to delegate," Merida had told her, as Ada had come trudging like a zombie down off Fort George's ramparts, barely able to lift her feet.
She'd been ferried home across the Moray Firth to Jessamy Beech's cottage in Cromarty and told in no uncertain terms to rest.
Ada squinted bleary eyed out from under the covers - the patterns of sunlight on the peeling bedroom wall telling her it was already late morning. She'd slept soundly in her mother's spare room for over twelve hours - more than three times as much sleep as she usually had. Dreaming of life growing up onboard the Coalition's flagship, of how they might construct some kind of cantilever bridge across the fort's moat. And of Balgair.
Obviously of Balgair. Whenever she'd been digging holes and sawing wood, or drilling the fort's fighters over the last few days, Balgair had always been there at the edge of her thoughts. But it was only now, while she was alone, that she could actually concentrate on how she really felt about him.
Lust obviously. After all, Balgair had taken her virginity. So at the moment their relationship - if that's what it turned out to be, was purely physical, nothing more. As ex-Spetsnaz, Ada knew she could handle herself. She was more than capable of taking on any man at the fort in a fair fight, but somehow she'd felt safe in his arms. She wanted nothing more than to feel that sense of security again.
Where was Balgair at that very moment, she wondered. Was he thinking of her?
Ada remembered one of the last things he'd said to her. She'd been lying with her head on Balgair's chest after they'd made love and she'd asked, "You'll come back, won't you?"
A shadow had seemed to flicker over his face. But whether it had been a trick of the light or her imagination, Ada couldn't tell. He'd hugged her naked against him, "Oh, I'll be back lass," he'd told her, "ye have my word on it."
Balgair. Images of what she'd shared with the scavenger, in his room over at Fort George fluttered enticingly through Ada's memory. She drew the patched duvet up to her neck, studying the pattern of stains on the ceiling, not wanting to surrender herself to those thoughts just yet.
It still felt strange to her, being ashore instead of in a shared cabin onboard a Coalition warship.
Phoebe's old room over at the fort still held her dead sister's collection of animal skulls, jars of herbs and ingredients for homemade remedies, random pieces of metal waiting to be filed into weapons or arrow heads. But Ada had nothing. Apart from her clothes and her weapons she had no personal belongings scattered about the room. No familiar things to come back to. Perhaps one day the cottage might feel like home, but certainly not yet.
Back onboard the Lenin, and later the Baekdusan, she'd been aware of other crew members having sex. Russians or North Koreans sneaking into one another's berths during the night on a fairly regular basis. It had never aroused her or disgusted her. It had simply instilled her with a curiosity.
What was it like? How did it feel to have part of another person inside you?
Ada had wondered how they would have reacted if she'd watched or quizzed them about it afterwards. Damn it! She was twenty years old and had only just discovered sex for herself. But perhaps once Balgair returned they'd be able to make up for lost time?
Her cheeks flushed as Ada recalled the moans and sighs she'd overheard while trying to sleep onboard various Coalition warships. How they rose in pitch as the creaking of worn out bedsprings sped up.
"Yaichki," she swore in Russian. Now the thoughts were in her head, there was only one way she was going to be able to scratch that particular itch.
Ada leaned out of the bed and grabbed the fat tallow candle from its holder on the dresser. Then pushing back the duvet, slid the smooth, melted head of it beneath the fabric of her thermals. As she imagined listening to the muffled sounds of frenzied fucking she rubbed the silky waxen shaft very gently against her stiffening clitoris, drawing in breath through her teeth.
Ada closed her eyes and pictured Balgair's face. His angular cheek bones, untidy stubble and deep set, smouldering eyes. She recalled how the rest of him had felt against her - warm and sinewy muscle, calloused hands used to manual work roving all over her body, "Ya by khotel, chtoby ty byl zdes' so mnoy, lyubovnik..."
That thought sent a delicious shiver running through her. Ada could almost imagine Balgair clutching her against him as she straddled his narrow hips - the idea so vivid in her mind that a warm dampness gathered already between her legs.
Not caring what time of day it was or whether her mother might be listening downstairs, Ada wrenched her thermal underwear down to her ankles and nudged the smooth head of the candle between the moist lips of her sex. It was thick, and she wasn't quite wet enough for it to enter easily. She returned to stroking her clitoris.
"Zaymis' so mnoy lyubov'yu," Ada murmured.
She pressed the slippery tip of the candle against her aching vulva, imagining Balgair naked, looming above her. If he'd been there she was certain she would've let him do anything he wanted. Anything at all.
The thought made Ada squirm and she tried again to insert the slippery candle into her aching vagina. She was extremely wet by now and after a little resistance it slipped in easily, filling her. She squeezed at the slick shaft with her inner muscles and lay back in the bed, imagining her legs wrapped around the tall scavenger, her ankles crossed at his back, very gently touching her clitoris with her other hand. She was imagining him holding one of her wrists in each hand as he fucked her, so that she couldn't struggle.
As her cries reached a crescendo, she kicked with her legs and moaned as she pictured Balgair thrusting deeply into her mouth too with his taut, thick cock. As the candle slid to and fro, faster and faster, Ada could almost hear Balgair gasping as he drove into her or alternatively, his cock thrusting so deep into her mouth that the glans touched the back of her throat.
As her orgasm brimmed over and filled her she plunged the candle deep, deep into her moist passage, and her fingers worked busily between her legs. At the moment of climax her imagination switched between Balgair jerking and groaning as he came inside her body, and simultaneously his thick cock pulsing and twitching between her lips, filling her mouth with his salty, delicious cream.
Ada slumped back onto the lumpy mattress, panting. After a moment she withdrew the candle very gently and pulled up her underwear, shaking a little but happy.
From the kitchen below, Jessamy yelled up the stairs, "Ada Beech! I've made some lunch. Or are you staying in bed ALL day?"
. . .
Many miles to the south west at Loch Ericht, flies buzzed around the cauterised stump of Ross Beech's left wrist in the afternoon sun. He didn't have the energy to wave them away. It had seemed like a merciful thing to do at the time - cut what was left of his ruined hand and fingers completely off and seal the blood vessels to stop him bleeding to death. He had screamed and eventually passed out from the pain when they'd done it, and had hated himself for doing so.
He had shown the Reivers weakness.
They'd wanted him alive. That was why they'd saved him. And now he was their prisoner. Balgair and his Reiver companions had tauntingly left a loaded Glock handgun in easy reach. A quick, easy way out.
But what use was a handgun, without hands?
With practice he might be able to hold the thing with his feet and pull the trigger with a toe. But without fingers, how the fuck was he supposed to get his boots and socks off. Reivers had cost him his right hand thirty years early in Cumbria. He'd learned to function with just one. What use was he with none?
Ross had begged and pleaded with them to finish him off. But unfortunately life with no hands wasn't the only thing that scared him.
Balgair knew of the colony at Fort George. He'd seen their defences with his own eyes. After Ada had rescued him from a band of scavengers in Elgin, the Reiver spy had wheedled his way into their community as a hard worker and the only person for miles who could speak fluent Gaelic.
Ross bit back the throbbing pain pulsing up his forearm and scowled across the campfire at Balgair, "So wh-what did Sawney really say to you, fuckface? If th-that was actually his name."
Balgair glanced up from skinning a mountain hare Wuornos had ensnared during the night. The same Wuornos who lay dead amongst the heather just a few yards away, "Sawney? Who the fuck is Sawney?"
Ross tried to lever himself up on one elbow, but the effort was too much. He slumped back down on his rumpled sleeping bag, "Was. The prisoner I sh-shot at the hospital. The one you t-translated for."
Balgair had ordered the other four Reivers south. Ross could guess why. Within days, Dylan McNeish and every Reiver in Glasgow would know about Fort George. The Reiver chieftain would be sending an army of his savages and Balgair's only duty until then was to keep Ross alive. If only barely.
"Oh him," Balgair shrugged, "he was just some fisherman. An islander from... Colonsay, I think he said. Hence the Gaelic and the lobster tattoo. I'm guessin' he'd disguised himsel' as a Reiver to get past our scouts. Stupid fuck. He went all the way to Fort George to try to warn ye."
Ross wouldn't have believed he could feel worse. But he did, "I killed an innocent man?"
With a practiced movement, Balgair wrenched the hare's skin off in one go and tossed it to one side, "I doubt it was yer first time. Ye're a Beech after all. Which makes ye as guilty as all the rest."
"H-how'd you figure that out, you piece of shit?"
Wind the Reiver up. Get Balgair to lose his temper and he might just pick up the handgun and use it, thought Ross. A quick, merciful death.
Balgair fixed him with a cold stare, "Yer sister. Yer daughter. Yer niece - who's a damn fine fuck by the way. They've all killed thousands in the name o' what they see as right!"
The offhand remark about Ada would have to wait, thought Ross, as he struggled to understand how anyone could see things another way, "It WAS right. J-jessamy saved you all by killing Jack Aubrey. She saved the planet! You OWE her. Tamsin destroyed the Coalition fleet. She saved all our necks. You... you can't possibly argue they were just killing for the sake of it."
Balgair reached across and snatched up the Glock. He stared at it for long seconds.
Go on, thought Ross. Point it at me and pull the fucking trigger. End it now.
But instead, the Reiver tucked the weapon in the waistband of his greasy canvas trousers and simply gazed down at him, "History is written by the victors, Ross. By the end of this... yer family's name - if anyone's alive to remember it, will mean shit."
Ross Beech's eyes turned towards the stagnant waters of the loch.
CHAPTER SEVEN: CHELTENHAM
Forty four years earlier.
PART ONE: THE BOSS
Lupita Mpenzi called across the back garden from her sunspot on the Banavies' patio, "So intombi, how come you can work a time machine but you can't work a bloody microwave?"
Phoebe Beech paused in her pacing. She'd tried and tried to force herself to relax. But couldn't. There were only hours to go until the Russians launched their missile at Thanatos. Hours to go until their one possible chance of stopping it.
And of Angus Banavie there was no sign.
He'd gone into work at GCHQ near Cheltenham soon after breakfast with the assurance he'd return home by lunchtime or early afternoon at the latest. It was now four PM.
Four PM on Friday, August 20th 2021. The day the world would change forever if they failed, "I didnae actually ken what I was doin' Loopy. I just followed the instruction manual."
Phoebe and Lupita could get to Gloucester easily enough but there was no way they'd be able to access the Soteria bunker without Angus Banavie's help.
Lupita sipped a glass of homemade lemonade she'd helped Iona prepare that morning. Unlike Phoebe she'd eaten a hearty lunch and had managed to not let nerves get the better of her, "That makes sense. Aren't you... bothered, that things you do now might change the future?"
Phoebe walked over and slumped onto a wooden patio chair next to her friend. Laura Banavie had taken the children - Hamish and Iona, for a walk. So for the time being at least, Phoebe and Lupita had the house to themselves, "Pfft! That's my reason fer comin' here in the first place. To change the future. To stop the Russians bringin' Thanatos doon on our heads."
If they looked up, Thanatos was there. A menacing, paler blue shape edging its way across the blue August sky. Already well inside the moon's orbit, the huge asteroid would reach its closest point to Earth over the United States in less than two hours. It dominated the TV news. Even overshadowing a grisly murder that had taken place in Gloucester the previous day.
"What about other things though?" Lupita asked, "smaller things. Because of what you told him, Angus knows his family will die soon. Or should die. I guarantee he'll do everything in his power now to stop that."
"I'd expect him to. It's human nature. He's a good man an' they're good people. They deserve to live. And besides, if we manage to stop that missile, Laura an' the wee 'uns'll be safe anyway. Everyone'll be safe."
Lupita set her glass down, "But if you save the planet, there'll be no need for you to come back in time from 2065. And if you don't come back in time from 2065, there'll be no-one to save the planet."
Phoebe pondered that for a moment as she watched a group of starlings root about in the flower bed for grubs, "Is that one o' those para... para whatsit thingummies?"
"Paradox? Yes, it is," the South African reached over and took hold of Phoebe's four-fingered hand, "have you, um... considered what will happen to you if the future changes? Phoebe, have you wondered if you'll even exist?"
Phoebe nodded solemnly, "Aye, Loopy. Aye I have. I've already lost most o' the people I love in the future. So I'm doin' it fer them. Where I come from, I've fucked up badly. An' people have died because of it. This is my way of puttin' all that right," she took a breath and let it slowly out, "an' the way I see it, it's either me or however many billions will die instead, if Thanatos comes down."
Lupita nodded her understanding, "That's a noble sentiment. But I..."
Beyond the garden wall, the world of 2021 went about its business regardless as Phoebe waited for her friend to continue. Traffic drove past. An airliner scored a white line across the flawless sky thousands of feet up, and customers at the local pub a few doors away chattered and laughed with one another in the beer garden.
"What lass?" she finally prompted.
When Lupita looked up she clenched her jaw to keep the tremor from her voice, "I d-don't want to... lose you Phoebe."
Phoebe wrapped her arms tightly around Lupita Mpenzi and pulled her close as she felt tears gathering in her own eyes, "Don't get all maudlin on me Loopy. Let's jus' get this thing done... then figure things oot from there yeah?"
Behind them, the double glazed patio door slid open and Major Angus Banavie stepped out, still dressed in his MTP army uniform, "Sorry I'm a wee bit late ladies. I'm just gonnae take a piss then we can be off tae save the world eh?"
. . .
At Longlevens on the outskirts of Gloucester, a nondescript house had been cordoned off with police tape. While a four strong forensics team in white SOCO suits moved to and fro photographing the crime scene and bagging evidence, uniformed constables dealt with questions from passers by and reporters.
The detectives overseeing the investigation had already left - satisfied that they'd seen all there was to see. All that remained to do was bagging the body and sealing the house up to deter any souvenir hunting ghouls.
A dishevelled looking man squeezed past inquisitive onlookers and approached the cordon, running a hand through his tousled hair in a vain effort to neaten it. He looked as if he'd spent the night sleeping in a car.
"Good morning," said Jack Venator briskly to the young PC on duty. He flashed his warrant card, "DC Venator. I've been asked to take another look at the crime scene. Fresh pair of eyes and all that?"
Venator guessed the PC couldn't have been more than twenty or twenty one. But then at his age they all looked as if they should still be in school.
Acting as if you had every right to be there was the key, he thought. Project an air of confidence. Though in truth he didn't even have the right to be south of the border under the termd of his suspension.
The PC lifted the tape for him to duck under, "Sure sir. Go ahead."
Relieved, Venator smiled his thanks and quickly walked into the house. He pulled on nitrile gloves and bounded up the stairs two at a time.
"There are signs of a struggle," he was informed when he reached the master bedroom, "but I've told the detective leading the investigation that already."
A man wearing the full ensemble of safety goggles, gloves, face mask and a SOCO suit - had introduced himself simply as Ryan then continued photographing a trail of blood spills leading to the ensuite bathroom. The perpetrator had obviously cleaned themselves up afterwards.
With his face covered, Venator could only guess at the man's age from his voice, "But no defensive wounds?"
Ryan shook his head, "No. So we're guessing the vic was held down on the bed and maybe knocked unconscious first? From the amount of blood I'd say the, er... mutilation was carried out post mortem."
Not quite the modus operandi he'd seen before from the Painted Lady. Venator would have assumed he was barking up the wrong tree after all, if it wasn't for the eyewitness who'd spotted someone roughly matching the Painted Lady's description leaving the house, "Cause of death?"
"Can't tell yet," answered Ryan impatiently, "possibly heart attack. Shock? The guy must have been absolutely bloody terrified."
Venator turned reluctantly towards the bed, "And the body hasn't been moved?"
"Nope."
Andrew Skelton's body lay naked in the centre of the bed. Pale, hairy and a little overweight. Venator had seen some pretty fucked up things in his time but couldn't bring himself to look directly at the victim's ruined face. As per the crime report that had piqued his interest - nose, eyes and tongue had indeed been removed and presumably taken away as some kind of trophies.
He turned his attention instead to the fingerless hands, stuck with a gum of drying blood to various pamphlets, booklets, postcards and plans of Gloucester's cathedral scattered across the duvet.
Skelton - a divorcee in his late fifties had after all been the manager of the city's Tourist Information shop. Venator carefully teased one of the leaflets from under the body - a simplified resume of all the restoration work that had recently been carried out, "Looks like he brought his work home with him."
"Yeah," answered Ryan, "or someone else did."r"
https://www.podcasts.com/-ea2c13b9a
https://www.matrixgames.com/forums/showprofile.asp?memId=71595
https://yogatrade.com/members/pizanuke/
https://network.changemakers.com/profiles/diatrabmaufa
https://www.bluemaumau.org/profile/livaluti
https://www.bigsoccer.com/members/liyuvusi.349286/
https://forums.eagle.ru/member.php?u=169759
https://www.nfsplanet.com/com_showuser.php?lang=eng&id=65928
https://www.trailrunproject.com/user/200754705/wallace-nowakowski
Комментарии
Отправить комментарий