Restoring Time

by Jenn Lees

  “No one’s the perfect leader.” Xian’s voice was gentle. “I didn’t know your parents, but I’m sure they didn’t slip into their roles. From what everyone says, your mother was an exceptionally capable woman, but someone must have mentored her gifts and talents. Just as your parents and George mentored and encouraged your strengths and aptitudes. You are able, Rory Campbell.”

  The warmth of Xian’s confidence in Rory was the yang to the yin of the ice in Rory’s gut.

  “But what if I’m not?” Rory hitched his shoulders and adjusted his rifle strap. “What if I’m just the most obvious one to do the job? The only person who will do it?”

  “Apart from Angela.”

  “Aye, apart from Angela,” Rory agreed.

  “Oh, please don’t let her do it,” Xian pleaded.

  “See? That’s just what I mean.” Rory’s words came out with more force than he intended. “Nobody wants her to lead, so it has tae be me.”

  “No, it’s not like that. You’re a better leader than Angela. You’ll do a superior job, and everyone knows it. It was a good thing she went to the Government Bunker. It gave people in the Community a chance to breathe and rethink.” Xian gave a short nod. “And it is appropriate you have married. Being a parent is beneficial for a leader.”

  “I haven’t...we haven’t...” Rory’s cheeks warmed.

  “You didn’t?” Xian’s eyebrows reached his hairline. “Not even when you were on the Isle of Ewe—?”

  “No. So I don’t know why you’re speaking of fatherhood, friend.” Rory recalled the vision he had on waking on the Isle of Ewe, of a toddler holding tight to his trouser leg, and a pregnant Siobhan.

  I’ll never be able to explain that one to Xian.

  The beating of hooves came from the forest beside them, the cadence making it clear it wasn’t the hooves of deer, but of horses.

  Many horses.

  “Bandits!” Xian kicked his horse to a gallop.

  “We may need to fight,” Rory yelled. “We’ll no’ outrun them with the packhorse.”

  Rory spun Boy to face the pounding hooves. The riders had reached the road behind them. Aye, they were bandits though he recognised none of them. Their dirty clothes were rags and their horses in poor condition.

  Rory pulled out his Glock from where it was tucked into the back of his belt and fired in the air.

  The bandits didn’t stop. They continued to head straight for them—yelling.

  Roaring at them.

  Rory hesitated. His recent long-term encounter with Micah McNair had changed his opinion of bandits. But these weren’t like McNair’s crew. Their eyes blazed with malevolence and their charge didn’t falter.

  Rory stuffed his Glock in his jacket pocket, then slid his rifle from his back and chocked the firearm’s butt tight into his shoulder. It would waste a round, but he aimed wide. A bullet flying close could still halt them. Rory squeezed the trigger. His weapon discharged, kicking his shoulder.

  The bandits still bore down on him and Xian.

  Rory fired his rifle again.

  One down.

  A riderless horse sped past. The man riding behind it held a rifle outstretched. Rory kicked, pressing with his knees to move Boy. Twisting in the saddle, he took aim and fired again. That bullet went wide.

  Thwack.

  The barrel of the bandit’s rifle whipped Rory in the side. Kidneys stinging, he lost his seat and crashed to the ground, his rifle flying out of his grip. Boy snorted.

  In Rory’s peripheral vision, Xian was air-born, but of his own doing. His extended leg collided with a bandit riding past him. The man slumped forward in the saddle.

  Rory stood; his side throbbing. A woman with short cropped-hair and wide solid shoulders charged at him. She held a shotgun in her massive hands, not ready to fire, but to whip him as her companion had.

  The only shots fired so far had been his own.

  The bandits were out of ammo.

  Rory grabbed the stock of the woman’s shotgun once she drew near and pulled her from her mount. His Glock flew out of his coat pocket and hurtled to the ground.

  The female bandit rolled to stand and delivered a powerful punch to his jaw.

  Rory blocked the next one, which she aimed at his throat, and caught her arm in a lock. She stepped in close and kicked his leg from under him. Hard ground hit his back with a shudder. He slipped his hand into his boot and slid out his Buck knife. She landed a forearm onto his throat, her upper body weight behind it.

  An effective choke.

  The rest of her body weight pressed through her knee on his upper arm of the hand holding his knife, where it pinched and burned.

  He pushed the knife up to her thigh.

  No reach.

  Her continued choke on his throat dotted spots over his vision, which was fading out. He blinked to clear it and keep his sight on her. Yelling came from the woods and guns fired, all sounding distant compared to the thundering in his ears. She turned to the gunshots and the pressure on his throat eased. Rory drew in air and the spots faded. Focussing, he stabbed again at the female bandit and struck flesh in her meaty thigh. She screamed at him; raw and angry. He blocked her punch to his face with his free hand, caught her hand and twisted it out.

  “Go!” A stern male voice shouted above them and the pressure on Rory’s throat lifted.

  Rory dragged the misty air into his lungs.

  The woman grabbed the saddle of the horse trotting past and flew up into it. She leaned over and grasped the packhorse’s reins. Siobhan’s horse followed.

  “Boy!” Rory’s husky shout rang out, tearing his throat. Hooves clattered on the road by his head while the rest of the bandits retreated. Boy’s soft muzzle nudged the side of his face.

  “Why’d they go?” Xian stepped beside Rory, his breath coming hard.

  “Don’t know why but glad—” Sitting up he coughed through bile.

  “You okay, man?” Xian squatted beside him; his brow creased.

  Rory took another deep breath in and nodded.

  “She made Kendra look like a kitten.” Xian’s lip curled for a second, then pursed. “The packhorse and Siobhan’s gelding are gone.”

  Rory nodded again.

  “We going back?”

  Rory shook his head till it hurt. Xian stepped to his horse and returned with a water bottle and handed it to him. Rory sipped, the cool liquid soothing his grazed throat.

  “They got what they wanted, I expect.” Xian held tight to the remaining horses’ reins and moist dirt clung to his buckskins.

  “Aye, and you wished for bonding time.” Rory’s gravelly voice sounded worse than it felt. “Looks like we’ll be hunting and fishing for our supper all the way to Edinburgh.”

  Chapter 4

  On the Road

  Rory woke with a start.

  “You dozed off—again.” Xian suppressed a smirk after his calm observation.

  “It is nae funny, Xian.” Four long days of riding had left Rory with the ability to snooze in the saddle, but his muscles were heavy and spasming. Boy snorted beneath him as Rory adjusted his position, creaking the leather saddle, and Xian remained quiet beside him.

  An uneasy sensation lingered in Rory, like he’d had another vision. In a previous vision of a dim sky and sparsely growing crops, a murky feeling had accompanied his waking. His visions were like a vague second sight as the old Highlanders would have named it. But this vision was like those dreams you can’t quite recall. Rory’s mind clawed for it. Each time he reached out the images eluded him, only to leave a prescience of foreboding.

  It was something to do with Siobhan—and it was nae good.

  In the distance, the old Kincardine Bridge lay across the narrow segment of the River Forth. A rusted handrail ran its entire length to the other bank. Rory peered past the crowd that had gathered ahead waiting to cross the bridge. People on horseback, driving carts or on foot, moved in small groups. Dust rose from the action of the travellers who crossed o
n the road that sat in the belly of the bridge.

  Rory and Xian rode closer, slowing their pace once they reached the end of the line waiting to cross. Rory imagined the stone-littered road surface had originally been smooth bitumen. Now years of neglect and non-existent road maintenance had made it a dirt track over a structure with questionable stability.

  Ahead at the entrance to the bridge, a group of men stood in front of a ramshackle hut; a semi-permanent construction that sat beside the road. The men wore dark clothing of a sturdy material—maybe denim—and almost uniform-like. Two of them holding submachine guns stood at the head of the queue. Rory looked around. His rifle and Xian’s Katana were the only overt weapons, apart from the HKs held by the guys uniformly dressed.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” Rory said, feeling for his Glock still tucked in his belt behind him, and touching his rifle hanging over his shoulder.

  “Looks like a tollbooth,” Xian commented. “People are handing stuff to the men at the shack.”

  “Och, these guys look like someone’s army.” Rory grimaced. “There’s some extortion going on.”

  They rode closer, moving with the queue. The people ahead handed over money, goods or livestock before the armed men permitted them to cross. A chicken clucked wildly, feathers flying as a traveller passed the hen to a man sitting at a folding table. Rory and Xian inched their way forward with the crowd and reached one of the armed men.

  “Halt!” The man raised his firearm.

  Rory pulled Boy up and stared from the saddle.

  “Your names,” the man demanded. “Move slowly if ye are going to.”

  “Rory Campbell.”

  “Xian Law.”

  “Why are you armed?”

  “We’re always armed.” Rory kept his gaze steady. “Did nae think it was a problem.”

  “Where do ye come frae?” The guard had tilted his head a fraction while he listened to Rory. “Ye sound like ye are a lang way from hame, like.”

  “Aye.” Rory stirred in his saddle. “Up north.”

  “Way up north, lad.” The man squinted his left eye, studying Rory. “Why are yoo down this far?”

  “Why are you askin’ me these questions?” Rory leaned forward.

  “Rory,” Xian spoke softly. “Settle down.”

  “Right! Git off ya horses.” The guard waved the HK, indicating Rory to dismount.

  Rory flung his right leg over Boy’s neck and slid off in one fluid motion, landing lightly on the ground. Xian dismounted as well. The guard’s hand tensed around his weapon and another man with an MP5 stepped closer.

  “What’s going on?” A short, stocky man with neat greying hair, and wearing trousers and a shirt, strode out from the shack and elbowed past the guards.

  “These men are armed.” The guard stepped back but kept his HK trained on Rory. “This one’s got a mouth.”

  “What’s your name?” The man spoke with authority.

  “Och, I need to know who’s askin’ before I give my name out again.” Rory spoke low. Xian tensed beside him.

  The man gave a slow shake of his head. “Now, I did ask nicely,” he said, changing his head motion to a barely discernible nod.

  The guard holding the submachine gun stepped forward and Rory focused on the muzzle.

  “No,” Xian whispered.

  The guard snapped out a short leap-kick and his heavy-duty boot connected with Rory’s midriff. Burning pain accompanied the wind driven out of Rory’s lungs. He staggered, forcing himself to remain upright. The guard’s hand clamped around Rory’s upper arm as he seized him and yanked his rifle strap over his face, then ripped his Glock from its home in his belt. Rory glanced at Xian. The other guard removed the Katana from Xian’s back. He raised his hands in submission and Rory did the same.

  “That’s more like it,” the man said in a polite, low voice.

  “His name is Rory Campbell, sir,” the guard said while examining Rory’s Glock.

  “Let’s do that again. My name is Maxwell Lloyd. How do you do?” The man in the shirt and tie looked pointedly at Rory. “And where are you from?”

  “Northern Highlands, Mr Lloyd.”

  Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. “Campbell. Hmm. Wouldn’t be related to Caitlin Murray-Campbell, would you?”

  “Aye. She was ma mither.”

  “And she was a great lady.” Maxwell nodded his approval. “You must be proud.”

  Rory didn’t answer, but stifled the heat burning through his veins.

  Maxwell cast his gaze over Rory, scanning him from crown to toe, then did the same with Xian.

  “Pat ‘em down,” he ordered his guards. “They’re coming with us.” To Rory he said, “I’d like you to meet a great man—my father. You shall accompany us and be our guests in the Kingdom of Fife.”

  “But I’m on ma way—”

  “I don’t care where you think you’re going. You’ll see my father first and get his permission to travel through.”

  Rory’s brow tightened. “We are no’ in medieval times, ken? I’m free to travel Scotland without anyone’s permission.”

  “Oh, is that what you think? How wrong one can be.” Maxwell turned and walked back to the hut.

  Maxwell Lloyd’s guards searched them for concealed weapons, removed the knives tucked down their boots, and the handgun at Xian’s belt, then made them climb into a covered wagon. The horse-drawn vehicle, which sat beside the road near the hut, was one of many loaded with the goods taken as road tax.

  “What about our horses?” Rory asked the guard who jumped in beside them, training his HK on their every move.

  The guard yelled out the back of the wagon. “Mac! Tie the horses here.”

  The guy called Mac, who had been holding the reins of the two mounts, led the horses to the back of the wagon and secured their reins to the tailgate. The wagon jerked to a start, and the horses trailed behind. The wagon vibrated along the track while they travelled for half an hour past low undulating hills skirted by fields patch worked with different crops. Rory gave a pensive snort. It always amused him that this part of Scotland had retained its title of kingdom over the centuries and even up to this post-Crash era. White sheep dotted green meadows here and there. Organised planting and food production seemed abundant in these parts. There were few drystone walls, and neatly trimmed hedgerows bordered fields. Large crops of rapeseed flowered in bright yellow. Rory’s nose itched, and so did his eyes.

  “They don’t seem to have bothered about the fallout cloud warning. Even though it didn’t get up here.” Rory rubbed his nose and stifled a sneeze.

  “Maybe they didn’t know.” Xian looked out of the wagon and watched the passing countryside.

  They rumbled past a well-worn sign indicating a holiday park further on. Then another sign had a barely visible painted arrow pointing down a lane. The wagon turned in that direction and soon cabin-like huts came into view; a small village worth.

  “Holiday park. Or it was, years ago,” the guard explained. His submachine gun had remained pointed at Rory the entire journey. “It’s now one of Derrick Lloyd’s places.”

  “Derrick Lloyd? The father of the Mr Maxwell Lloyd we just met?” Xian asked.

  The guard grunted.

  The wagon drew up next to a line of about twenty similar wagons where the guard jumped out the back and indicated with his weapon for them to follow.

  As they trod behind Maxwell, a guard walked in front and another behind them. They passed small cabins made of a tough substance, not wood; a faded and weather-worn plastic of some sort. Most of the glass windows had curtains that were half disintegrated and sat torn on their rails. The cabins stood crammed together on the wide, grassed area. Rory recalled his mother speaking of a time when people used to go on holiday.

  Women lounged on the narrow front porches of these huts. Some were very young, just girls, and wouldn’t make eye contact with Rory. Others were older and sent propositioning looks in their direction. All of them were in
various states of undress. One leaned on the railing and eyed him while running her tongue across her lips.

  The scene brought back memories to Rory of a way-house near Fort William, where slavers involved in the sex-trade had taken his mother and sister, Kelly. Back in the past, Rory, his dad and his brother-in-law, Alistair, had rescued his mother and sister. That was his first time-journey, and sometimes, he wished it had never happened.

  A scene flashed before his eyes for a fleeting moment. His father’s blood-drenched body. Helping Alistair wrap his father’s body in a canvas tarpaulin and place him in their 4WD vehicle. Rory sighed and followed the guard, passing more huts. No women stood on the decking of these, and Rory glanced in an open door. Stacked boxes came right to the doorway. They were old, the writing on them faded and the cardboard and plastic weather-worn.

  They approached the main building of the former holiday complex. The guard grunted, implying Rory and Xian should wait outside while Maxwell continued in. He soon returned and flicked his fingers in a beckoning gesture. Rory slid a glance at Xian who looked straight ahead at the guard. They followed him.

  Rory and Xian entered a small front room with a counter, and Maxwell led them along a passage behind it, to a larger room where pictures covered the walls. These posters were much bigger versions of the photos on the calendars his mother had refused to throw out. Near the large windows Rory now faced, faded by the sun and time, were photographs of places in Scotland. He recognised Loch Maree and Ben Nevis. There were stunning pictures of iced lochs and snow-covered mountains. He could just read the faint writing on one. It was Glencoe, where his parents had lived when his father went back in time to be with his mother.

  Other photos and paintings were of castles. Edinburgh Castle was recognisable to Rory because of his most recent journey to the past. There were posters of Carlton Hill and Arthur’s Seat. Now buried deep beneath Arthur’s Seat, hidden away from the rest of Scotland, was the Scottish Government Bunker and Rory’s destination. One he hoped to reach soon. That’s if this Derrick Lloyd—even the name sounded over-inflated—didn’t hold him up for too long. Rory held his hands by his side, clenching and unclenching his fists.