Restoring Time

by Jenn Lees

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You are. Dinnae lie to me.” He leaned down to catch her gaze focused on the floor. “It’s something you found out in the future, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not lying about anything”—she lifted her head—“so, I would appreciate you never accusing me of that.” Her eyes had a fire in them, and a hint of worry. “Murray told me I had trouble with this pregnancy. Christine’s probably just about to inform us.”

  “What sort o’ trouble?” A churn formed deep in his guts.

  She shrugged.

  “We’ll go see Christine now.” He opened the door.

  “Now? But people are gathering for the wake.”

  “It’s something serious and I want tae know.”

  “What makes you think it’s serious?”

  “You do.” He stood with the door half open. Her pupils were wide, and her hand trembled ever-so-slightly. “I ken you. Something’s wrong and I need to know what.”

  Siobhan hung her head and sighed. “I’ll let Christine confirm it.” She looked up at him then. “I could be wrong.”

  “How?” He almost snapped but held it in check. “You’ve been to the future. Ye ken things.”

  “But we’ve changed it. We’re doing things we hadn’t done in the past of that future I went to.”

  “Aye, you’re right. How much have we changed?”

  “Hopefully enough.” Her mouth pulled to the side.

  Heavy footsteps trod toward them along the corridor.

  “Rory?” It was George.

  “Aye?” Rory tore his eyes away from Siobhan, who looked relieved at the interruption.

  “We’ve been invited to Christmas at the Bunker.”

  Scottish Government Bunker, Edinburgh

  THE LIFT DOORS OPENED onto the floor situating the cells. Bethany strode out and acknowledged the guard standing to attention.

  “Ensure we are not disturbed, please.” She held out her hand to the guard at the inner door to the single cell area, which held the one and only high-profile prisoner. “That will be all, thank you.”

  The young man handed her the keys, flicked a knowing look across to the prisoner, and left the room. Bethany shut the door behind him and locked the separate cell area.

  “Good news, I hope?” Antony said from his desk. “Many acceptances to our little soiree at Christmas?”

  She opened the door to his cell and stepped in. Weights and a bench-press ran along the far wall next to his desk, which was covered in papers. Mein Kampf lay open next to Churchill’s Memoirs of the Second World War.

  “On the whole, the invitation to spend Christmas with the New Scottish Government has been well received. Please don’t be flippant, Antony. We have important things to discuss, such as the darkening skies after the earth tremor, which our scientists have now confirmed coincided with Vesuvius erupting.”

  “Wow!” Antony’s eyebrows lifted into his closely cropped hairline.

  “They have positive intel from our friends in Southern Italy—what’s left of it.” She took a slow pace closer. “You know the delegates will stay for a day or two? Some of them will have come a long way.”

  “Hmm, that turncoat, Siobhan no-longer Kensington-Wallace, and her wild-boy of a husband will have almost a week’s travel to get here.” Antony stood from his desk. “I suppose you’ll have to suffer them for a while.”

  Bethany curled a brow, ignoring the obvious hatred behind Antony’s words.

  “Other Community leaders have accepted. There’s the relatives of Mr Campbell who live in the Glencoe Community and a weird old woman who runs a Community in a castle, which used to belong to the National Trust of Scotland, of all things.”

  “Oh aye, near Loch Tummel,” Antony scoffed. “I’ve heard they turned the mock army into a real one.”

  “Don’t knock it,” Bethany said. “We may need them.”

  “What about the bandit leader MacIntosh spoke to on the side while he was at Invercharing? I can’t recall his name.”

  “Micah McNair?” Bethany offered. “He’s now married to Mr Campbell’s younger sister.”

  “Really?” Antony’s eyes narrowed. “I wonder if he’s shared that piece of his past with his wife.”

  Antony stood a breath away from Bethany.

  Prison was good for him, improved his focus, and, due to his good behaviour, he’d been given permission for walks in the upper compound.

  “Derrick Lloyd, the self-proclaimed King of Fife, has accepted.” Her gaze slipped to the close-fitting prison shirt he wore.

  “Now it’s my turn to say ‘don’t mock’.” Antony’s own eyes searched her blouse. “An alliance with such a powerful man would be an advantage to the New Scottish Government. A capitalist entrepreneur is more like it. Bring back the good old days, hey?” The spicy scent of aftershave from the 1980s, purloined from the stores, no doubt, wafted across Bethany’s face while Antony spoke, his hands gesticulating with every word. “Not the self-sufficient, self-governed, organised, militia-loving Communities—”

  Bethany rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know you hate them.”

  “Then you also know we don’t need people like that. They won’t co-operate with us, Beth. They live an existence that doesn’t require a central government. For us to survive, they must be disbanded. And can you see the Campbell boy doing that?”

  “Siobhan claims he’s loyal to us. He told me himself that Communities are all for Scotland and he strikes me as the kind of man who would fight for—”

  “Whatever benefits his own agenda!”

  Bethany shook her head wordlessly. Antony’s deep brown eyes locked with hers, his expression changing from serious to smouldering intensity, sending her pulse up a notch.

  “Enough of that.” His voice was softer, and he pulled her to himself.

  “We should plan our approach for the Christmas conference, Antony.”

  “Later,” he said.

  All thoughts of strategy flew from her mind, chased away by the ministrations of Antony’s mouth, tongue, hands and ...the rest of him.

  Chapter 35

  Invercharing Community, 2063

  “What!” Rory closed his mouth on the expletive that would follow. A child cried in the far corner of the medical centre, and forceps clanged in a metal tray as Cèilidh tended to the dressing of a youth who’d injured himself while chopping wood. “No.” He shook his head, stifling the word, so it was a low mumble, along with the desire to hold Siobhan and never let go.

  Christine got up from the couch in the quiet area of the medical centre and shut the door, creating privacy, of a sort.

  “Before she passed, Dr Bec told me if there was any complication with Siobhan’s pregnancy, she was to go straight to the Bunker where they could deal with it safely.” Christine spoke in authoritative tones. “Rory, you can’t deny your wife—”

  “Och! I’m not. I just dinnae like it, that’s all!” His nostrils flared. “It’s just that Siobhan will be in the Bunker for the next six months, instead of being here. I’ll miss ma wee boy, too for I cannae stay there with you, Siobhan.” He slid his arms around her waist, not caring they were in the busy medical centre and patients and medics alike could look through the windows into the quiet corner if they wished.

  “I know, Rory, but I must go.” Siobhan’s voice was soft in his ear, but her tone held something else. Was it fear?

  “You’ll be okay, Siobhan. They’ll know what placenta-whatever is, will they no’?”

  “Aye,” Christine answered for Siobhan. “I’ve already contacted their medical staff. They’re happy—no insisting—she comes as soon as you can.”

  “No’ on a horse, lass.” He let go of her waist and stood back. “We’ll take a wagon. It will still be over a week on a rattly thing, but we’ll drive slow, aye? And Jake will cope better with it, too.”

  Siobhan’s shoulders eased their tension, so did her expression. If only he felt as relieved as Siobhan.

  “Well, at
least it coincides with the Christmas celebrations.” Christine was enthusiastic. “You’ll be a wee bit early, Rory, but you may as well stay for them.”

  “Aye.” He tilted his head. “Cannae be away for long. I’ll have to return. Just hope the weather holds. Those bandits are getting more eager and reckless. The abnormally darker skies are stirring them up.”

  Fife

  SIOBHAN HALF LAY, HALF sat in the rear of the wagon and shuffled her feet, stretching her legs out on the thin mattress covering the bottom of the wagon and wriggling her toes, numb with cold. The seat in the front next to Rory was hard and backache had set in again, despite the thick cushion she’d brought. All the way from Invercharing, Jake had alternated between sitting beside his father while watching the road pass by, and chatting about everything, or playing with his toys next to her in the tray of the wagon.

  “You wait there, Siobhan.” A halo of misted breath floated around Rory’s face in the semi-darkness. “I’ll see if there’s anywhere nearby—”

  “But my dad will put us up!” Micah pulled his mount’s reins, settling the animal’s impatient nickers. “Come on, man. He won’t try anything. We’re all expected at the Bunker tomorrow.”

  Rory faced Siobhan, his crinkled brow exposed his inner fight with resignation, then he looked back to Micah.

  Siobhan poked her head out through the canvas awning that kept out some of the Scottish winter. Night was already here. Winter’s days were not only short but even darker and colder with the ashen screen continually covering the sun from the volcano’s eruption which had spread its cloud over the northern hemisphere. They couldn’t get to the Bunker soon enough, as far as Siobhan was concerned. There would be efficient heating there.

  “Your wifey and yoor wee boy deserve a decent place to stay tonight, Rory,” Micah continued his reasoning. “I give you my word, we’ll be okay.”

  Rory turned to her in the back of the wagon. “What do you think, Siobhan?”

  “Jake’s chestier. Getting him out of the cold air would help. And I need a soft, warm place to rest. I’d rather not turn up at the Bunker looking haggard and forlorn.”

  Rory’s cheek muscles tensed, then he let out a misty breath once more. “Verra well.”

  “Good!” Micah had barely let the word out when he kicked his horse to a canter.

  Cèilidh had remained at home in Invercharing with their children. Siobhan shrugged, trying to shake away the slight resentment. Cèilidh’s pregnancies, despite being twins, had gone without a hitch.

  Rory drove the wagon as it rattled down the road to the old holiday park, while the figure of Micah on his horse moved away into the night. Light dotted the darkness ahead to her left, and soon the forms of the old holiday cabins loomed closer. Rory drove the horses onto the track that led to the central area of the village. Light spilled from the cabins and the shadows of the occupants crossed the narrow verandas.

  Men milled around the main building where Siobhan and Rory had first met Lloyd. Memories of a scone piled high with cream tweaked the corner of Siobhan’s mouth. The men carried boxes and bags over to the parked wagons where Micah’s horse stood, its nose in a feed trough and its tail swishing. Rory drove the horses in that direction. Micah came running beside the wagon.

  “Ma dad’s chuffed.” Micah’s eyes sparkled in the lantern light. “He says he’d be delighted to accommodate you and your family for the night and then travel with you in convoy to the Scottish Government Bunker to celebrate Christmas.”

  “I’m sure he would.” Rory hid none of his derision. He pulled the horses to a stop in front of the stable area. “We’ll be in once I’ve unhitched and tended to ma’ animals.”

  “Och, no.” Micah sounded offended. He called into the stable area, then a young lad came running out, bobbing his head to acknowledge Micah’s orders to tend to the horses. Micah helped unload the bags while Siobhan stepped down from the wagon with care.

  “I need to bathe and bed my boy after some food, Micah.” Siobhan lifted Jake from the wagon; the night air hit his chest and he coughed and grizzled.

  “Oh, aye. I’ve got the cook onto that already, Siobhan. Uncle Micah will make sure wee Jaykie’s got a comfy bed for the night.” He nuzzled his face into Jake’s and planted a kiss on her toddler’s cheek. Jake cried fully. “Och, no. Wheesht, lad.”

  Micah carried their bags and led them inside the main building. Siobhan rested Jake on her hip and shushed him, and Rory walked behind with a duffle bag in each hand. They followed Micah to a room, which had an en suite, a double bed, and a cot in the corner.

  “This is all very civilised.” Siobhan took Jake’s coat and shoes off and sat him in the cot while Micah and Rory placed their bags on the bed.

  “Of course, it is.” Micah stood taller. “Mavis will bring the wean’s dinner in soon. But you must dine with my father and me this evening.” Micah beamed.

  “Thank you, Micah.” Rory seemed genuine.

  “Don’t take long.” Micah shut the door behind him.

  Siobhan turned and faced Rory. His expression was tight.

  “What?”

  “I don’t like it.” His right eye narrowed. “If we go in convoy with Lloyd, it will seem like we’re aligned with him.” He looked at her then. “And we definitely are not.”

  THE CHILL SOON LEFT Rory’s bones with the warmth of the heated room seeping into him. Jake settled down after Siobhan fed him the stew Mavis had brought and was soon asleep in the cot. Micah led their way down the passage to the room where Lloyd had first entertained them. Now, a long, solid wood table stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by chairs that had lighter wood marquetry inlays on their backs. It was set for five. The cutlery shone silver and the crockery, a fine bone china, had gold edging on each plate.

  “Somebody wishes to impress,” Rory whispered into Siobhan’s ear as they entered.

  “Let him,” she whispered back. “A nice meal in a classy setting would be a great change.”

  “Dinnae be fooled. There’s nothin’ classy about this man.” A side door opened, and Rory cut his whisper short.

  Lloyd entered followed by his son and heir, Maxwell. “Good evening and welcome, friends.” Lloyd held his hands high and a superior smile filled his face. “I hear congratulations are in order on account of you both expecting your second child. I trust all is well with you, Mrs Campbell.”

  The cunning bastard knows things are not.

  Rory controlled an exhalation, attempting to settle the tension between his shoulder blades. He’d have to bear the charade of friendship. His wife and his boy needed a good meal and a comfortable bed. It was a price Rory would pay, but his senses were on high alert.

  “Maxwell, son.” Lloyd straightened to look Mr Lloyd junior in the eye. “Show our guests where they are to be seated. Dinner is ready.”

  “Thank you for accommodating us at such short notice, Mr Lloyd.” Siobhan had switched on her peace-keeping mode.

  “Aye, we are very grateful.” Rory joined the diplomacy. “It’s been a long journey.”

  “My pleasure.” Lloyd’s expression was amicable.

  He sat at the head of the table while Maxwell directed them to sit, with Micah next to Siobhan and Rory opposite them, and Maxwell sat at the far end of the table. Lloyd had once again seated Rory with his back to the main exit.

  “So, Micah”—Lloyd unfolded a linen napkin and placed it in his lap. “Your friends, colleagues, whatever you seem to call them—”

  “My bandit associates, father?” Micah shook out the napkin that sat at his place setting.

  “Aye, son.”

  “Och, they’re sending representatives to the Bunker, if that’s what you’re askin’.” Micah placed the napkin in his lap.

  “And you’ll both be attending on behalf of the Communities, Mr and Mrs Campbell?” Lloyd asked.

  Mavis brought a tureen of soup to the table.

  “We’re representing Invercharing,” Rory said. “Other Communiti
es are sendin’ their own delegates.”

  Mavis lifted the lid from the tureen and the aroma of seasoned potatoes wafted into Rory’s face. Steam billowed up while she served the soup. His stomach grumbled—it had been a long time since their light snack on the road.

  “Oh, wonderful. I look forward to meeting the other Community leaders.” The man tried hard, but he gave away his roots with his excitement. Streetwise Glasgow, Rory’s father would’ve called the accent sneaking through.

  “You haven’t come across any other Communities, Mr Lloyd?” Siobhan asked. “I imagine your network has quite a reach.”

  “Only the one up near Arbroath.” Lloyd spooned the soup into his mouth and soon finished his bowl. “They have supplied our main course. Ever had smokies?” He directed his question to Siobhan, who shook her head.

  Mavis cleared the table and soon returned with a hot platter of brown coloured fish. A smoky aroma surrounded her while she served a portion onto each plate. Two teenage girls followed closely behind her and served out the vegetables.

  “What do you think the Government is up to, Father?” Micah asked.

  Lloyd placed the forkful of smoked fish into his mouth and chewed.

  “Micah, the Government isn’t up to anything,” Siobhan interjected. “Only meeting the leaders of the people and offering hospitality.” Her irritation came through with her tone. “Pardon my rudeness, Mr Lloyd, but I’m certain the New Scottish Government only has goodwill and conversation in mind for this Christmas meeting.”

  “New Scottish Government. Aye, I heard they’d already named themselves.” Hoary brows lifted above steel-grey eyes.

  “Well, no, but that’s what we’re aiming for—”

  “I hope so, as I would like to be consulted.” Lloyd’s fork remained immobile, a chunk of smokies dangling from its tines.

  “And you will. As you are attending, your voice will be heard.” Siobhan spoke with conviction, but a sliver of defensiveness slid through.