No Dominion: An action-packed post-apocalyptic thriller (Plague Times Trilogy)

by Louise Welsh

  Magnus had looked up, eyes red-rimmed. ‘I vouched for Belle. It’s up to me to fix things.’

  The wind dropped and for a moment they could hear the sound of the rain beating against the tarpaulin covering the bodies of Candice and Bjarne, lying together in the cart up ahead. Stevie wished she had been more patient with Candice. The woman had irritated her and she had sided with Willow without bothering to examine the evidence. The results of jumping to conclusions were cold and bloody. She said, ‘If I’d paid more attention to Candice things might have gone differently.’

  She remembered waking to find Belle watching her from Cubbie Roo’s Castle walls, the wind lifting her fine, corn-spun hair into the air. The woman had recounted her survival story; the raid that had resulted in the loss of her eye, the loss of her freedom. From now on, Stevie resolved, her decisions would be based on hard facts, rather than gut feeling and prejudice. She said, ‘We shouldn’t leap to false conclusions. Belle and her men might still be on Wyre. The children could be with them, or hiding somewhere else. Teenagers have a silly sense of humour. It could be a joke that’s got out of hand.’

  Alan Bold’s face was the colour of cold porridge. ‘We’ll know soon.’

  They had sent a boat to Wyre. It had been beaten back by the waves on its first attempt, but was on its way now.

  Magnus’s eyes were on the wagon ahead, the muffled shape of the bodies beneath the tarpaulin. The small convoy shared a delayed rhythm, the rear carts mimicking the lurch and pitch of the leader as they went over the same ruts and potholes in turn. He said, ‘We should have remembered there’s a world beyond here, full of people ready to kill for what we have.’

  Stevie wiped the rain from her eyes. It was a futile gesture. The deluge was unrelenting. Belle had told her she would do anything to survive, but she had also said the world beyond their islands was hellish, pretty soon that hell will be coming your way. Stevie had thought it a friendly warning, but perhaps it was a disguised threat, a secret promise. She wiped her face with the edge of her sleeve. The wind was biting, her lips dry and chapped despite the rain.

  ‘We don’t know what’s happened yet,’ she said.

  Magnus turned to look at her. ‘We know what happened. They took our children.’

  The New Orcadian Council office’s spirit stove could not provide warm drinks for more than a few people at a time and hip flasks and bottles were circulating. Stevie followed their progress, saw the islanders tip and swallow. Most drank more than one long, throat-burning draught, but the alcohol had little visible effect. Someone passed her a bottle and she raised it to her lips. The liquid scoured her mouth, but she swallowed it down without coughing, eager for some warmth in her belly. She shoved the rotas that she and Alan Bold had carefully rewritten to one side and clambered onto her desk. Everything she had worked for was coming undone. She looked into the gathering of islanders, felt their misery and knew the sting of misplaced pride.

  Breda was sobbing softly beside the makeshift stage. Parents with small children held them close. Those with missing teenagers looked side-whacked, but their eyes were dry. They reminded Stevie of horses turning their flanks to the wind; stoical against the storm.

  ‘Candice and Bjarne are dead.’ Stevie’s voice sounded thin and cracked. She delivered the news without emotion, a human telecaster. ‘They were shot in cold blood in their own home.’

  Word of the murders had already circulated. There were no exclamations of horror, no gasps of surprise.

  Brendan Banks said, ‘Bjarne was an angry man. Are you sure he didn’t do the deed himself?’

  ‘Positive.’ Stevie tried to make eye contact with as many people in the room as possible. Their closed expressions made it hard for her to read their mood. ‘I can go into details of why we’re so certain later, but for now let’s just say that we’re sure.’ Candice had come to her for help and she had sent her away. Stevie’s eyes teared but she pressed on. ‘Five teenagers are missing. So is Breda’s eighteen-month-old daughter, little Evie.’ Lorna Mills had an arm around Breda. The woman buried her face in the teacher’s embrace. ‘We have no evidence that these disappearances are related, but it’s too big a coincidence to dismiss. We suspect the children have gone to the mainland with a view to making their way to Glasgow.’ Connor was standing beside his mother at the back of the shop. Stevie had promised the boy she would keep his testimony to herself. She made sure not to catch his eye. ‘We also suspect the newcomers we quarantined on Wyre have something to do with their going.’

  ‘Suspect or know?’ a voice shouted from the crowd.

  ‘Strongly suspect.’ Stevie had not forgotten her resolution to follow facts. ‘A boat has gone to Wyre to check if they’re still there. If they’ve gone, we’ll conclude they’re at the heart of this.’

  ‘The newcomers didn’t make them go.’ Poor Alice had looked after the younger children while their mothers joined the search party. She looked tired and brittle, as if she had spent a night in the hills. ‘I’m not saying Belle and her boys don’t have a motive for playing Pied Piper, but the youngsters were bound to leave eventually. That’s what young people do. They go in search of adventure. You can’t hold on to them, no matter how much you want to.’

  A mutter of protest slid through the meeting; surf on a wave.

  Lorna Mills slipped her arm from around Breda’s shoulder and turned to face the islanders.

  ‘Poor Alice is only half right. These islands were never going to be big enough for personalities like Willow. But they weren’t ready to leave yet. They’re young for their years, easily influenced. I don’t know who killed Bjarne and Candice, but I did suspect that something unhealthy was going on in that house. I know some of you did too.’ She glanced at Stevie. ‘Now I wish I’d followed my intuition instead of waiting until I was certain. Belle may have lured them away, for whatever purpose, but I spend my working days with these kids. I know them. They wouldn’t up and leave for no reason. Stevie was right when she said the murders of Candice and Bjarne could have something to do with their disappearance.’

  ‘My boy had nothing to do with any murders.’ A woman in the centre of the room pulled back the hood of her parka, baring her face. She was dark-eyed and olive-skinned, her hair pinned up in a windswept bun. ‘Adil was always asking me what things were like before the Sweats.’ She stretched her lips into the semblance of a smile. ‘I knew he’d leave the islands one day, but we had years yet. He’s still a boy.’

  The door to the council offices opened and the bell swung into its customary clanging. Joe Archibald stepped into the old shop, his face red and wind-burnt from the crossing to Wyre. His mate Raja was with him. Both men had hats pulled low over their faces. Joe shook his head and Raja said, ‘The farmhouse on Wyre is empty. It looks like they set off suddenly. They left a meal half-eaten on the kitchen table, but they took all their gear with them.’

  Magnus McFall pushed his way through the crowd towards the exit. Stevie called after him, ‘Magnus, you’re part of this.’ But the crofter lifted a bottle to his lips and stepped into the street, setting the shop bell ringing again. The door slammed behind him. Stevie closed her eyes in despair.

  When she opened them the olive-skinned woman had lifted a young child from the floor and was bundling it against the cold. ‘Adil won’t last two minutes in a city. Every second we waste talking, our kids are getting further away.’

  Stevie remembered the woman’s name now. Francesca was one of the few islanders with more than one child. She and her three boys lived on the edge of Stromness in a large, messy house surrounded by a well-tended vegetable garden.

  ‘You say your son won’t last two minutes in the city, how long do you think you’d last, Francesca?’

  The woman’s face flushed. ‘I was in London when the Sweats hit. I know what to expect.’

  ‘In that case you’ll know that you’re risking your life and the lives of your other kids if you chase after Adil with them in tow.’ Stevie let her gaze
scan the room, taking them all in. ‘We thought we were safe on the Orkneys. We were wrong. Belle warned me that the hell of the cities was headed this way. She might have already known that she was going to make off with our teenagers, the cream of our crop, but what if she meant more than that? What if Belle and her boys were just an advance party? Maybe we’re going to have to fight for the privilege of living in peace.’

  The room erupted into a confusion of voices. Stevie held up her hand, but it was Alan Bold who strode across the room and swung the door backwards and forwards, making the shop bell clang, until the islanders gave in to silence.

  Stevie threw him a grateful look. ‘I’m not saying we abandon our runaways to their fate, but we have to accept that we’re not in a position to send half the island chasing after them.’

  Alan Bold reached up and stilled the bell with his hand. ‘Who’s to say that isn’t part of their plan? Get the most able-bodied men off the island and then strike.’

  Lorna Mills took her arm from around Breda’s shoulder. The prospect of a potential attack had given nervous energy to the deadened atmosphere, but the teacher’s voice was composed. ‘Where do the murders fit into this?’

  ‘I don’t have all the answers.’ Stevie held Lorna’s gaze. ‘But I do know we’re in danger of making ourselves vulnerable.’

  Francesca’s face was red. The child in her arms started to cry. ‘So we abandon our children to the cities and hope for the best?’

  Breda shouted, ‘Evie’s a baby. She won’t know where her mummy has gone. She’ll think I abandoned her.’

  Stevie held up a hand. ‘I told you, I’m not suggesting we forget about the children. But it’s essential we make sure we don’t lose what we’ve built here.’

  The parents whose children were missing were gathered together at the front of the small crowd. Sonny Renton stepped closer to the desk and looked up at Stevie.

  ‘None of this means anything without the kids.’ Renton was a small man in his mid-fifties, the foster father of Sky. He had damaged his leg badly in a scything accident during the island’s first harvest and walked with a limp. He turned to face the gathering.

  ‘Each of us lost everything in the Sweats. Everything we worked for, everyone we loved. We call ourselves survivors, but most of us are only just holding on by our fingertips. Our kids keep us going, even though most of them aren’t ours by birth. These islands are nothing to me, if I lose my daughter.’

  There were a few muttered assents, but most of the islanders kept their silence. Some looked at their boots.

  Renton raised his voice. ‘Who’ll come with me and help bring our kids back?’

  Francesca put her hand up. So did Breda and the other parents whose children were missing, but the majority of the islanders kept their hands by their sides.

  Renton said, ‘You bunch of bastards. How would you feel if it was your child?’

  ‘It’s not that we don’t care.’ Brendan Banks took his cap from his head and wrung it between his hands. ‘We don’t know what to do for the best. What if Stevie’s right? We’ve made a life here. We can’t give it up without a fight.’

  Someone else said, ‘It’s almost harvest time. If that fails, we all fail.’

  Stevie got down from the desk. ‘You elected me president of the council because you trust me. I’ve done my best to live up to your trust by working hard, being straight with you and not making promises that I can’t keep.’ There were a few murmurs of assent from the crowd, but not as many as she needed. She said, ‘Have I ever lied to you?’

  This time the response was louder, ‘No.’

  Stevie focused on the parents of the missing children and asked the question again, her voice low, as if the conversation was solely between them.

  ‘Have I ever lied to you?’

  Their response was mumbled and reluctant, but it was the answer she wanted – No.

  Stevie nodded. ‘I’m going to make a promise to you. I intend to keep it, or die trying. I promise to track the children down and bring as many of them back as will come with me.’ Some of the parents started to speak, but Stevie talked over them. ‘Francesca’s right. The longer we delay, the further your sons and daughters get from us. Any chance we have of bringing them home relies on speed. That’s not going to happen if we take the time to assemble a big team. They already have a day’s travel on us.’ She looked at the parents of the missing teenagers. ‘Sonny, I know you want to be the one who brings your girl home, but your leg slows you down. Francesca, you have two other boys who need you here. Breda, this is a task for someone who can kill.’ She scanned the crowd. The islanders’ faces were turned towards her. Their expressions were grave, but they were survivors and had learned to grasp at slim spars of hope. ‘I’ll take one person with me.’

  Alan Bold took his hat from his pocket and put it on his head, ready to set out.

  Stevie caught his eye and looked away, focusing on the faces of the islanders lifted towards her. ‘You elected Alan Bold as my deputy. While I’m gone he will continue with the day-to-day running of the council and lead preparations for our defence in case of an attack.’ She looked to where Joe Archibald stood, broad-shouldered and earnest at the back of the room. ‘Joe, you’re a good sailor and a decent marksman. Will you consider coming with me?’

  Joe Archibald gave her his steady smile. He shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Stevie. I promised myself when I landed here that this is where I’ll die. If there’s going to be a battle for Orkney, I’d rather stay and be a part of it.’ He adjusted his cap, embarrassed at turning her down in front of so many witnesses. ‘I’m not the one you should be inviting. Magnus McFall is a better sailor and as good a shot as me. His boy is one of the missing kids. He’ll stop at nothing to bring him home.’

  Stevie had anticipated the suggestion. Magnus was popular, but he was too emotional – too inclined to drink and take chances – to be a good choice. There was another reason she wanted to avoid his company too. One she could not share with the rest of the islanders.

  She said, ‘Magnus walked out on our meeting half an hour ago with a bottle in his hand. He’ll be well on his way to drowning his sorrows by now. I need someone I can rely on.’

  Poor Alice shook her head. ‘Magnus likes a drink, but there are plenty of people in this room who would beat him to the title of island drunk. My bet is, while you’ve been up there jawing, Magnus has been down at the quayside getting his boat ready. You’d better shift yourself, if you want to catch him.’

  Stevie looked at Brendan Banks.

  The banjo player nodded. ‘He thought he’d have more chance on his own.’

  ‘And you didn’t think it worth mentioning?’

  Brendan shrugged. ‘It’s his boy, his decision.’

  ‘No, Brendan …’ Stevie unlocked her desk drawer, took out the gun and boxes of ammo she kept there and shoved them in her rucksack. Pistol had been asleep beneath the desk. He got up and nudged her legs, eager to be outdoors. She ignored the dog. ‘It’s not Magnus’s boy, Magnus’s decision. These children don’t belong to anyone. Not to us, not to the islands. They’re their own people. It might be that they don’t want to come back, in which case I’ll have to respect their choice.’ The dog nudged her again and she shoved it away. ‘Alice is right. We can’t hold the children here for ever, but they’re young and inexperienced. They’ve been duped into thinking the world is safer than it is. We have to take some responsibility for that. The Sweats gave us no second chances, but if I catch up with the kids quickly enough, I may be able to offer them one.’

  Alan Bold had taken a rifle from a locked cupboard. He shouldered it, ready to walk with her down to the quayside. Stevie thought he looked relieved not to be going with her.

  Francesca said, ‘Don’t listen to Adil if he tells you he wants to stay. He thinks he’s grown-up, but he’s still a child.’

  The parents clustered round Stevie, reminding her of their children’s names, giving her mess
ages for them, telling her of childhood ailments. She touched each of them in a swift embrace and headed to the door, Pistol at her heels, Alan Bold at her side. The meeting followed them into the street. The crowd was quiet. There were none of the smiles or catcalls she imagined had accompanied soldiers heading to war.

  Stevie knew she had not been entirely straight with the islanders. She had let them think the children’s welfare the sole purpose of her search, but she had a second motive. The murders had been forgotten in the confusion of child runaways and threatened invasion. Bjarne had been unpopular, Candice a pale ghost of the woman she had once been. They had no friends or family to vouch for them.

  Whatever the age of Candice and Bjarne’s murderers, whoever’s son or daughter they were, Stevie was determined to bring them home to face justice. It was the reason she had not wanted to team up with Magnus McFall. Magnus would fight to the death for his son, even if Shug turned out to be a killer.

  Twenty

  Magnus was loading final provisions into his dinghy. Tiredness made him clumsy, but he could not afford to take a break. The tide would turn soon and he needed its help if he was to reach open waters before the end of the day.

  A dog barked. Magnus looked up and saw Pistol lolloping along the pier. Stevie would not be far behind.

  ‘Shit.’

  He had hoped to be on his way before anyone realised he was gone. Magnus ran his eyes over the gear still waiting on the quayside, calculating what was essential.

  ‘Wait up, McFall.’ Stevie’s voice carried over the lap of the harbour waves and the cries of the seagulls. The weather had cleared a little and her parka was unzipped. She held a rifle in her left hand, muzzle pointing towards the ground. A rucksack was strapped to her back. The population of the island followed in her wake.

  Magnus remembered a TV advert for bread, or had it been a bank? A whole village inspired to run through the streets for love of some product. The villagers in the advert had been dizzy with joy. His fellow islanders looked like a Highland funeral. Magnus wondered if he would ever rid himself of trivial flashbacks.