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

by Louise Welsh

  Also by Louise Welsh

  The Cutting Room

  The Bullet Trick

  Naming the Bones

  Tamburlaine Must Die

  The Girl on the Stairs

  A Lovely Way to Burn

  Death is a Welcome Guest

  No Dominion

  Louise Welsh

  JOHN MURRAY

  www.johnmurray.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by John Murray (Publishers)

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Louise Welsh 2017

  The right of Louise Welsh to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by her in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-84854-658-5

  John Murray (Publishers)

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.johnmurray.co.uk

  For David Miller

  For that some should rule and others be ruled is a thing not only necessary, but expedient; from the hour of their birth, some are marked out for subjection, others for rule.

  Politics, Aristotle

  … the dead dieth no more; death hath no more dominion

  Romans 6:9

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Afterword

  Prologue

  Seven of the children on the Orkney mainland were survivors of the Sweats. Each of them was billeted with a foster parent who was usually, though not always, the person who had found them. The children all claimed to remember the time before the Sweats. They boasted to each other of the cars their parents had driven, the countries they had travelled to; houses they once occupied, glittering with electricity. Their memories became more intricate as the years progressed. Each child could see their dead parents’ faces; remember the scent of them. The children competed over details. They described the feel of their bedroom wallpaper, the view beyond the window, the colour of their grandparents’ eyes, the taste of fast food and home cooking. Survivor children claimed to know the very atoms of the old world. But their memories only truly came alive when they were asleep, surfacing in dreams that woke their households and vanished upon waking.

  The children were forbidden to enter abandoned buildings, but the grown-ups were often overwhelmed by the business of survival and left them to their own devices. Soon the small gang were daring each other into dead-eyed houses where they roamed through Mary Celeste rooms, as hushed as archaeologists entering a tomb. Looting was a crime worthy of banishment, but the remnants of the old world were irresistible.

  The adults had agreed that, although the children were not biologically theirs, the next generation must be a priority. There were no teachers, mathematicians, linguists, engineers, historians, writers or scientists left on the islands, but a small committee was established to set up a school and take turns at teaching the children what they could. It was a plan that floundered on the demands of the post-Sweats world. The education committee struggled to relearn forgotten lessons. They agreed that science and mechanics were essential to restore civilisation, but their knowledge of both was scant and the books in the islands’ library difficult to understand.

  The arts seemed an easier option, but the fledgling teachers failed there too. History stretched behind them, an infinite past. Literature was fathomless and music had the power to evoke emotions better left buried. It was hard to know where to start and so they let the landscape around them take charge. Classes consisted of hikes to brochs and standing stones. They inspected the Churchill Barriers and the Italian Chapel, roamed the cathedral and read the names inscribed on gravestones and books of remembrance. Once, the small class broke in to the war museum on Hoy. But the losses of the Second World War were puny compared with the devastation of the Sweats and, gradually, classes began to concentrate on the immediate past.

  At first the children loved the frivolity of the pre-Sweats world. They drank in misremembered pop songs, half-recalled TV shows and confused accounts of video games. They beguiled their teachers with questions about the old days. Sometimes the adults would come to, wet-eyed, and realise that hours had passed while they had been lost in tales of life before the pandemic. As the children grew older classes began to resemble interrogations. Students tried to pinpoint details their instructors had forgotten, or never known.

  Seven years after the outbreak of the Sweats the Orkney children all knew how to ride a horse, skin a rabbit, wring a chicken’s neck, sail a boat and gut a fish. Even the younger ones could deliver a lamb and all were decent shots. They could each play the guitar well and build a shelter that would keep the rain out. The children could all read and count and most of the older ones could add, multiply and subtract. But there were gaps in their knowledge that in former times would have shocked a schools’ inspector. Their understanding of the geography of the world beyond their islands was confused, their knowledge of chemistry, physics and astronomy rudimentary. The books they read were confined to chance and personal taste. They were prone to strange dreads and superstitions.

  When the adults worried, as some of them occasionally did, that they had let the children down, they consoled themselves with the thought that you could not miss what you had never had. And there were still plenty of books in the library that would, in time, teach them what they wanted to know. The adults did not foresee that there would be a price to pay for keeping the children ignorant.

  One

  It was Easter Sunday and all but the lookouts were gathered in the upstairs lounge of the Stromness Hotel. Afternoon sunlight spilled through dust-glazed windows. Magnus McFall sat on the sill of the bay window with his back to the view of the harbour thrashing out one of the old songs. There were around fo
rty-five people in the audience, most of them crowded around tables where tourists had once dined. The remainder stood on the edges of the room, leaning against its walls, as if readying themselves for a sudden getaway. Magnus looked to where Shug sat, balanced on a high stool by the bar, a bottle of Stella in his hand. Magnus would have preferred him not to drink, but the boy was now around fifteen years old and he had resolved not to fight battles he could not win.

  Green grow the rashes, O;

  Green grow the rashes, O;

  The room joined in the chorus. Magnus risked a smile in Shug’s direction. His son looked away and raised the bottle of beer to his lips. He was wearing a white denim jacket Magnus had not seen before. He wondered where the boy had found it. A faint blast of laughter gusted from the function room below where the smaller kids were watching Young Frankenstein. They had seen the film so many times they could join in with the dialogue, but the celluloid was fragile, the generator too precious to squander on fripperies and the screening remained a treat. A year ago Shuggie would have been with them, but here he was, lounging at the bar, torn-faced and half-drunk.

  Magnus thought of the boy as his son, but as Shug had reminded him that morning, with enough force to make Magnus bunch his fists, they were not blood relations, just people the Sweats had thrown together. ‘You need me more than I need you,’ Shug had spat in his half-English, half-island accent. Magnus feared he was right.

  What signifies the life o’ man,

  An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O.

  He followed Shug’s gaze and saw Willow standing by the door. The girl had recently shorn her hair down to the bone. It was growing back in a dark fuzz that emphasised the curve of her skull. The loss of Willow’s curls had seemed like an act of violence, but it had not made her less pretty. The girl’s dark eyes met Shuggie’s and then she slipped out into the corridor beyond. Shug caught Magnus watching him and scowled.

  Her prentice han’ she try’d on man,

  An’ then she made the lasses, O.

  Magnus whipped the song to its final flourish. He acknowledged the applause, knocking back his beer to give himself an excuse to go to the bar. He was halfway across the lounge when Poor Alice caught his sleeve and asked, ‘Did you write that tune, Magnus?’

  The urge to pull away from the old woman’s grasp was strong, but Magnus crouched beside her chair and admitted that Robert Burns had come up with the song.

  ‘Well, he could not have sung it better than you.’ Alice smiled her sweet vague smile and patted his hand.

  ‘Thanks, Alice.’ Magnus prised her fingers from the cuff of his shirt and kissed her cheek. Her rosewater scent gave him a shiver of déjà vu, but there were days when everything seemed like a memory and he did not try to pin it down. He stood up and looked towards the bar. Shug was gone. On the other side of the lounge Bjarne lumbered to his feet and began to push his way towards the door. Magnus saw the set of the big man’s jaw and realised that he was not the only one who had been watching the boy. He caught up with him in the corridor. ‘Bjarne …’

  Before the Sweats, Willow’s foster father had been an area manager for Ford motors, now he was one of the few islanders who traded beyond the Orkneys. The out-of-date Stella Artois they were drinking was courtesy of one of his deals. Bjarne had gifted a dozen crates of the stuff to the Easter celebrations as part of his election bid to become president of the Orkney Islands. He scowled at Magnus, his weathered face made even ruddier than usual by heat, drink and bad temper. They had talked about the children once before and Bjarne spoke as if they were midway through the same conversation.

  ‘My lass, your boy, there’s a difference.’

  Magnus was tempted to reply that it was the differences between them that attracted the youngsters, but he knew what Bjarne meant. There was no doctor on the islands and the stakes were higher for women.

  ‘I’ve spoken to him. He knows to treat girls with respect.’

  The condoms Magnus had given Shug were well past their sell-by date. He worried the latex might have perished.

  Bjarne’s laugh was beery and sarcastic. ‘My father spoke to me when I was his age.’

  Magnus nodded. ‘Mine too.’

  ‘Did you listen?’

  Magnus’s father’s contribution to his sex education had been succinct. If you must tomcat around make sure it’s not with an island girl and make sure you take precautions.

  ‘I was no saint, but I didn’t get any lassies pregnant. If anyone got their heart broken it was me.’ Magnus risked a hand on Bjarne’s shoulder. The gesture felt odd. He took his hand away and let it hang awkwardly by his side. ‘We need to trust our kids. If we don’t we’ll just push them closer together.’

  He wanted to ask Bjarne what the Montague and Capulet shite was all about. Shuggie was a decent lad when he wasn’t being a pain in the arse. Why was he so set against him?

  The big man’s feet were set wide apart, like a boxer making sure of his centre of gravity. ‘I can read your mind, McFall. You think we should just let them get on with it.’

  Magnus shrugged. ‘They’re teenagers. It’s natural for them to want to spend time with the opposite sex.’

  ‘My girl’s only fifteen years old. She’s too young to be thinking about any of that.’

  There was no way of knowing precisely how old the children were. They had each been orphaned by the Sweats and their ages guessed at by the people who had found and adopted them.

  Stevie Flint stepped from the lounge and gave them a questioning look. ‘Everything okay?’

  Bjarne ignored her. Magnus smiled. ‘Aye, fine.’

  Stevie’s face was already burnished by exposure to the spring sunshine. She raised her eyebrows, but went back into the lounge where the trio of women who always sang ‘Harper Valley PTA’ were going into their party piece. Stevie stayed sober at island gatherings. The New Orcadian Council recognised the need for the occasional ceilidh, but getting drunk was a risky business and there was an unspoken agreement that a few clear heads were needed. There had been too many accidents, too many brains blown out under the influence, for alcohol to be taken lightly.

  The women’s voices reached into the lobby, stretched close to strangling point. The company in the lounge had started to clap in time, perhaps in the hope of hurrying the song along.

  ‘Christ, please kill me now,’ Magnus whispered.

  ‘That can be arranged,’ Bjarne said, his voice flat and free of threat. He turned and walked towards the stairs. The hotel corridor was dark after the sunlit lounge, but it was still possible to make out the stains on the carpet, the peeling wallpaper. They were living in the ruins of a civilisation they had no means of restoring.

  Magnus swore softly under his breath and followed the big man. It was like running uphill. The Easter celebrations had endeavoured to cater to everyone and the day had been a long one. First there had been the church service in Kirkwall Cathedral. Then, in a spirit of cohesion, they had made their way in carts and on horseback through the blackened ruins of the island’s burnt-out capital, back to Stromness, where they had embarked on a community lunch followed by a concert that was turning into a pub lock-in. Magnus had drank more than he was used to and his feet were not wholly his own.

  ‘Even if you don’t trust Shug, you should trust Willow.’

  Bjarne did not bother to look back. ‘I trust her, but she’d have no chance against that wee cunt.’

  Magnus grabbed Bjarne by the arm. ‘He’s just a boy.’

  Bjarne pulled away. He enunciated his words slowly, as if he was speaking to someone who had been hit on the head too many times.

  ‘He’s a randy little shit and I don’t want him anywhere near my daughter.’

  ‘Willow came looking for Shug. Maybe it’s your daughter who’s the randy one.’

  Bjarne’s breath touched Magnus’s face, warm and beery. ‘Watch your mouth, McFall, and tell that boy of yours to keep away from my Willow, if he wants to keep his bollocks. I’
ve gelded enough calves to have developed a knack for it. A quick flick of the wrist with a sharp knife, that’s all it takes.’

  The blast of anger was sudden and hard to contain. ‘Go anywhere near Shug and you’ll wish I’d cut your balls off. I’ll slit you port to stern.’

  Bjarne’s grin was satisfied, as if all he had really wanted was for Magnus to lose his temper. ‘Thanks for the warning.’

  They were standing at the top of the stairs, an intersection of light and dark. Sunshine flooded through the stairwell’s high windows, outlining Bjarne’s body in gold and casting Magnus in his shadow. It would be easy to shove the big man down the stairs, but Magnus had sworn that he was done with killing. He took a step backwards.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said that about Willow. She’s a good kid. You don’t need to worry about her.’

  ‘I meant every word I said about Shuggie. He’s a wee bastard. Keep him away from my girl.’

  ‘She’s not your girl, Bjarne, no more than Shug is my boy. They’re both old enough to realise that now. We can look out for them, but we can’t make them do what we want.’

  ‘You’d better try, if you want him to stay in one piece.’ Bjarne turned and jogged down the stairs.

  Magnus reckoned he had held him there long enough for Shug and Willow to get to whatever hidey-hole they were bound for and did not bother to follow him. The big man was a problem that would keep till later. The hotel door slammed below. He wondered if he should have a word with Shuggie, but knew it would do no good. The boy, who had once depended on him for everything, now barely gave him the time of day.

  ‘Fuck him,’ Magnus muttered under his breath. ‘Wee fucker.’ He walked back to the lounge and another beyond-the-sell-by-date bottle of beer.

  Two

  Stevie Flint watched Magnus’s progress towards the bar and wondered why they had never slept together. It was nothing to do with looks. The Orcadian had aged since his return to the islands, but his hair was thick and black, and he was still in decent shape. Stevie smiled and rubbed Pistol’s ears. The dog set his head on her knee, smearing her trousers with saliva. Her mind always turned towards sex at island gatherings. She supposed that had been part of the purpose of get-togethers in the old days, to find mates.