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

by Louise Welsh

  Stevie scanned the room marvelling at how easily people had partnered up in the years their small community had grown. They were incomers like her, who had washed up on the islands alone, like driftwood after a storm. All of them had been bereaved. Some of the new couples were so devoted it was hard to believe their relationship had been forged from death. Other liaisons were more fluid, people slipping from one partner to the next. There were moralists on the island who looked down on women who had been with a lot of men. Stevie had not slept with anyone since the Sweats, but she had no problem with promiscuity. Seeking comfort in a warm bed was more natural than always being alone.

  She watched Magnus put a bottle of beer to his mouth and saw the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he glugged down its contents. His feet shifted as if he was trying to keep his balance and she realised that he was sliding from drunk towards fully tanked. He would be among the casualties sleeping it off between damp sheets in one of the Stromness Hotel’s abandoned guest rooms that night. There was no shame in it. It was men like Bjarne that worried her.

  Stevie had her own theory about why Willow had hacked her hair off and why her stepfather was so against young Shug. She ran a finger along Pistol’s dark muzzle and wondered again if her suspicions were strong enough to act on. Bjarne’s presidential ambitions meant her motives could easily be misconstrued.

  ‘You could do worse.’ Poor Alice nodded towards Magnus. Little Evie, the most recent post-Sweats child born on the island, was bouncing on the old lady’s lap.

  Stevie said, ‘Have you been spying on me, Alice?’

  ‘Spying on you, while you spy on him.’

  Magnus had picked up his guitar. Stevie hoped he was not going to sing one of his own songs. As usual the islanders had turned to making things over the winter and there was a glut of poorly written plague memoirs, gloomy melodies and murky paintings.

  Poor Alice bobbed Evie up and down, up and down. She grinned at Stevie over the toddler’s head. ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe.’

  Evie’s cheeks were bright red. She stretched, yearning towards her mother, Breda, wriggled free and slid gently to the ground.

  Stevie gripped Pistol’s collar. ‘No secrets on an island, Alice. I like Magnus well enough, but I won’t be tucking him into bed tonight.’

  Poor Alice’s smile revealed gummy gaps where her incisors should have been. ‘He wouldn’t be much use to you tonight right enough, but Magnus is a decent lad. He’s done his best for young Shug and he’s not one of those who are always drunk.’

  Magnus was strumming out a tune, something soft and lively, that made Stevie think of sunlight shimmering through a waterfall. Most of the bar was chatting through the music but a few folk were swaying with the rhythm. Gentle songs were dangerous. They could evoke emotions best tamped down.

  ‘I’m not looking for a man, Alice.’

  The old woman shook her head. ‘You’ll dry up. Your skin will turn to leather and your twat will close tight as a clam …’

  Stevie was about to tell Alice to mind her own business, but she saw young Connor barrelling into the room, only just avoiding a collision with the fully laden tray of drinks John Prentice was ferrying across the lounge. Stevie shook her head. ‘Here comes a hurricane.’

  The boy had recently gone through a growth spurt and was not yet used to the length of his limbs. Stevie had reckoned Connor ready for some responsibility. There had been recent talk of strange vessels sighted on the horizon. The number of lookouts had been increased and she had included Connor on the rota, setting him on watch in a hotel bedroom with a good view of the harbour.

  ‘Whoa …’ She caught hold of his arm, stopping him just short of their table. ‘Where’s the fire?’

  The boy’s face was red. Pistol gave his hand a friendly butt with his nose. Usually Connor would have rubbed the dog’s ears, but he ignored him.

  ‘There’s a boat.’

  ‘Where?’ Stevie got to her feet and strode to the nearest window.

  ‘I wasn’t asleep.’ Connor was on the edge of tears.

  Stevie twitched back the curtains, careful to keep her body out of sight, and looked out. A handsome four-berth yacht was sitting just outside the harbour, its sails furled. A rowing boat was making its way steadily towards the quay. Stevie narrowed her eyes and was able to make out three people. Two of them were rowing and the vessel was making good progress.

  ‘Jesus, Connor. A bit of warning would have been nice.’

  The rowing boat docked and a man climbed from its stern, up the metal ladder onto the quay. Someone in the boat cast a rope towards him. He caught it and secured it around a bollard. The man was tall and rangy. As Stevie watched, the other passengers followed him onto solid ground: a blonde-haired woman, and another man, shorter than the first, but powerfully built. The distance between the boat and the barroom was too far for Stevie to be able to make out their features, but she knew everyone on the Orkneys and could already tell that the men and woman were strangers. The trio stood for a moment, in conversation. Stevie stayed by the window, caught between the need for action and an urge to observe them.

  Connor whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’

  She tried to hide her irritation. ‘You screwed up, now you have to help deal with it. Find Alan Bold and tell him he’s wanted.’

  The boy’s face flushed a deeper shade of crimson. ‘I think he’s—’

  ‘No doubt. Stop him mid-stroke if you have to.’

  Connor nodded and scurried off, determined to redeem himself, his chin set against the embarrassment in store.

  Stevie glanced out of the window again. The strangers were dressed in a combination of combat gear and outdoor wear that made them look like a cross between arctic explorers and Vikings. Their clothes had probably been top of the range when they had looted them, but now they were scuffed and dirty. They were armed, the obligatory rifles strapped to their backs. Stevie felt the same shrinking in her chest that she had sometimes experienced travelling on the London Underground when terror threat levels were high. Strangers were not unknown on the islands, but they usually arrived in the company of one of the lookouts and most were tired to the point of deference, not straight-spined and combat-ready.

  The woman pointed at the hotel and the men turned their heads towards it. Stevie ducked behind the curtains, though there was little point in hiding. The sound of music and chatter must have drifted down to the harbour.

  She pushed her way to the front of the room, touching Magnus’s shoulder as she went, putting a finger to her lips. He gave her an irritated look, but strummed the tune to a clumsy conclusion. Stevie took the poker from its place beside the fire and banged it against the table in front of her, hard enough to crack the veneer. Pistol barked and the warm hubbub of laughter, chat and clinking glasses shivered into silence.

  ‘We have some unexpected visitors.’

  People seated by the windows looked down into the street. Stevie saw some of the islanders reach for their weapons and raised her free hand, telling them not to be hasty. ‘Unexpected doesn’t mean hostile. Remember, you were all unexpected visitors when you first arrived.’

  Some of the islanders were getting to their feet. They said hurried goodbyes and hustled their small families out of the back door of the lounge. Stevie did not blame them. Adult survivors generally had some immunity to the Sweats, but children born since the pandemic were untested.

  Stevie ignored the exodus. ‘Please remember, we greet all visitors with courtesy.’

  Brendan Banks stage-whispered, ‘It’s easier to be courteous once someone’s been quarantined.’ The Yorkshireman was sitting in the big bay window next to Magnus, a banjo resting on his lap.

  Alan Bold stepped through the door, tucking his shirt into his jeans; his black hair and beard the usual wild tangle that had led the children to nickname him ‘Scribble’. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Three newcomers. I suggest we go down and greet them.’ Stevie patted her thigh and
Pistol trotted to her side.

  Alan Bold’s eyes were sleepy with drink and sex. His mouth had a bitter twist.

  ‘Who fucked-up the lookout?’

  Connor was standing, awkward and ashamed, on the edge of the conversation. Stevie gave the boy a smile and said, ‘Me, I was in charge.’

  ‘Yeah and I’m fucking Spartacus too.’ Bold threw the boy a look.

  Stevie said, ‘Let’s go down before it’s too …’

  It was already too late.

  The sound in the room died and she looked up to see the strangers standing in the lounge doorway. The men were big enough to do some damage. Their beards were bushy and unkempt, their hair long and straggling. Stevie knew she should be cautious of them, but it was the woman who held her attention. She was dirty and travel-worn, her blonde hair kinked in matted waves across her shoulders. The woman’s face was drawn and she would have been nothing much to look at, were it not for the scar that ran the length of the left side of her face, straight as a knife edge. The wound puckered her top lip and stopped short of her eye. The weapon that sliced her must have touched some ocular nerve, because her left pupil was dull and milky and no life-light gleamed inside. The scar emphasised the clean symmetry of her face and tipped her into beauty.

  Pistol growled and Stevie caught hold of his collar, ‘Shush.’ She levelled her gaze at the trio. ‘My name is Stevie Flint. I’m the elected president of the Orkney Islands. We operate a strict quarantine here. Please do not come any closer.’

  Little Evie sensed the tension in the room and started to cry. Stevie kept her focus on the newcomers, careful not to catch any of the islanders’ eyes. She felt the uncertainty of her position, the precariousness of her authority.

  ‘None of us are sick.’ The woman smiled and held up her hands, to show that she meant no harm. An eye was tattooed in the centre of each of her palms. They stared out at the company, unblinking. ‘The boys and I are passing through. We heard your music and thought we should pay our respects. It looks like we chose a good day to arrive.’

  Alan Bold said, ‘This is an island. We’re not on the way to anywhere. No one passes through.’

  Stevie gave Pistol’s collar a small tug, making the dog sit tall and straight. He was her gun. ‘What’s your business here?’

  The woman said, ‘This island is not on the way to anywhere and neither are we. It makes sense that our paths would intersect.’

  Poor Alice said, ‘Christ Almighty.’ Her voice was heavy with sarcasm and somebody gave a boozy laugh.

  Stevie glared at the old woman, silencing her. She tried to keep her irritation out of her voice. ‘Peaceful visitors are welcome, as long as they make no trouble and contribute something to the community, but our islands are free of disease. We want to keep it that way. All newcomers must undergo two weeks of isolation.’

  There was a murmur of assent from the people at the bar, but the woman’s attention was no longer on Stevie. She stepped beyond the shelter of her companions, beyond the invisible quarantine line, towards the bay window where Magnus still sat, his guitar resting on his lap. This time her smile was genuine. It lit up her face and Stevie realised she would have been pretty, even without the scar. The people at Magnus’s table shrank into the lee of the bay window and Stevie raised her voice, ‘Stay where you are.’ Pistol growled. She tugged his collar again, and the dog rose up on his back legs, barking.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ Brendan Banks shifted back in his seat, holding his banjo in front of him as if it were a talisman against infection. He clamped his free hand over his mouth and nose. Beside him, Jenny Seybold raised her cardigan to her face, her eyes wide behind the makeshift mask.

  Only Magnus seemed unafraid. He looked up, his expression cloudy, as if he recognised but could not place the woman. He shook his head. ‘I don’t …’ Magnus set his guitar down and rose rustily to his feet. ‘Belle?’ His voice was tinged with shyness. ‘What happened …?’ He ran a finger down his face, mimicking the route of her scar, and took a step towards the woman. Brendan caught the hem of his jacket in an attempt to hold him back, but he tugged free of the Yorkshireman and held out his hands to the woman. Belle took them in hers, as if they were about to dance a reel, and Magnus pulled her into an awkward hug.

  Stevie felt suddenly embarrassed. She glanced around the bar and saw that the islanders were staring at the couple. Even Brendan and Jenny, too close to the stranger for comfort, were caught in the drama. She said, ‘You know each other?’

  ‘Aye,’ Magnus disengaged himself. ‘This is Belle. I met her soon after I left London.’ He nodded to his audience. ‘She’s okay.’

  Stevie said, ‘You vouch for her?’

  ‘I vouch for her.’ Magnus’s voice was thick with drink, his smile as beery as a barroom darts champion’s. He glanced at the two men, still standing broad-shouldered and silent on the edge of the room, their eyes wary and edged with deep creases that suggested long days of walking into the sun. Magnus gave an expansive grin. ‘And I vouch for these lads too. If they’re with Belle, they’re all right.’ He put his arm around Belle’s waist, pulling her close.

  Poor Alice had edged her way to the front of the room, unable to resist being part of the action. She nudged Stevie. ‘Looks like you missed your chance.’

  Stevie whispered, ‘Life is full of second chances, Alice. Otherwise you and I wouldn’t be here to miss them.’ She looked at Magnus. ‘You can’t vouch for people you don’t know, and you can’t guarantee they aren’t carrying the Sweats. If they intend to stay, they must go through quarantine. I suggest you keep your distance if you don’t want to join them.’

  Magnus gave Belle a last squeeze and disengaged himself. ‘She told you, they’re clean.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake man, how many times did you hear that right before someone started coughing?’ Brendan’s usually mild voice was sharp. ‘How many people do you know who looked in the pink, right up until the moment they dropped dead?’

  One of the men said, ‘We’ll go into quarantine.’

  Stevie had expected the demand to send the trio on their way. Their sudden acquiescence unsettled her. Pistol gave another low growl and she caught hold of his muzzle, silencing him.

  ‘Leave the hotel. Keep a good distance from anyone you see. We’ll make arrangements on the street …’ They turned to leave, but Stevie called them back. ‘Before you go …’ she asked the question she asked all new arrivals, ‘… are any of you doctors?’

  ‘I was an art history student and part-time coffee barista. Ed worked in a mobile phone shop.’ Belle nodded towards the tall man. ‘Rob’s the only one who had a half-useful job.’

  Ed glanced at his feet.

  ‘I was a car mechanic,’ Rob said. ‘I worked for Kwik Fit.’

  The mention of the cut-price tyre fitter with its jaunty advertising jingle made the lounge bar laugh.

  Brendan said, ‘I think you ripped me off for a set of new treads back in 2006.’

  Rob gave a small smile. ‘Could be.’

  Someone shouted across the lounge, ‘Have you any news from outside?’

  The tall man levelled his tired gaze at the company. ‘The news is, you’re right to stay on an island and you’re right to quarantine us, even though we’re well. The cities are still burning. People are still dying.’

  The islanders began to shout out names of towns and cities where they had once lived, asking for news of them. Stevie said, ‘They need to go.’ She nodded towards the door. The trio strolled from the room, taking their time.

  The good feeling that had risen with the laughter of a moment ago was fractured. The younger children and families were gone, leaving hardened drinkers to the rest of the long night. The committee had rationed out bottles of branded beer the day before, but there was enough home brew on the islands to intoxicate a school of whales. Stevie knew that soon Mason jars and screw-topped bottles would appear on the tables, filled with liquid that spanned a spectrum of browns and yellows, maki
ng the lounge look like a busy day in an urologist’s lab. She released her hold on Pistol’s collar and went over to where Magnus was sitting.

  ‘The only reason I’m not putting you in quarantine with them is because I know things are difficult between you and Shuggie at the moment. Don’t make me regret it.’

  Magnus stared her out. ‘You want me to promise not to come down with the Sweats?’

  His belligerence was out of character.

  Stevie’s hand tingled. ‘I want you to stop being a wanker.’

  She would have said more, but Alan Bold was heading out of the lounge, following the newcomers into the gloaming. Stevie caught a glimpse of her deputy’s ruddy face, his cunt-struck eyes, and hoped he was not going to be trouble.

  Three

  Alan Bold’s bravado seemed to have deflated in the dimness of the hotel lobby. He stood loitering in the entrance hall, amongst photographs of Victorian hunters armoured in tweed, posing with shut-faced gillies in front of their kills. One of Bjarne’s election posters was pasted to the wall.

  BJARNE for PRESIDENT!

  VOTE BJARNE for ELECTRICITY

  VOTE BJARNE for FUEL

  VOTE BJARNE for PROGRESS

  VOTE BJARNE for NORMALITY

  For fuel in your tank & electricity in your home

  VOTE BJARNE! BJARNE! BJARNE! BJARNE!

  Stevie resisted the urge to rip the big man’s empty boasts from the wall. She peered through the etched glass of the hotel’s front door onto the quayside. The sun had started to sink towards the sea, so red it seemed the water might hiss with its descent. Pistol thumped his tail on the lobby floor and scratched at the door, keen to go out into the night.

  Bold said, ‘Where will you put them?’ This was how it was with the deputy. He played the big man, but found it hard to make decisions.

  ‘The usual place, it’s well enough stocked, isn’t it?’

  Bold shrugged. ‘As far as I know.’

  Stevie nodded towards the strangers. ‘What do you think it is with them?’

  Bold put a hand on her shoulder. ‘They’re looking for somewhere to settle. We should hope they pick here.’