October Song

  OCTOBER SONG

  Copyright 2018 Ru Pringle

  Version: 15th October 2018

  https://rupringle.com/fiction

  This ebook is licenced for your personal enjoyment and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’d like to share it, please purchase an extra copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book but didn’t purchase it, or it wasn’t purchased for your use only, please go to an ebook outlet and purchase your own copy. Many thanks for respecting the author’s hard work and livelihood. For permission requests, write to the author at mailto:ru@rupringle.com

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons is coincidental.

  Cover and artwork by Ru Pringle

  Proofread by Sophie Houston mailto:sophie@rjfhouston.com

  A Table of Contents is provided at the end of the book.

  For Ewan

  PROLOGUE

  _____________

  WE APOLOGISE FOR THIS INTERRUPTION TO YOUR SCHEDULED VIEWING.

  We interrupt this programme for an important BBC News bulletin. Reports are coming in of a huge explosion at the North British Provincial Headquarters at Holyrood in Edinburgh. It’s understood that Prime Minister John Faulkner and several other members of the British government were scheduled to meet Provincial Councillors in the building this afternoon to discuss threats to state security posed by the intensifying separatist crisis in the territory of North Britain. It’s not yet clear who, or what, is behind the explosion, but tomorrow North Britain celebrates the eighth anniversary of its reunification with the United Kingdom, following almost two decades of separation. Some sources are already pointing the finger of blame at terrorists of the outlawed so-called “Free Scotland” militant group, Saor Alba, which wants reinstatement of the old nation of Scotland. I’m just … Yes, it looks as though we can now go over, live, to Sophie Reynolds at the scene of the explosion. Over to you, Sophie.

  Yes … thank you, Diana. Well, I’m standing here at the scene – the explosion happened a little over ten minutes ago now. As you can see behind me, the front of Enric Miralles’ famous – some would say infamous – forty-year-old building, which began its life as the Scottish Parliament, has been severely damaged. We’re seeing ambulances flocking to the site of the explosion. The scene is one of chaos. It’s clear that many are dead, among them members of the public who were just passing by. So far over thirty fatalities have been confirmed, I believe, with many more severely injured. That figure is expected to rise, as I’m told many of the remains … will only be identifiable by their DNA.

  Has it been confirmed whether or not the prime minister is safe?

  There’s no official word on that yet, Diana. However, a source who wishes to remain anonymous has told me that Prime Minister John Faulkner and the government’s most senior advisor, Chief of Staff Tristan Coombes, have both been injured, and as we speak are being driven to Edinburgh Royal Infirmary for emergency surgery. We’ll bring you more on that as news comes in.

  That’s … shocking, Sophie. Do we have any idea yet what caused the explosion? Has any terrorist group claimed responsibility for it?

  All we have at this point is speculation, Diana. However, I was speaking moments ago with an army explosives expert who is at the scene. His view was that this was an IED: an improvised explosive device. He said that nails, bolts and ball-bearings have been discovered embedded in walls, cars and victims a hundred metres from the blast epicentre: all hallmarks of an IED. Though he did add we shouldn’t speculate until more information is available.

  That’s … We’re all stunned here. I’m sure everyone will join me in saying our thoughts are with the prime minister, and with Mr Coombes. We’re going to take a break now, but when we come back we’ll bring you more on what’s beginning to look very much like a terrorist atrocity, live, as news comes in …

  PART ONE

  ____________

  KAYAK

  CHAPTER 1

  ____________

  Selkie

  LONG, STEADY, SLIGHTLY ASYMMETRIC paddle strokes.

  Silvering the choppy sea-loch, a bloated moon breaks through racing cloud. Below a dark arm of land to the west, in woods on the far shore, an orange ember marks the site of an encampment. Nearby, the boat that bore its denizens from half a world away is dimly discernible against shadows almost as black. A chill October wind carries fire smoke, MP6 rap music and what could be firecrackers or gunshots over the kilometre or so of open water separating the paddler from the flickering encampment fire.

  The paddler shivers: an involuntary act which pulls at her wound. She leans forward, bracing her paddle against the ridge of the kayak’s foredeck.

  Shite.

  Pinned beside a hydration pack under the foredeck’s web of bungee cord is a sodden map, but the fitful moonlight’s too dim for her to read it, and she doesn’t dare to use the headtorch she purloined along with the kayak. A wave slightly bigger than the rest upsets her equilibrium and she panics, disorientated by the gloom, flailing the blades of her paddle at the water. Remaining upright by luck as much as effort, she winces – and this time, not just from the pain.

  Everyone’ll have heard that.

  She visualises what she can of the map. Compares it to what she can see. On the horizon ahead is a bright gap that she reasons must be the passage to the Sound of Jura. While her memory’s not quite photographic, it’s enough to give an idea of where she is. Most of the way to the end of the loch, she reckons. Which is all very good. But when – if – she reaches it, then what?

  The thought makes her arch back her head. Her shoulders ache, and hunger is gnawing at her. She’s also dangerously cold. As well as too large, the wetsuit she’s wearing is completely the wrong shape, allowing chilling water to slosh over her skin rather than providing the intended all-over insulating hug. Its owner had been a big man. With some unexpected skills.

  Kayaker, my bony wee arse.

  Senses straining, she surveys her position. On the near bank, branches sigh and clatter in the wind. She has no idea of tide tables, but seaweed is visible as a dark band along the shore, making her think the tide will turn soon, if it hasn’t already. She’ll be paddling against it, and very much doubts she can compete.

  During a hiatus in the music on the far bank, it dawns on her that she can hear a faint sound above the racket of the trees. She wonders if she’s imagining it, but as she holds her breath and listens, it grows persistent. It’s a whispery, throbbing hum. Like fans, spinning at slightly different speeds. Or tiny rotors.

  Body hair prickling, she squints into the dimness.

  At the limit of her grainy night vision she spots a dark mote, moving towards her up the loch.

  At first her mind seems to be playing tricks on her. Whenever she thinks she’s found the object, it disappears. Then some cobwebbed mental archive reminds her that eyes have a central blind spot in low light. Something to do with a lack of receptor cells for night vision.

  She makes herself look slightly away. Immediately spots it again. Whatever she’s watching definitely isn’t moving like a bird. As it closes, she thinks she can make out a similar speck to one side, keeping pace. Then she sees another. And another.

  There’s a line of them moving slowly up the loch. Dozens of them.

  She wills her foggy brain into action. Come on, think! What model of drone will this be? No – forget the effing model. Okay, so … you can’t see lights on them. No searchlights! Fuck. Night vision? Will they have infrared?

  She already knows what she has to do. Making herself do it’s a different matter. At least any doubts she’s had have been put to rest. People are hunting her, even here, far from logical e
scape routes, in a sea-loch that’s a candidate for the most obscure on the western seaboard. As reality checks go, it’s compelling.

  The fan noise is now clearly audible. Fuck. Fuck!

  Come on. You considered this possibility. Now get a grip.

  Moving as quickly as she dares in the unstable little vessel, she rips out the hydration pack’s rubber drinking hose, takes a couple of deep breaths to steady herself for what’s coming, and, as stealthily as she can manage, rolls the kayak over.

  Blackness envelops her. The cold almost makes her gasp seawater. Once confident she’s properly upside down, she fumbles for the edge of the neoprene splash-deck that’s pinning her by the waist to the rim of the cockpit. Should be a tab to pull … She can’t find it! She hangs motionless, taking stock. Tells herself she won’t need to breathe as soon as she thinks. With water pouring into upturned nostrils, she runs fingers round the rim. Finds something like a loop of nylon tape. She pulls it. Feels cold gush against her legs. The elasticated splash deck snaps free and she rolls forward in a way she saw demonstrated once in some YouTube video, dragging her legs out of the narrow cockpit.

  To her horror, she realises that, at some point, she’s let go of the paddle.

  The hose has also slipped from her grip. Lungs twitching, clinging single-handed to the cockpit’s rim, she wills numb fingers to find it. While she could easily breathe inside the upside-down kayak, her head will be radiating like a stove. Some modern imagers can see body heat through buildings.

  Her groping becomes frantic. Something brushes her knuckles, but when she lunges, it’s gone.

  Calm down!

  Moving gently to avoid pushing the hose away, she finds an end floating in the inverted cockpit. She jams it in her mouth. Feels her way to the other end. Pokes it up into the bubble of trapped air, blows the water out …

  … and inhales.

  The hose is too narrow to breathe through comfortably, but she tells herself it’s enough, willing lungs to relax and her jangling pulse to slow. There’s no way to know how much time is passing. What feels like minutes could be seconds, and she daren’t use her watch in case the light’s picked up. As a distraction from the intensifying cold, she begins considering what to do next.

  Options seem few. She’s alone, bleeding and almost certainly hypothermic, in a freezing loch beneath a tiny capsized boat she couldn’t control properly even if she hadn’t just thrown away its paddle. With kilometres of unfamiliar coast potentially crawling with surveillance, migrant gangs, local militia and fuck knows what else between here and her already overdue rendezvous. Oh – and with, as far as she knows, a swarm of sophisticated autonomous drones already tracking every movement.

  She waits in the gurgling dark, shivering. Flinches as something brushes her leg. That didn’t feel like seaweed. A jellyfish? Some of the jellyfish round here weigh tons, with tentacles of thirty metres. Could be worse than a jellyfish. Sightings of great white sharks have been known in the last decade. They’ve been documented feeding on bodies from migrant ships.

  At least the east shore isn’t far away. The wind should be pushing her towards it. With luck it’s doing the same with her paddle. She hopes the migrant camp on the opposite bank is close enough to discourage anyone from loitering on this one.

  Then she remembers the single track road on the east shore. Not far inland …

  Her shivering, which has grown violent, suddenly stops. She feels warm. This is really not a good sign. There’s another brush on her leg. Panic rising again, she begins thrashing with her feet. Have those fucking drones gone yet? She has no idea at all how long she’s been like this.

  Convincing herself she’s now so cold that thermal imaging is unlikely to spot her, she allows the top of her head to break the surface. She waits for a trough between the waves, takes a gasp of air and hangs in the water, listening. The roar of the trees is louder now. She can no longer hear music, but loud cracks from the camp punctuate the near-silence. Something is telling her very insistently that, whatever the risks, she has to get out of the water. If she can’t get dry and warm, very soon, she’ll be dead.

  Manoeuvring herself to the bow, she reclines against the buoyancy of her life vest and kicks towards the shore, dragging the kayak by its carry-handle. Her legs won’t co-operate. They feel rubbery, and not entirely hers. Her thoughts are growing foggy, and she’s dimly aware how shallow and rapid her breathing has become.

  She keeps kicking, hoping exercise will warm her. She thinks of the coup; of the 21st century’s parcel o rogues – oh, sweet, lascivious Robert Burns, you were a prophet as well as a poet – and the thought lends her renewed purpose. Soon she’s spitting out curses from a place so deep within her that she hadn’t realised it was there.

  The hole in her midriff burns.

  Presently, she becomes aware of something nudging at her back. It’s insistent. She rolls weakly over. Finds a seaweed-slicked rock, reeking of fish. She’s very confused. Bits of time seem to be missing. From very near her head there’s an otherworldly, rising ‘oooOOOo’ sound which, in other circumstances, might have seemed wistfully comical. Still disorientated, she jerks with shock. Breaking the water barely five metres away is the outline of a bald and very human-looking head.

  Her stifled scream turns to giggles. A seal. Or, perhaps, a selkie. Wouldn’t that be nice. Definitely have your baby, Mister Selkie, if you take me somewhere safe and warm. She talks inconsequentially to the head until it disappears, and finds herself floundering for purchase at the base of an awkward, bouldery shore.

  She smells pine-sap. Hears wood creaking. Rocks rear towards the dim trees. She groans.

  One last effort.

  The next few minutes are a blur. Above the seaweed there’s a bright band of what transpire to be barnacles. They cut her wetsuit and her flesh, but it doesn’t seem important. Panting and slipping, she hauls the heavy kayak out of the seaweed, inching herself upwards on her behind between each heave, the kayak screeching and scraping in a way she’s convinced will be clearly audible in Glasgow, ninety kilometres to the east. The trees lean over her. Near the top, her legs give out. She cries out, takes several savage breaths, and hauls again. Her muscles are cramping. Her hands won’t close round the handle, and she has to use her forearms. She’s almost crying with frustration.

  Then eventually, somehow, the kayak is up over an eroded lip of earth, and sliding into a dung-smelling hollow between two outcrops of gnarled bright rock overgrown with what feel like tree roots.

  This’ll have to do.

  She paws at the rubber lid of the kayak’s main cargo hatch, trying to prise the seal open. It’s tight, and her fingers could be made of Spam for all the use they are. More tears. She hates herself for them. You’re acting like a fucking schoolgirl!

  She grabs the rim of the hatch with her teeth and pulls. Her lip is numb. She tastes blood, can feel with her tongue where she’s cut it, but the hatch is open. She rummages inside, clawing the contents on to the wet heather. At least she’d had the foresight to make sure she had dry clothes.

  Despite how loose the wetsuit is, she hasn’t the strength to extricate herself. It’s like wrestling a neoprene octopus. She screams, uncaring who might hear. Having manhandled it down to her waist, she pulls at it for what seems an age. It just doesn’t want to go over her hips. Fucking … freakishly shaped men! She’s about to give up when she thinks of hooking a root through the crotch, using her weight to peel it free of her legs. With a final yank, it pops over her ankles and she’s lying, panting, in the prickly vegetation, naked apart from what she suspects is some animal’s shit that she’s managed to smear herself in. Then, heedless of their order, she’s throwing on softener-scented clothes, which – weirdly – feel colder than her skin. A thermal top, stretchy leggings, two fleeces …

  She doubts it’s enough, but it’s all there is. There’s also the tent. Fortunately, given the state of her hands, she’d stuffed it in the hatch loose
, rather than rolling it up in its bag, but she can’t find the poles for it. She doubts she’d have been capable of erecting it anyway.

  Not far away, a helicopter rumbles past.

  She unearths a couple of flattened muesli bars, and chews ravenously on them as she winds the tent’s wet flysheet around herself.

  Without warning, someone who isn’t her comes and switches off all the lights.

  CHAPTER 2

  ____________

  Otter’s Pocket

  ALISTAIR SKEATES ISN’T HAPPY.

  Scratching an itchy two-week beard, he watches the familiar bronze Jaguar – ludicrously sleek, and near-silent with its electric motors and big aluminium-air batteries – approach with reckless speed along the unsurfaced track leading to the marina. These days the marina is nearly deserted; its floating pontoons and fingers more like a floating abstract sculpture in concrete and wood than anything designed for a purpose.

  Five pontoons away, as if striving to be as isolated from other boats as possible, the big catamaran Écume de Mer is being readied to cast off. Its crew have been tight-lipped and nervous, but after drinks last night at the – amazingly, still staffed – marina bar, the skipper had hinted that he expected to test the Écume’s blue-water credentials. The armoured van that left steadily shrinking stacks of provisions on the dockside was further evidence. Half the crew – six men and five women – had ex-military written all over them. An impression reinforced by what looked suspiciously like half a dozen RPG crates they’d whisked aboard from the back of the old Transit minibus they’d arrived in. There were army issue ammunition boxes too. Lots of them.

  Funny how retired soldiers are everyone’s friend these days.

  Twirling his whiskers nervously, Bob the skipper had worried about what icebergs might do to his boat. Alistair strongly suspects Bob and his crew are on a one-way Arctic trip. They wouldn’t be the first. He wishes them luck.