Murdo

By Mica Le Fox

A career in the tax office is a nice, safe, if somewhat dull career for a girl, wouldn’t you say?

Now fast forward to a time 100 years after Destruction when survivors are just beginning to organise themselves into settlements. They pay taxes to a regional council in return for protection and trading rights but these settlements are often run by ruthless despots who exert control by force and are, shall we say, often not well disposed to paying their dues.

Into this volatile mix comes Murdo, Tax Inspector for thr Council of the East. It’s her job to visit these far-flung and often lawless townships and... well... make tax adjustments. I would have to say that tax refunds are very rare and so the opportunity for dispute is omnipresent.

Now you should reconsider what a taxman will be in the future. Murdo is well versed in finding discrepancies in a ledger... you know, like hidden petty cash or trumped up expenses. But as a modern tax inspector, she is equally adept at defending herself from a sudden knife attack from an angry settler who does not agree with her calculations.

But she has Buzzard, assistant tax inspector whose face bears the disfigurements one might expect of a long career in the Inland Revenue. Ugly or not, he is a very good man to have beside you when you suggest to your large, aggressive thug of a customer that he must pay fifty tokens more than he considers himself liable for.

Murdo and Buzzard are sent to investigate the self styled Baron Cosborough who runs a settlement from his pre-Destruction manor house reached by a causeway at low tide on a wild and windswept coast of Lincoln Shire - at the very edge of The Council’s jurisdiction. The Councillors are grumbling that the Baron looks a whole lot more wealthy than his tax payments suggest. What is needed, they say, is a tax inspection and so Murdo and Buzzard set off one November morning for the hazardous journey north.

Brigands and Degenerates roam the countryside and the back roads are safer than the deteriorating but still usable motorway, but even so the journey is not for the fainthearted. But then Murdo is a tax inspector and certainly not fainthearted.

She lodges with the local whore, a beautiful and clever young woman whose customers include the local ‘aristocracy’ who are, in fact, Murdo’s suspects so what she must not do is become involved with her... but on top of the most protracted and dangerous case of her career, Murdo is beginning to realise that she is hopelessy attracted to her.

Murdo is a scrupulous servant of the Council as it tries to bring order to the chaos of the last century and she is determined to ferret out Cosborough’s obvious concealment and so falling for a prostitute seems to be the most unwise thing she could possibly do, especially as being a lesbian is not exactly acceptable at this stage of re-civilisation.

But then, with civilisation looking a lot like a freezing, muddy, bloody mess, a little comfort from the doe-eyed, soft, warm Elinnor is so hard to resist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mica Le Fox
• Release date: Jun 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005131951

Mica Le Fox

Totally out of my depth at an academic school I mercifully discovered I could draw and blagged my way into a career in advertising and visual arts. So far, so not too bad. It's been OK, but writing has been part of my remit and I've always itched to do more, so here I am, blagging my way into book writing. It's all fiction. Fiction is often way better than real life and I spend most of my time thinking things up. But I will never try to make you accept the completely unbelievable. If you watch, say, science fiction on TV, it's alright to 'suspend your disbelief' - I do - but not to accept the unbelievable. I hope my books will introduce to you human characters (mostly) with ordinary human emotions and fallibilities. I especially like fallibilities... they are the most interesting thing about us all and certainly the best to write about. I want you to have a booky window on people sometimes making mistakes... maybe sometimes getting it right as well. And I will try to make you feel what they do, you know, like you are in their shoes... well, unless they're undressed of course. Whether I do all this well is another matter, I only write these stories so I have no idea. Anyway, it's for you to decide. Buy the books and let me know. Ha! Blagging again.

Book preview

Murdo

by Mica Le Fox

Copyright 2021 Mica Le Fox

Published by Mica Le Fox at Smashwords

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Chapter one

Piss off.

The two words of greeting were spoken through the six by three inch hatch in the solid oak doors that were scarred by history, but now barred the way. Then the eyes on the other side disappeared and the hatch cover slid shut with an impressive clunk of finality.

Murdo stood for a few seconds then looked back at her companion a few yards away, holding the reins of their two horses. She raised her eyebrows and he responded with a roll of the eyes that expressed a weary familiarity with the proceedings.

Hey! She banged on the door with her fist. Shitbrains.

There was a space of perhaps ten seconds before the hatch slid open again and Murdo quickly put her head to one side, wary of any sharp object or possibly liquid that may come through the opening. But again she saw the eyes and an accompanying voice. You really should take my friendly advice, stranger, I won’t give it again… and for your information, I don’t take kindly to being called shitbrains.

In reply, she pressed a single piece of paper up against the hatch, holding it written side inwards with her palm so that at least a portion of the wording could be read from inside the door. And you should read this and decide if you’d like to go home to see your wife and children tonight… shitbrains.

Keeping the document flat against the door Murdo turned her head, looking over the bleakly beautiful grey seascape with its white capped waves the colour of gunmetal and the distant promontory jutting from the right ending in open rock formations that made it look like a hand clawing at the sea in an effort not to drown. She waited.

After half a minute she heard two bolts slid back, one of the two leaves of the door was pulled open and she walked into the courtyard followed by her companion leading the horses. Scanning the several men who stood around watching them warily, Murdo stopped in front of one who held a club against his shoulder. She studied him from a distance of a yard, looking up slightly into his face.

I’d recognise those eyes anywhere… shitbrains. She smiled sweetly, enjoying his reluctant silence at her provocation and nodded at the horses. Now, we’d very much appreciate your feeding and watering our animals and I also request that Baron Cosborough kindly grant us an audience.

. . .

Murdo and her assistant, Buzzard, had left Buntingford the previous day, making their way north along the quiet lanes and back roads to stop for the night at the settlement of Sizemarten. That leg of the journey was relatively safe, although slowed considerably by their use of back roads rather than the motorway which, even though now badly deteriorated, was still the quickest route on animal-back. But the danger from attack outweighed any speed advantage with armed brigands always on the lookout for unwary travellers to rob and frequently murder. Their journey was not one to be undertaken lightly, even by two seasoned and hardy professionals who knew how to avoid, deter and sometimes repel assaults.

There was plenty of evidence of people who lived rough outside the settlements with cart tracks in softer ground and every so often the remains of animal kills and camps. Some lived in remote dwellings which were always best avoided as an incautious approach may well be met with a crossbow bolt or an arrow with no prior warning. Out in this exposed and hostile country, their lifespans tended to be short.

The weather was with them. It was November, a month that was capable of making travel difficult in that part of the country, but which now treated them kindly with a good deal of sunshine to mitigate the chill of the late autumn and Buzzard filled his lungs with the fresh, crisp air as he rode.

From Sizemarten onwards, the journey became more difficult, the lanes turning into tracks that were often obstructed as they fell into disrepair through lack of use and maintenance, forcing detours. Also, the further north they travelled, greater fear of attack meant that stopping anywhere was perilous and they kept up as fast a pace as possible, especially through the woods and copses that grew thicker with every year, until in late afternoon they reached the edge of the coastal settlement of Cosborough. There they skirted the township, made their way along the coastal path and took the causeway at low tide to the island where the Baron lived in his astoundingly well-preserved pre-Destruction manor house.

Now Buzzard stared up at the ceiling with its delicate moulded decorations and an ornate plaster rose, from which hung a magnificent chandelier. It appeared to him that it still held electric light fittings, but of course they would no longer provide any illumination and he noted the oil lamps that hung from the oak-panelled walls.

On the wall above the ornate fireplace was an oil painting in a gilt frame which Buzzard assumed was a portrait of the Baron himself although it was not easy to tell - the art of portraiture had still some distance to go to achieve its second Renaissance and what held centre stage in the room could have been inerpreted as an uneasy caricature

On the other hand, the curtains at the large windows were of fine quality deep red damask, tied back with beautifully made silken cords. No expense spared there, thought Buzzard.

He’d seen photographs of grand houses such as this, but he’d never been inside one and now looking at the beautiful decorative work in the room, he shook his head in wonder that such trouble should be taken over something so unnecessary.

Mistress Murdo. Baron Cosborough strode into the room followed by two tall, stocky men. He was in his fifties, lean, sinewy and beaky with a florid complexion from what she knew would be the endurance of many long, cold winters and perhaps a deal of coarse brews to soften them. Please forgive my guards’ enthusiasm at the gates, they have a natural suspicion of strangers without credentials. A sign of the times I fear.

"But I do have credentials Your Lordship."

He put his head to one side and studied her for a few moments, then stepped closer, looking directly into her face and she felt the familiar sting of self-consciousness, followed by a spike of anger.

"Yes Baron, I am from Degenerate stock."

So I see.

What he had seen were two small dots – the simplest of marks - above her nose. The first of them, tattooed between her eyebrows as a baby and now faded to what could have been a tiny birthmark, was there to inform prospective adopters and fosterers that she had been born to parents without lineage or records. Moreover, her natural parents had been Degenerates… wandering outcasts who lived off the land and considered too unreliable… even too dangerous to be accepted within any settlement. The second dot to the right, stronger in appearance had been tattooed ten years ago and attested to her release from Council’s restrictions on her as a Degenerate and she became a legal settler… but her heritage was marked forever on her face.

Degenerates were given no rights at all, nor did they want them. Since humans had begun to organise themselves into more effective groups, these outsiders had continued to live chaotic lives in the countryside, often nomadic, shunning contact with settlers. Some banded into loose groups, making camps in woods and concealed valleys… even growing food. But they were mostly feral, without education apart from what was handed down through the generations on how to survive in the wilds, communicating in a Pidgin English and although they were not as calculatedly vicious as brigands and bandits, they would kill to survive and many settlers were wary of contact.

That is until about thirty years ago with The Council established but population growth fragile, even dwindling in some settlements. Conception was encouraged and after a time a propagation department was instigated, but in a time when human existence still hung by a thread, success was variable. There was, though, another ready supply of children.

Degenerates were given provisions to hand over children under three to be adopted or brought up in rearing communities within Council settlements. They were tattooed so that people would never be duped into believing they had been given a normal child. This marking also helped define the rudimentary research done to see whether they grew up with the same capabilities as normal children, despite their primitive parentage.

There were stories that some children were taken by force to repopulate some of the more remote settlements that were slowly dying out, but no one knew for sure and it didn’t happen in Buntingford.

Murdo was well used to people reacting to her marks and somehow she expected to be judged badly, although many did not. But with her lineage there for all to see, she could not help but be sensitive and expect the worst. Watching The Baron’s expression – perhaps expecting him to say more, she took the warrant from her saddle bag and held it out to him.

Ah yes. That is the piece of paper that intimidated my guards into opening the gates if I’m not mistaken.

He took it but continued to study her appraisingly for a few seconds before flattening the sheet onto the table and peered down at it, a palm against the surface on either side of the paper. He examined the words for what was too long really, considering that there were only a dozen lines handwritten under a printed header that said ‘Warrant’ and she began to wonder if the man could actually read -many people, even some in positions of power, could not.

Would it be easier if I read? I know that… Murdo began, but he looked up and interrupted her.

I can read perfectly well, Mistress Murdo… Tax Inspector for the Council of the East.

Then you’ll understand that you are obliged to comply with The Council’s order to provide me with access to all your bookkeeping?

I see what it says. His voice was edged with irritation.

And with liberty to examine all your commercial production facilities and outlets… and speak to whoever I see fit to furnish The Council with an accurate picture of the revenue of this settlement of Cosborough, which falls under the auspices and protection of The Council of the East.

He put the tip of his index finger onto the seal, feeling its raised edges where the Council stamp had been pressed into the centre of the molten wax, then handed the document back to her. I see it is signed by Trenchard.

The Director of Finance. Murdo emphasised pedantically the authority of the warrant. And it is counter-signed by Timothy Hopkins, Treasurer. The Baron remained with his hands flat on the table and glared at her as though he could bore through her eyes and know what she was thinking – which lasted long enough that Murdo believed it may be a mannerism developed to intimidate and lend himself a kind of fierce authority. She held his gaze in a relaxed manner – it was what she’d been taught to do with intimidating customers. Don’t back down but don’t inflame your customer into an attack.

At last he stood up straight and turned to Buzzard. And who are you?

Buzzard, Baron. Assistant Tax Inspector. The Baron took in his short, muscular stockiness and a face that by the look of it bore the disfigurements of many blows.

So… Buzzard… The Council does not trust that I pay my dues?

Buzzard put his head to one side and gave a slight shrug. It’s a routine inspection. Nothing to worry about I imagine.

Baron Cosborough looked again at Murdo and abruptly, as though she’d told him a funny anecdote, smiled warmly. Well in that case, I and my accounts are at your service, Mistress. When would you like to start?

Murdo scrutinised him carefully. Tomorrow morning if that’s convenient, Baron.

Absolutely. I’d best rouse the accountant. He sounded positively avuncular. Now, if that’s all for the moment…

As he walked to the door, Buzzard spoke. Your Lordship, you can provide accommodation for us?

The Baron turned, cast his head on one side and pursed his lips in an expression of regret. Ah, unfortunately not. We have a trade delegation from Newlincoln staying. He smiled. So our guest rooms are already taken. A great pity we cannot enjoy your company outside of business hours.

Murdo and Buzzard mounted their horses and walked them to the outer gate where the man who she’d insulted on the way in now looked up at her with eyes half closed. Tide’s coming in. Best get a trot on Mistress. Don’t want you to be swept away into the bay and never seen again, do we.

They reached the ramp up to the harbour frontage with the sun sinking and the rising water up to the knees of the horses. Trotting up to the Beer and Bed House on the harbour front, Buzzard nodded back towards the island. Nice that they’re making sure we get to the inn safely, Mistress.

Murdo turned in her saddle to see where he’d indicated and saw the flash of an eyeglass, caught by the low rays of the setting sun. Hmm. You think perhaps His Lordship would rather we were not wandering his private little island at night, Buzzard?

"At all, I’d say Mistress."

The B&B was a fug of warmth from the banked up fire, enriched by the smell of frying fish. The brewer greeted them warmly enough from behind his counter and while he poured their beer, Buzzard asked him if he had rooms for the night.

Nope. Just got the top bunk of a sixer left. The brewer put two jugs on the counter in front of them.

Fuck me in a cowshed! Buzzard looked impatiently at the man behind the bar. Six in a room? Is there nothing else?

The brewer waited for another jug to fill from the barrel before responding. You can try the whore. She’s got a room… as well as her own.

In the silence that followed, Murdo drank and looked at Buzzard over the rim. "Well I’m not going in the sixer. God knows what the whore’s room is going to be like, but you are taking the top bunk with five roommates."

Buzzard sipped the top off his beer and looked hangdog.

What? Murdo scowled at him. You thought the Council would pay for a whore as well as the room? You are just a fart of an assistant tax collector, not the bloody treasurer.

Thank you for reminding me of my menial position. Anyway, the whore would not interest me… only her spare room. I would happily have her stay in her own chamber with a steady stream of customers and pretend screaming orgasms all night… I would not hear a thing from the comfort of my own bed in my own room… the one you have claimed.

Murdo finished her beer and patted Buzzard on the shoulder.Never mind. Six in a room? I envisage much convivial banter and a certain background noise, so no one will hear you snore. She finished her beer, stood and went to the door where