Wild Jack

by John Christopher

  The policeman came forward in his chair, picked up his pad, and studied it. “You went on to give quite a little speech, it seems. Principally about the rights of servants. You said they were being treated as slaves and something ought to be done about that. The savages, as well. They had as much right to the benefits of the energy towers as we did. We ought to invite them into the cities—share and share alike.” He looked up at me. “You appear to hold very strong views for your age.”

  I was terribly confused. This was a potted and garbled version of Brian’s talk. Someone had informed on him to the police, at the same time twisting his words. But not on him, in fact—on me. I was the one being accused of it all.

  The brawny man said in a more reasonable tone, “You just tell us all about it. We’ll do what we can to make things easy for you.”

  It was ridiculous, but it was also starting to get worrying. The overwhelming majority of servants were contented and well-behaved. Very occasionally there would be one who caused trouble, most likely through some mental disturbance. Those who did were taken away by the police, to a hospital presumably. It was not a subject that interested me nor that I knew much about. Nothing like that had ever happened among our servants.

  But I realized that the police might hold the view that the sort of talk Brian had gone in for would have an unsettling effect on servants who happened to overhear it—and that therefore it was something that ought to be stopped. But although that seemed reasonable, it didn’t explain how I came into the picture. I hadn’t made any contribution at all to the conversation; yet clearly someone had told the police I had. Why?

  Or, equally important, who? Not Brian, certainly; he would have only been landing himself in trouble. Martin or Roland? But they, like Brian, were senior to me in school, and I had had even less contact with them than with him. They had no reason to have a grudge against me.

  What was becoming obvious was that I needed help. I said, “I’d like to speak to Mr. Richie.”

  “Yes.” The policeman nodded. “You’ll be able to do that. As soon as you’ve made a complete and proper statement to us.”

  “I’ve nothing to say.”

  He stared at me without speaking. The ginger-­haired one still did not say anything either but began rubbing his hands together in a slow twisting way which I found unsettling.

  I tried to think clearly. It was not as though the whole thing were fabricated. The notes on the pad were based on the actual talk that evening, though Brian’s words had been twisted to sound worse. So information must have come from one of those present, and presumably someone who wanted to get me into trouble. Not Brian. Not Martin or Roland. Then who?

  Suddenly I remembered catching sight of Gary as I left the classroom. Could that have been a look of triumph on his face?

  There had always been some resentment, but it had been more in evidence recently. Although he had gone out in the speedboat with me, he had not been able to resist occasional snide remarks. Then there had been his jealousy over Miranda. Could he have figured out this way of getting back at me? The more I thought about it, the more certain I was.

  I cried, “Gary Jones, isn’t it?” They looked at me in silence. “It was Gary Jones told you all this. But it’s all lies!”

  The brawny one said, “We’re not interested in Gary Jones. It’s you we’re interested in. And you’ll be a lot better off telling the truth.”

  Knowing it was Gary, I felt better. An enemy you can identify is easier to cope with than the unknown. And that reassurance put the whole thing in different perspective. Even if they refused to call Mr. Richie in now, they could not keep him out of things indefinitely. For that matter, my father would soon be back in touch, and I could imagine his fury when he found out how I had been treated.

  Everything would be properly gone into, not in a little office room with two idiot policemen but under the scrutiny of the council. And when that happened, the truth must come out, because others who were present at the party would be called as witnesses. They would testify I hadn’t said anything.

  I felt sorry for Brian, who if he wasn’t already in trouble would probably be in it then. But the real load was going to fall on Gary; he was in for it once the truth came out. I didn’t feel sorry for him, though I did feel contempt along with anger. He had been a fool as well as treacherous.

  For my own part, I needed do nothing but wait. I said, “I’m not saying anything. Call Mr. Richie. I’ll talk if he’s present, not otherwise.”

  Some of my contempt—for these two as well—may have shown in my voice. The red-haired policeman spoke for the first time, in a thin, dry voice: “We aren’t going to get anything out of him at this stage.”

  The other gave a questioning look and got a nod in reply. He pressed a button, and the duty officer came in from the corridor.

  He said, “All right. Take him away.”

  • • •

  On the ground floor I was handed back to the man who had brought me from school. There was a hitch then—something to do with the police car—and I noticed a public visiphone not far from the main desk. I went toward it, feeling in my pocket for a coin, but my escort called me back.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Just making a call.”

  “Not allowed. Come back here.”

  I shrugged and obeyed. There were telephones at school which I could use to call Mr. Richie. The delay made no real difference.

  As the car pulled away from the police building, I thought about Gary. True enough, he would get it in the neck when this was sorted out, but I wasn’t in the mood for waiting that long. I felt very much like pitching into him the moment I got back into the classroom. No, I decided—better wait till after school. I didn’t want any interruptions.

  We turned a corner, and I said, “You’re going the wrong way.”

  He did not answer, though he had clearly heard me. I was more curious than anything else. The route we were taking led to my father’s office, where Mr. Richie worked. Perhaps they had had the sense to change their minds and refer it to him after all.

  But the airport came first, and that was where the police car drove in. A flash of a badge took us through to the departure lounge. Passengers were embarking on a civil airship at one of the main ramps. I was taken to a smaller ramp, farther on. A small gray airship was waiting there, a police craft.

  I said, “Where am I supposed to be going?”

  He didn’t answer that either.

  • • •

  The airship took off almost immediately, rising past the civil aircraft, which was still loading. I had identified that one automatically: the 4:30 to Paris. We lifted to a couple of hundred feet before turning south. The river lay beneath us, dotted with small boats, and I saw the energy tower, the Houses of Parliament museum, a glimpse of my own home. Then the wall was under us and after that the waving green of close-packed trees.

  We traveled southwest, cruising at about five hundred feet. I had a good view of the forest, for what it was worth. It stretched away, dense and featureless, in every direction.

  Even with sunlight on it, it had a sinister look. There was no way of knowing what lay behind that green facade. Savages, certainly, and wild beasts. The flora and fauna of the Outlands were unknown—no one was interested, anyway—and books describing conditions before the Breakdown would not have helped much. Things must have changed a great deal. One of the barbarities of the Dark Ages had been the keeping of wild animals, from all over the world, in cages in what they called zoos. During the Breakdown many had escaped and bred in the wild. There were servants’ stories, handed down from their great-­grandfathers who had been savages, of lions, monkeys, wolves. The forests might conceal anything.

  And, of course, there were the savages themselves. I thought, more with irritation than anything else, of Brian’s stupid ramblings. They
had been the cause of all this. Really stupid. The savages were in their proper place down there, where they ought to be.

  We went on southwest, and I wondered again about our destination. Southampton, perhaps? I couldn’t think why it should be, but it was the next city on this route. The white of buildings glimmered in the distance, and my spirits rose. I was in favor of Southampton, whatever the reason. Miranda was at school, but there might be some chance of seeing her. I could certainly call on Mr. Sherrin for any help I needed.

  The buildings grew larger and took on shape. I saw the long sweep of the wall and the energy tower. But there was no indication of our losing height for a descent. The airship passed over the town, still at five hundred feet, and went on. Forest was replaced by sea beneath us: deep blue, smooth from this height, with nothing moving on it. It looked even more depressing than the forest.

  We were heading out of England, and I began to be worried. I told myself it made no difference. In every country cities formed part of the network of civilization. Mr. Richie would have no difficulty in finding the son of Councillor Anderson and bringing him back to London.

  The thing to do, I decided, was to treat it as an interesting break from school. Even looking at the dreary sea was better than fuel technology with Mr. Harper.

  I was thinking that when the engine note deepened; we were going down. Surely not into the sea? I looked more closely and saw it below, very small but land certainly. An island.

  3

  WE STOOD, GOOSE-PIMPLED, IN LONG lines on the parade ground. The sun was shining but there was a chilly wind from the northeast. It was a windy island altogether; according to Kelly it had not stopped blowing in the six months he had been here.

  Kelly was American and felt the cold; his home city was Jacksonville, Florida. He had brown eyes and brown hair, a brown lazy look to him in general. He preferred sitting to standing and lying to sitting and took catnaps at every opportunity. But the impression he gave was misleading, as I had discovered on my first evening in camp.

  The camp consisted of tents pitched in what had once been a field but was now just beaten earth. Each tent housed about twenty boys, and on arrival I had been given a couple of blankets and escorted to one of them. My first shock was realizing I was supposed to sleep there and that there were no beds, only the bare ground.

  When the guard had gone, the other boys started asking questions: who was I, where did I come from? I wasn’t feeling very sociable. I was confused and uncertain, and my intention of treating the whole thing as an amusing break from school routine was somewhat blunted by the prospect of the night ahead. My bed at home was air-sprung, silk-sheeted, temperature-­controlled, and had a TV screen fitted into the foot. I looked from my blankets to the scuffed earth of the tent floor with no enthusiasm at all.

  So I was short in my answers, possibly rude, which did not go down very well. Questions turned to comments on my appearance and behavior, and the comments rapidly became pointed. A sharp-faced, fair-haired boy mimicked my voice in an exaggerated accent. I told him to shut up, and he mimicked that, too. Then I hit him.

  He went sprawling across the tent, cannoning into others. Two of his friends went for me together, and he got back on his feet and joined in. It wasn’t long before I was on the ground myself, with one of them kicking me.

  Up to this point Kelly had been lying on his blankets some distance away, presumably asleep. He went into action very fast; he had scattered them by the time I realized what was happening. I got up and we stood side by side. They looked at us and after a moment’s hesitation retreated, grumbling.

  I put a hand out. “Thanks a lot.”

  “No sweat.”

  We exchanged names and afterward chatted. I felt better after the fight, less on edge. Kelly made one of the other boys move up so that I could lay out my blankets next to his and showed me how to arrange them for maximum warmth. He told me, with feeling, that it got cold in the small hours.

  I didn’t at that point realize just how lucky I had been in falling in with Kelly and being befriended by him. The blankets on the other side of his belonged to his friend Sunyo, and the pair had established a strong ascendancy inside the tent. No one was anxious to interfere with them, and being accepted as a third member of the alliance gave me a share in the prestige.

  Sunyo, Kelly told me, was Japanese, from Kyoto. I looked around for a yellow skin and slant eyes, but Kelly shook his head.

  “He’s outside somewhere.”

  “Outside?” The tent was full and people were clearly settling down for the night. “Is that allowed?”

  Kelly shrugged. “They don’t bother to restrict our movements when we’re not working or on parade. There’s no reason why they should; after all, we’re stuck on the island. There are caves you could hide in, and you might try living on rabbits and seagulls—raw—if you could catch them. Not for long, though. The food in the camp is terrible, but it keeps you alive. You would have to come back when you were starving, and then you’d get the stockade.”

  “The stockade?”

  He pulled a face. “Let’s not talk about that, not right now anyway. No, Sunyo’s just gone outside to meditate.”

  Again I repeated his word, idiotically: “Meditate?”

  Kelly grinned. “We’re both fond of sitting down—I guess you could say it’s a bond. But Sunyo uses it to contemplate life at a higher level, while all I do is think about getting out of here, getting a proper meal, taking a tub. I settle for a few minutes’ sleep. The higher life requires a bit more privacy.”

  Sunyo came back not long after, and Kelly introduced us. I had been expecting someone thin and pale, spiritual-looking, but he proved to be short and squat, heavily muscled. The strength of his grip impressed me. He had broad features, at first sight ugly but later interesting, their expression oddly balanced between an appearance of great control and one of latent, maybe wild energy.

  Now, the day after, I stood between them on the parade ground and listened to the commandant. He was a very big man with a very florid face. The island guards wore standard gray police uniforms, though with different shoulder insignia. The commandant’s uniform was gray, too, but heavily braided with gold at the shoulders and cuffs and along the peak of his cap.

  He had a plummy voice, which switched between a note of insincere good will and bursts of braying indignation. It started on the first.

  “We have one or two new boys on parade today.” He opened his red face in a cavernous smile. “So I think it might be a good idea to talk about the purpose of this island training school. Most of you will have heard it before. I hope you are going to bear with me and listen patiently again.”

  One of the boys shifted an inch or so, and a guard moved in his direction, his baton raised. The commandant paid no attention and went on.

  “Training school, I say. Some people call it a punishment school, but this is the term I prefer. Punishment, after all, is negative; training positive. It has purpose, an objective. What is that objective? Quite simply, to produce good citizens. Good citizen­ship is the most important quality any human being can have, because society itself depends on it.

  “Think,” he said, “—think for a moment of our forefathers.”

  He paused to let us think. While we were doing so, a guard bellowed, “You at the back there! Stand up straight!”

  “Our forefathers,” the commandant said, “were great men. In a dark and dying world they carried the torch of civilization. While everything else was crumbling and falling, they built the cities in which we now live—the cities in which all of you were born. If they had been selfish, willful men, none of that could have been achieved. The whole world would have collapsed into the barbarism of the Outlands. But they were not selfish or willful; they were good citizens.

  “Because of them you—all of you—were born into a decent and civilized life rather than the brut
ish life of the savages, continually threatened by hunger, disease, death in a thousand forms. You only have to look across the wall of your city to see what might have been. It is something to be humbly grateful for.”

  His voice took on an edge, the beginning of the bray. “Most young people are grateful. They obey the mild and sensible rules laid down for their good by their elders. Only a small and wretched minority cause trouble. They are the boys who put self before citizen­ship, their own whims before the needs of society.

  “Few, as I say, but that does not mean they are unimportant. Small patches of rottenness, if left unchecked, can infect and eventually destroy everything. But we are not going to let that happen. The way we are going to prevent it is by cutting out the rottenness from individuals before it can spread to the rest of the community, to those who are still healthy.

  “That is the reason for your being here. All of you have shown by your behavior that you are part of the corruption I am talking about. And that corruption must be destroyed before it destroys the good life we have inherited!”

  His voice had been rising. He paused, and resumed in his quieter, unctuous tone: “We must look on the bright side. You can be cleansed and rescued. No one is beyond redemption. It may take a long time, perhaps a very long time, but we can make you into decent citizens. I promise you that, and I promise you something else: not one of you will leave this island till that end has been achieved.

  “How shall we do it? First, by deprivation. Deprivation of all the good things—family, rich foods, leisure, amusements—which you had and did not value. Secondly, by work. Our forefathers worked unstintingly in building the cities after the Breakdown. You will work as hard or harder. And work will drive from your minds the folly and selfish­ness which brought you here.

  “You have heard something of the hard and ugly lives of the savages. Your lives, too, will be hard and ugly. There will be room in your minds for one thought only—how to get away, how to get back to the city whose warmth and comfort and security you failed to appreciate when you had them. And how are you to achieve it? I can put it in one word: obedience—­obedience not just from the mouth but from the heart.”