The goatherds were lounging on the ground, one with a hat over his face. The mulatto sat up as Martinson’s party appeared.
“Who got it?” he said, referring no doubt to Routledge.
“Martinson,” Obie said. “Why four of you, Beanpole?”
“Alex doubled the guard. What happened at the light?”
“Tell you later.”
“Yeah. OK.”
The smell of the goats was so abominable that in the midst of the flock Routledge felt his gorge rise.
“Nearly home now,” Obie said. “Nearly time for you to tell us what you done with Gazzer and Tortuga.”
“Who? … I’m sorry …”
“I bet you’re sorry.”
Martinson gave another quiet laugh. Routledge’s flimsy belief that they were going to overlook his possession of the club had suddenly evaporated.
“No need to look so glum, Roger,” Martinson said, as they reached the edge of the bowl and came into full sight of the sea and, below, the primitive assortment of sheds and tents which was their apparent destination. “Be like our mate Gazzer. Always try to look on the bright side.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Close to, the outsiders’ settlement was even more appalling than the descent of the hillside had led Routledge to expect. The main street, or what passed for a street, was littered with bones and shells and malodorous garbage including fish waste, the rotting corpses of seabirds, piles of human faeces. Most of the dwellings were sited among the ruined walls and foundations of former buildings. This was surely the “Old Town” he had been obliquely warned about last night.
Some of the inhabitants were already on view. Others emerged to inspect him. Shocked as he had been by the first sight of the two on the cliffs, Routledge now saw that, compared with some of these creatures, Gazzer had been little short of a Regency fop. At least three of the men who appeared at the doorways, or rather the mouths, of their shacks had the unmistakable beginnings of the facial chancres that marked active cases of HVC; Routledge noticed that they, unlike not a few of the others, hung well back and neither congratulated Martinson nor tried to touch and examine the captive. Even here, in hell, they were shunned, like lepers. What happened to them when the disease became contagious? Were they allowed to reach that stage? Routledge thought again of the black man’s saliva in his hair, of the dried blood which still clung to his trousers.
Beyond the ruined plots and houses, to the right, beyond the shallow slope of debris-littered beach, spread a sac-shaped bay with a scattering of islands at its mouth, bounded at east and west by low headlands. Compared with those on the other side of the island, the cliffs here were nothing. The bay made an almost perfect natural harbour; the waves were no more than knee-high, fumbling their approach and collapsing early into shoals of weed-polluted, sluggish foam.
At the end of the street stood the ruins of a comparatively large building, which Obie said was the “hotel”. Canopies and lean-tos of driftwood and plastic covered about half the floor area, compensating for the lack of an upper storey; the rest was open to the sky.
In front of the main entrance, overlooking an old stone and concrete jetty, was a stone terrace with the evidence of an elegant balustrade and steps leading down to the beach. Here, hemmed in by Jez and a number of others who had joined the procession along the road, Routledge was made to wait while Obie and Martinson went inside.
As soon as they had gone, the attentions of the group became more insistent and impertinent. Routledge found himself being questioned on several sides at once, unable to settle one demand before another was made. The questions at first concerned news and happenings on the mainland; they soon became more and more menacing and priapic. Was he married? What was her name? What was she like in bed? When had they last done it? In detail, what were her favourite perversions? And his? During this he became aware of the leers of two men in particular, one middle-aged, the other younger, both with the same unconcealed interest in his person. The older one was the first to translate intent into action, reaching out a hand to stroke his neck.
Routledge reacted instantaneously, pulling himself away.
“Leave it, Curtis,” Jez warned the man, giving his words greater emphasis with the axe.
“I didn’t mean no harm.”
“All you stonks. Piss off out of it.”
“You can’t stop us, Brookes.”
“D’you want to take it up with Martinson?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said the younger of the two men, at which there was laughter. “He’ll have to give in some day.”
“Say that to his face.”
At that moment Martinson appeared in what had been the porch of the hotel. He descended the low flight of steps to the terrace.
“All right, boys,” he said. “You’ve had your eyeful. I’ve got a special surprise. Something new. Be here tomorrow morning. Bring anything you got worth having. I’ve decided to auction the meat.”
“What d’you mean, ‘auction’?”
“Just what I say. You’ve got till morning to raise the ante. Then he goes to the highest bidder.”
8
Martinson disappeared for the rest of the afternoon. In the early evening he returned to take custody of the captive. He was with Obie and Jez, who both elected to remain behind with Peto in order to report the outcome of whatever errand they had been engaged upon.
Having tied Routledge’s wrists with an old length of twine, Martinson led him along the main street and towards his hut.
Routledge had spent all the intervening hours in the hotel, being questioned by Peto and his henchmen. They had wanted to know everything he had seen and heard in the Village, and then they had interrogated him on his life and background and on news from the mainland. Several other men had come in from time to time to watch, listen, or pose questions of their own. The questioning had dwelt at length on the disappearance of Gazzer and his companion, Tortuga. Routledge maintained throughout that he knew nothing whatever about it, and insisted that he had found Tortuga’s club by chance on the clifftop.
Nobody believed him, and apart from one negro who heatedly swore revenge and had to be ejected, nobody seemed to care. In this respect at least, Martinson and Obie had been making fun of him.
For a time Routledge had hoped that the proposed auction was also one of Martinson’s jokes, but no. It became evident that, where profit was involved, Martinson lacked all sense of humour. He was not a homosexual, nor did he want a slave; therefore he had no use for Routledge. What could be more logical than to sell his new acquisition to someone who did? The idea, apparently, broke new ground, and Peto said he wished he had thought of it himself. During much comment and speculation the name “Jones” was mentioned. If Jones won the bidding, Routledge could expect to be the subject of a “party”, which he understood to mean a multiple rape.
It could have been very much worse; the auction could have been held immediately. Had it not been for Martinson’s desire to raise as much interest as possible, and had he not been called away to finish his errand for Peto, the sale might already have taken place. The delay introduced an element of hope. Thoughts of evasion and escape were taking form in Routledge’s mind. For now, he allowed himself to be led along, the model prisoner.
Martinson’s hut stood on rising ground at some distance from the hotel, commanding a broad view of the town and the beach below. Turf and slates covered the roof, which sloped back from the doorway. The rear and two side walls were sturdily constructed of stacked rocks and solid timbers – driftwood pallets and packing-cases and old joists and floorboards – while the front wall, with its single window-aperture and doorway, was made of wattle and daub. Near by was one other hut, quite derelict; behind it rose the slope.
“Just in time for cocoa,” Martinson said. From his tunic he took an oddly-shaped sliver of wood, a key which he used to unfasten an ingeniously carved wooden catch holding shut the wattle-and-daub door. Satisfied that his domain had not been enter
ed during his absence, he motioned Routledge inside.
There was no floor; in the middle of the main chamber the rock had been dug out to make a hearth from which, presumably, the smoke escaped as best it could. A large, blackened cooking pot – a saucepan which had neither lid nor handle – stood on one of the shelves which covered the whole height of the left-hand wall. Martinson took the pot down, together with an old plastic measuring-jug.
“Sit on that box, where I can see you.”
Routledge complied. Apart from this wooden beer-crate, the furniture in the room comprised a makeshift table under the window, another, larger, crate, and, in the far corner, a peculiar low sofa made of goatskin stuffed with heather.
This main chamber occupied the front half of the hut; the rear had been solidly partitioned off into two small rooms, each with its own narrow doorway.
The interior of the hotel had been squalid enough, but this was worse. Martinson’s possessions, heaped on the shelves or merely thrown down against the walls, appeared to consist mainly of the rubbish he had collected from the tideline: tangled nylon mesh, potentially useful lumps of wood, assorted articles of plastic like yogurt pots and fishing floats, and bolts, nails, brackets, strip metal and similar bits and pieces saved from packing cases or other wooden objects washed ashore.
Routledge suddenly noticed, among the many small fittings heaped in a polythene tray on the shelf beside him, a rusty woodscrew about seven centimetres long. He immediately looked away, resuming his examination of Martinson’s kitchen.
In the corner stood the water tank, a large translucent drum which might once have held industrial chemicals. There was no tap, only a length of water-filled plastic tubing fed through a hole in the lid, one end touching the bottom and the other fitted with a clip which allowed small quantities to be siphoned off, as Routledge now observed.
“Want some grub?”
“Yes. Please.”
“It’ll be cold. I can’t be bothered with no fire.”
Routledge did not object. During the whole time at the hotel, he had been offered nothing to eat or drink. He watched, almost in disbelief, as Martinson began preparing an evening meal. Many of the ingredients were wrapped in thick white polythene, sections cut from an old fertilizer sack that must have drifted ashore from the mainland. From one of these Martinson produced a lump of goat’s cheese.
“Have a bit of this while we’re waiting.”
Routledge did his best to restrain himself. The cheese was rank, unrefrigerated, the sort of thing Louise would have buried in the compost heap. It tasted fantastic.
“You can tell me,” Martinson said. “Secret, like. Which was the first to get it? Gazzer or Tortuga?”
“I kept telling them at the hotel, I don’t know anything about it.”
“Do you want some supper or not?”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“You croted them two tossers all right. Cut them, I reckon.” He emptied some oatmeal into the pot. “How you done it is a mystery, but you done it. Good riddance, that’s what I say. Congratulations, Roger. It’s earned you with Peto. Earned you with me and all.”
Martinson turned his back to find something on his larder shelf. It was the first chance Routledge had had. Reaching out both his bound hands, he took the rusty woodscrew and just managed to insinuate it into the top of his right trouser-pocket before Martinson turned back, holding a medium-sized polythene bag.
“Dried puffin,” he said. “You’ll like it. This is my special scoobie-doo.” He added a generous portion to the pot: dehydrated flakes of dark meat. From a jamjar he sprinkled crystals of sea salt and stirred them in with a stick. The resulting stew he poured into two ill-assorted bowls, one an old aluminium pie-dish, the other a plastic tub still marked PUTTY.
Routledge devoured a second helping, Martinson a third. During the course of the meal, which he spent sprawled on the goatskin sofa, Martinson asked about Routledge’s past life and the reason he had been put in Category Z. “They all say that,” he said, when Routledge protested his innocence. About his own history, Martinson divulged nothing.
The evening cloud had become heavy and low. By the time they had finished eating, the light had begun to fade.
Martinson arose. “Beddy-byes now,” he said. “I’m going to have to tie you up. I know you’ll understand. You’re a valuable property, see?” He jerked a thumb at the left-hand door. “You can have my room. Don’t bother getting no ideas about breaking out of it, not unless you’ve got an axe. I’ll sleep out here. I get up at first light. I like lots of sleep and I don’t like being disturbed. Right? No noise. Don’t even fart.” He took a handful of nylon cord from a low shelf, and from his belt drew Routledge’s own knife. “First of all we’ll get rid of this,” he said, and carefully cut through the knot of Routledge’s bonds. He then began to bundle Routledge’s arms behind his back.
“Wait,” Routledge said. “I ought to go to the lavatory first.”
“Good thinking, Roger. Can’t have you wetting my bed, can we?”
“It’s not just that. I think I want to … to …”
“Do big potties? Why didn’t you say so, then?”
Martinson chose him a place a few metres from the doorway.
“Do you have to stand there watching me like that?”
“I don’t get no thrill out of it, if that’s what you mean. Just get on with it.”
“Can’t you at least stand by the door? I won’t get far with my trousers round my ankles.”
Martinson shrugged and moved back. Routledge squatted for half a minute or so, knowing full well there would be no result.
“Hope this in’t no criticism of my puffin porridge.”
Routledge had already transferred the woodscrew to his right hand. As he stood and pulled up his trousers, he tucked in his shirt and simultaneously slipped the screw beneath his underpants and between his buttocks. He had only a moment: the position had to be just right, neither too low, so that he couldn’t reach the screw when the time came, nor too high, so that he would be unable to grip it inconspicuously as he walked.
It felt as if the act of keeping the screw in place was altering his entire gait. He was convinced Martinson would notice and become suspicious.
“Remember what I said. I don’t appreciate being woken up.”
He tied Routledge’s hands behind his back, tied his ankles, and tied both sets of bonds together. When he had finished, Routledge, lying on the noisome feather-filled mattress which served his host as a bed, could hardly move.
The room was a bare, timber-lined cubicle a couple of metres across, with no window. As the door shut behind him, Routledge heard something heavy being wedged into place.
What little light there was gained access through cracks in the walls and round the door, which was also made of solid planking. Even as Routledge’s eye dwelt on the doorframe, he heard Martinson hanging a curtain on the other side and the cracks there were abruptly obscured.
By raising his feet as far as he could, Routledge was just able to free his hands enough to get at his shirt-tail. Fraction by fraction, able to use only the tips of his thumbs and forefingers, he struggled to pull it from his trousers. As he worked, he listened intently to the noises coming from the other side of the door. He heard the dishes being picked up, objects being returned to the shelves. He heard water trickling into a vessel and the sound of Martinson washing himself. Presently the outer door was pulled shut. The goatskin sofa creaked.
“Sweet dreams!” Martinson called out.
Routledge did not reply. He had managed to free his shirt-tail and was now trying to reach the screw itself. The nylon cord bit deeply into his wrists. He grimaced, bared his teeth, pulled his legs back even further. Finally, with both his forefingers fully extended, and his thumbs forcing down the material of the waistband, he almost made contact. With a supreme effort, he pushed his fingers further and got a slender hold on the threads: he had put the screw in the wrong wa
y up, head downwards.
He was concentrating so much on withdrawing the screw without dropping it that he only half heard a faint scraping sound from the adjoining room. He halted in order to listen. Had Martinson lifted open the outer door just then?
No. Routledge thought he heard breathing, which meant Martinson was still there.
He went on with his work.
∗ ∗ ∗
The rain began just before dusk, a slow, relentless drizzle drifting in from the west. By the time Martinson had reached the cliffs above Crow Bay, his tunic and leggings were drenched. He disliked this warm summer rain. It made the rocks greasy. He would be coming back in the dark, on an easier section, it was true, but on these cliffs there was no such thing as an easy climb. The conditions tonight were too dangerous. Maybe he ought leave it until tomorrow. But no. Now had to be the time. And tomorrow might be wetter still.
“So what,” he breathed, digging in his climbing-pick for the first hand-hold. “If I go, I go.”
Now had to be the time because of the psychological element. After leaving the new meat with Peto for questioning, as was customary, he and Obie and Jez had gone on to the Village to check out Franks’s stock. Billy, of course, had not been there, for the simple reason that Martinson had killed the goat himself last night and tipped the carcase over the cliffs.
Martinson was pleased with his performance today, especially at the lighthouse. The words had come of themselves, sowing just the right seeds of suspicion and resentment in Feely’s, and hence also Houlihan’s, mind. Obie, he was certain, had been taken in completely. It was all turning out just the way he had planned.
Houlihan might send an emissary from his brain gang, demanding an explanation which Peto would be unable to give. But that was unlikely. From past experience, Martinson knew precisely what was going to happen. Today’s visit to the lighthouse would have set Houlihan thinking. He would have perceived Peto’s behaviour as initial weakness. Later tonight, or tomorrow morning, he would discover how Peto – who else? – had changed his mind and retaliated.
The Penal Colony Page 7