He had never thought in these terms before, but he had at last discovered how much he loved England itself: the landscape, the skies, the feel of the air. England was still there, buried, inaccessible. It had taken Sert to make him see it. For Sert was that great rarity, a bit of England left relatively unmolested, a few square miles of how it all used to be. It was difficult for him to find anything good in his present circumstances, but there was this, the single glimmer of advantage in his prospect of despair. For a few days, at least, or months, he would have been alive in the landscape of the real England. No layers of officialdom would have been interposed between him and the “exigencies of survival”, as Appleton had called them. When his end came, it would be genuine, and not the counterfeit death allotted to him by the State.
Abruptly the rain began pelting the beach, and beyond it the sea.
11
Late on Monday afternoon Routledge left the cave and continued along the coastline in order to return to the vicinity of the Village. The day was warm and humid, with frequent spells of sunshine. Just south of the cave the beach narrowed and disappeared, forcing him up the cliffs and back into the bracken scrub, which presently became denser yet, mixed with a scattering of stunted firs. He found himself following a faint path under the trees, pioneered perhaps by goats and then used from time to time by men. He decided to stay with it rather than make a completely new trail.
Although he was no longer so frightened of being caught by Martinson, he had nonetheless armed the crossbow and was proceeding as stealthily as he could, often stopping to listen and to look around. He had planned his return to the Village with care, mapping out each foreseeable detail in the safety of the cave. Only later, just before leaving, had he realized how dangerous his sanctuary might have proved. The cave had no rear exit. He had been extremely lucky to have had no need of one.
But being in the open was worse. He halted again. At the moment most of Sert was lying beneath a particularly large area of blue, herding before it vast formations of top-lit cloud. Away to the left, beyond the tree trunks and through the fresh, rain-washed green of the ferns, he could glimpse stretches of the sea. From somewhere out of sight came the yelping cries of gulls.
He felt as if someone were watching him. Except for his time in Martinson’s hut and in the cave, he had had the sensation almost continuously since landing on Sert. He had attributed it to two main reasons. The first was the likelihood of satellite surveillance. The second was the feeling he had brought with him from the mainland, where it was virtually impossible to be alone in any open space and one’s behaviour had to be modified accordingly. Yet now the feeling of being observed had grown stronger, as if there were real grounds for it.
How long had the gulls been calling? What could they see that he could not? Was there somebody on the beach? But there was no beach.
Irrational terror gripped his heart. For all the imagined progress he had made since his arrival here, he was again close to panic. He had eaten nothing since yesterday and was light-headed. He had lost weight. It had not been himself, but a bearded madman, confused and haggard, who had returned his gaze in a rockpool near the cave. Last night he had suffered an attack of diarrhoea and had awoken this morning with a chill. On more than one occasion in the cave he had suspected himself of losing track of time for greater or lesser periods; he had been making increasingly stupid and absent-minded mistakes. Perhaps he had already lost his marbles. Perhaps he was dead; perhaps this was the afterlife.
“No,” he thought. “Not yet.”
Glancing over his shoulder once more, he went on, moving slightly downhill. The path dwindled and vanished altogether. The firs yielded to gorse, and then brambles, and then to sparser scrub where he came across the first definite sign of human settlement he had seen since leaving Old Town: a low stone tower, severely decayed, standing among the remnants of walls and foundations, all more or less overgrown. The site showed evidence of having been turfed and mown, and not too many years since: perhaps just before the evacuation. It faced the sea, almost adjoining low, grassy cliffs which sloped straight down to the rocks of the shore. The shore seemed to curve strongly round to the right, and Routledge wondered whether he had unwittingly come almost to the end of a peninsula.
The ruins had a serene, ecclesiastical air, as if the place had centuries ago been made hallow, as if, despite the use to which Sert had since been put, this protection still held good today. Entering the rubble-strewn floor space of the tower, he noticed a niche in the eastern wall. And there, higher up, near the top, was a wide slab of stone which might have run under an arched window paned with coloured glass.
This, surely, was the chapel of the old monastery.
He went outside again, imagining he could trace in the foundations the layout of the monastery buildings. This part might have been the kitchen, the broader area next to it the refectory, those the walls of the living quarters.
He tried to imagine also what sort of men had voluntarily embraced the tedium and austerity of a small island in the north Atlantic. Religious fervour had had quite a bit to do with it, of course. Probably it had been no great hardship to leave the oppressions and persecutions of medieval England behind. Islands had always been a place of sanctuary. The difference today was that, in a sense, the people taking sanctuary were those on the mainland.
This was no time for such idle speculation, or for sightseeing. His examination took no more than a minute. Having established that the ruins were of no practical importance to him, he decided to change course to the right, heading westwards to see whether he had indeed walked out to the end of a peninsula. With one last glance at the tower, and holding the crossbow clear of the undergrowth, he began to move in that direction.
It was then that he knew that someone was watching him.
A moment ago, looking over the ruins, he had felt the touch of eyes more strongly still, but he had dismissed it as fanciful. He did not believe in ghosts, nor did he seriously believe, as some might have done, that a place could absorb supernatural influences from the people who had lived and died there. And besides, in his present state he no longer trusted himself.
But now he knew. Someone was behind him, hiding in the scrub.
The back of his neck tingling, Routledge moved off. Then he stopped and whirled round.
He did not really see the man. All that registered was a sense of movement, across there, beyond a big clump of brambles.
By now Routledge was trembling with fear. He only had one shot. Suppose there were several of them? No. Several would have been able to rush him. One shot, then. But suppose even that first shot missed? The machete was ready to hand. He would use that as well. The watcher must have seen the crossbow. He would want it, probably very badly. He would want the machete, the haversack, the boots and clothes.
There was the slightest movement of vegetation beyond the bramble clump. Not caused by a bird. Not by a goat or rabbit. Not by the wind. By a man. It was definite. Someone was there, trying to tempt Routledge into loosing off his single crossbow bolt.
Worst of all: the thought occurred to him that it might be Martinson. Had Martinson been silently following, waiting his chance? Was it Martinson the gulls had seen? Routledge remembered all too well how quietly Martinson and the other two had come up behind him in the woods.
Or was Routledge imagining things again? That was what he wanted to believe. He would resolutely investigate the bramble clump, just to show himself there was nothing to be afraid of.
But what if he were right? Could he afford to do something so reckless? Options, he told himself: quickly, options. You can look or you can refrain from looking. You can stay or you can go. If you go, and no one follows, that’s just as good as going to look. Or better, because you avoid all risk.
And if there were someone, and he followed? The watcher had already demonstrated his ability to move in complete silence. Using the cover of the scrub, might he not circle ahead? Judging by the position of th
e sun, the time was now about six. There were at least four hours to go before the Village bell rang. Martinson, anyone who lived on Sert, would know the routine. He would know that Routledge would have to wait near the gate, and that, within one hour of the bell, he would have to present himself or for ever forfeit his chance of a place inside.
This situation was precisely what Routledge had been dreading, so much so that he feared he had now almost willed it into existence.
He started to move away, towards the west, as he had originally intended. He reached the edge of the monastery precincts and looked round. Nothing. The bramble clump was as before. He went on, through thicker scrub of bracken and gorse. He felt the sea wind on his face, and the solidity under his boot soles as the ground began again to climb. He wanted to look back, but didn’t. Finally the desire became overwhelming. He could resist it no more.
By the tower, beyond accurate range, a shaggy figure came that instant into view: a savage, an aborigine, utterly unlike any of the men Routledge had seen in Old Town. He owed nothing whatever to civilization; he was armed with a wooden spear and clad entirely in furs and skins, crudely hung about his body or strapped in place with thongs. His feet were bare, as were his arms and shoulders, which were deeply tanned. A fur band encircled his forehead; an extensive bald patch showed plainly in the sun. Dark-haired, and about Routledge’s own age and weight and height, he was nevertheless endowed with a frighteningly languid, lithe athleticism Routledge had never observed before in any Caucasian male, let alone a British one. The man saw Routledge watching him and moved the spear in a gesture without meaning.
He was deliberately loitering there, waiting for Routledge to make more ground before following.
Routledge took two steps towards him and raised the crossbow. At his leisure, the man retreated behind the stonework of the tower. He knew he was beyond range but, now that he had been discovered, it seemed he wanted to indicate the nature of the game.
Routledge did not know what to do. The important thing was to get to open ground where he was sure of a good all-round view. The scrub through which he had come was no use. He could not go back that way. If he really were at the end of a peninsula, then, unless the terrain opened out on its western side, he was done for. And he was done for if the man had a companion, or companions. Perhaps they were already closing in. That would explain his easy manner, his insolence.
Routledge began to wish he had put his time in the cave to better use. He should have practised his marksmanship.
The sun went in as he turned and continued uphill, at the fastest rate he could, just short of breaking into a run. Each time he looked round, the man was following, keeping up with him exactly, maintaining the same distance. Veering more to the right, Routledge avoided the densest area of gorse and in ten minutes came to the top of the rise. Before him and to his right lay a kilometre’s width of sea, a deep bay defined on its far side by serried formations of sunlit cliffs and headlands which extended westwards for at least four kilometres, maybe more. On top of the final headland, under cloud but almost directly against the brightest part of the sky, his retina briefly caught the pattern of organization: buildings, fields, walls. The Village.
He had indeed trapped himself at the end of a peninsula. But this western side, exposed to the prevailing wind, was more open than the way he had come. For some distance to the right, for half a kilometre at least, he would be safe.
As he went, Routledge dropped first the sheepskin waistcoat and then the goatskin hat. He hoped the man would pause to pick them up, that their weight would be better carried by the pursuer than the pursued. His own PVC jacket, which he was wearing, he decided to retain. To lose it would cost him points when he reached the Village.
The moment he had dropped the hat he regretted his action, for it would be seen as an attempt at appeasement and as evidence that Routledge had yet more desirable objects in his possession. It had been a mistake. A bad mistake; but it was too late now to change his mind.
Looking back, he saw the man bend down. The next time Routledge looked, he was wearing the hat and carrying the waistcoat, but still maintaining the same easy, assured, relentless pace.
They were crossing rough, tussocky turf interspersed with clumps of low bracken and gorse. Routledge made a detour past a broad area of heather which, spreading down the hillside nearly to the cliff edge, almost threatened to lie in his path. By now he was beginning to tire. He felt his speed beginning to fade and angrily redoubled his efforts to keep it going. For the twentieth time he looked back. His pursuer, if anything, seemed fresher, just getting into his stride, moving with a leisurely, economical gait that he could maintain all day, and all night too, if need be.
The cliffs here were not steep. A couple of hundred metres ahead, almost at their edge, lay a large outcrop of rock, and behind it another. Beyond them the ground was more sheltered, and to his horror and consternation Routledge saw that the scrub there again became gradually thicker, much thicker, thick enough to take away the advantage of the crossbow and allow the man to catch up or circle ahead unseen. That was what he had been waiting for: that explained why he had been content to hang back till now.
In his frantic attempt to find another passage through, Routledge changed course more to the right, climbing slantwise across the face of the slope. He got to the top of the rise before acknowledging to himself the truth of what he already feared: that there was no way out.
Either he could keep on, or he could stay and stand his ground. He knew he couldn’t take much more of this exertion. The weight of the crossbow was becoming intolerable. He stopped and turned round. The man stopped too. By going no farther, Routledge could at least rest. He might even be able to sit down, keeping the crossbow levelled at his adversary. But for how long? What would happen when the light began to fail?
Routledge’s voice cracked as he screamed his desperate, hopeless oath of dismissal.
For reply the man moved a few metres nearer, confident that Routledge’s aim was being steadily impaired by fear, by exhaustion, by his pounding pulse. Routledge raised the crossbow and unsuccessfully tried to align the bead. He remembered the way the bolt had smashed the rock on the beach. There was a chance. Just a chance; but he couldn’t afford to take it.
Suddenly he was making for the outcrop of rock at the cliff edge, two hundred metres away down the slope. A hundred and fifty. Fifty. A flashing backward glance told him the man was gaining fast, no longer so cocky, for he had now seen what Routledge had in mind: to get momentarily out of sight, to hide in a defensible position and thus force his pursuer to take the initiative. With the last few strides Routledge realized he had done it.
The outcrop was about half the height of a house, shaped somewhat like the end of crude boat jutting sideways from the sparse, thrift-grown turf; the far side was split and fissured into irregular gullies. One of these gullies made a partial alcove, damp and cool, permanently concealed from the sun. Routledge pressed himself into it, and, panting, waited for whatever was going to happen next.
He could hear nothing but the wind and the sound of the surf. The man had stopped moving, or had once again switched to his silent mode of travel. Then, from the shore below him and to his left, Routledge heard the loud, quick piping of two wading-birds, rising to an ecstatic crescendo which abruptly died. The sea there looked grey: he saw the birds, black and white, with red beaks, perching on two adjacent rocks.
Still there was no sign of his companion. A minute had passed. What would he do? Which side would he come from? Or was he just going to sit it out and wait?
Routledge tried to reduce the trembling in his hands. Already he was beginning to get his breath back: his lungs no longer felt as if they were about to burst. He had to keep calm. He had to be in control of himself.
Another minute passed, and Routledge started to have second thoughts about this strategy. It was worse not being able to see him. At least in the open …
He had expected the attack to
come from the left. Most of his attention had been directed there, with the rest directed to the right. The thought had not occurred to him, obvious though it now seemed, that it would come from above. He must have detected an inadvertent sound, or sensed slight motion in the uppermost edge of his peripheral vision: whatever the reason, he looked up and saw the man there, three metres above him, in the act of raising both arms to hurl a rock down on his head.
Later, he had no recollection of stepping back and raising the crossbow, no recollection of bringing bead and sight into line with the man’s body. It all happened too fast. But he did remember, as if frozen on film, the moment when his finger, already inside the guard, began to make contact with the trigger. At that moment he had conscious control. This was not like the frenzied, automatic attack on Gazzer and Tortuga. Now he had a choice. He could shoot to wound, or he could shoot to kill.
His hand and arm and eye made the decision without further reference to his brain. The pressure of his touch, faithfully transmitted by both pivots, arrived at the waiting nib, which, more rapidly than thought, and receiving the only command it knew, smoothly descended and allowed the crossbow to let fly.
The Penal Colony Page 10