The Penal Colony

by Richard Herley

  On the mainland he had always lived in the future, always looking forward to the completion of the project in hand. When he passed his exams, got the new contract, married Louise, paid off the mortgage: when, in turn, each of these dreams was realized, then, and only then, would he be happy. All were ends, to be reached by any means expedient or possible. He saw now that there were no such things as ends, only means: for ends were phantoms that melted away when approached, only to reform into other ends further off. For most men the process was limited by death. For him, and the others on the island, the limits had been abruptly and artificially set. There could be no more ends, only the day-to-day business of survival.

  Except for Franks. Through almost superhuman willpower he had created the possibility of a goal. Routledge did not know him well enough to understand his attitude towards it. Certainly, and Godwin had confirmed this, Franks and his Council perceived the project as more than a mere attempt at escape. In the period between making the details public and holding the lottery, the Village would be united as never before, paving the way for who knew what developments. Then, if the attempt succeeded, the mental relationship between the villagers and the Prison Service would have been broken for ever. Until now the authorities had had it all their own way. The knowledge that escape had been achieved, and could be achieved again, would transform everything.

  That was what the Council believed. Routledge was not so sure. Without Franks he doubted that another boat could be built. Most of the Village would be dismayed by the news that he and the most prominent members of his Council intended to leave.

  But then the announcement of the lottery might never come. Godwin had yet to confirm that the sonar could actually be made to work.

  Louise had written every week except the last. Twice she had enclosed a note from Christopher, and once, a fortnight ago, he had received a parcel containing various groceries and treats, including a Dundee cake, some bars of chocolate, and a quota of extra clothing, books, soap, and other luxuries.

  The censor had so far treated Louise’s correspondence with lenience, blacking out only a paragraph or two and some isolated words relating to the winding up of the legal process. In a letter from his mother Routledge had learned that money had at first been very difficult for Louise, but the house had now at last been sold and she had found a better-paid job.

  The lack of a letter last week, while disappointing, had, according to King, been nothing unusual, and would probably be followed by a double delivery today.

  “Do you think the helicopter’s been yet?” Godwin said.

  “I haven’t heard it,” Fitzmaurice said.

  They were still soldering, using a fine-pointed iron and a magnifying glass mounted in a wooden stand. “What about you, Mr Routledge?” Godwin said, looking up. “Heard anything?”

  “No. Not yet. Of course, he might have come another way.”

  “Bit more on that joint,” Godwin said to Fitzmaurice.

  Routledge studied them for a moment longer before returning to his calculator. He had come to loathe them both. On a personal level Routledge had found himself consistently isolated. Despite the fact that he had already contributed in no small measure to the development of the electronics, and was now also regularly undertaking figurework for Thaine, he felt had not been accorded the respect his part in the project deserved. Neither, despite the importance of his work, had he improved his position in the Village as a whole. There was nothing he could pin down, but in all his dealings with others, King excepted, there was an unspoken and unpleasant reserve. He had resigned himself to the fact that he was unpopular; he did not fit in.

  In his former life he had noticed that people who were capable and intelligent were often disliked for the simple reason that they could not be pitied. Their qualities made it impossible for others to feel that warm glow of superiority which the need for indulgence always generated. How else could one understand the preference given to underdogs of every kind, no matter how undeserving their case or their cause? How else could one explain the common feeling of jealousy and spite towards anyone whose own efforts had raised himself out of the gutter? For all Franks’s high-flown talk of a meritocracy, just the same applied here.

  From the far side of the bungalow came the dull sound of an iron bar striking a suspended oil drum, once, twice, thrice: the mail gong.

  “There it is,” Godwin said. “Will you go, Mr Routledge?”

  Routledge arose, scraping the legs of his chair. “Are you expecting any parcels?”

  “We live in hope. There should be something for Mr Gunter. Torch batteries.”

  “Mr Gunter’s with the fishing party.”

  “There’s no rush. If Mr Ross gets a parcel, let me know.”

  Stepping outside the workshop, Routledge again felt the keen edge of autumn. The moaning in the trees had become more insistent; a few premature larch needles were being shed. Along the garden hedge a flock of starlings rose and was flung away downwind. The French windows of the bungalow, sealed tight, returned only dull reflections: he had the feeling that Franks was at his desk, watching him keep to the concrete path, watching him cross the paving stones and turn the corner. He passed the kitchen door and mounted the side steps to the veranda, where Stamper was distributing the mail.

  “Letter for Mr Fitzmaurice,” Stamper said. “And two for Mr Godwin.”

  “Any for me?”

  “Yes, Mr Routledge. Just the one.”

  Routledge saw instantly that this was a letter from his mother. The envelope was slim, unbulky, enclosing only one or two sheets of paper. “Just this?”

  “Just that.”

  “Could you check?”

  “It’s all in alphabetical order. Look. Redfern. Sibley. Nothing else for you.”

  Doing his best to conceal his bewilderment, Routledge said, “That parcel for Mr Gunter. There’s something in it for us.”

  “I know. As soon as he’s had a chance to open it I’ll be over.”

  “Was there a parcel for Mr Ross?”

  “Not today.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  When he got back he found Fitzmaurice making the tea. Even in this minor ritual Routledge felt himself excluded from the life of the workshop. Fitzmaurice guarded the ceremony as his own childish preserve: boiling the water, producing a tea-bag, new or secondhand, according to the state of the workshop supply, straining the milk if necessary to exclude coagulated cream, timing the infusion, pouring the finished brew. Routledge, as if to emphasize the temporary nature of his position, was always served first. After the failure of a couple of uneasy attempts to sit at or lean on the workbench during breaks, he now always retreated to the safety of his desk.

  The letter from his mother said nothing about Louise, and contained only general news, some of it effaced by the censor’s solid blocks of impenetrable black, all of it utterly irrelevant. She still hadn’t understood. He would not be coming back. In all but the strictly biological sense, her son had died. Sert was merely an ante-room for the great black hole. She said she hoped he was keeping well. Hard though it was, she said, not knowing the first thing about it, she hoped he was coming to terms with his fate. She hoped he was not bitter. She prayed for him daily.

  As he read, he framed the reply he wanted to send but knew he never would. It angered him to think that still, even now, he had to hold back, to spare her feelings. He had never told her just what he thought of the value of prayer and all the rest of the self-deluding mumbo jumbo with which otherwise rational people tried to humanize the cosmos. Man had created God in his own image, not the other way around. He had done it through sheer terror, and who could blame him? Unfortunately he had made too good a job. The god he had invented was just as cruel and careless as man himself. Not a deity to whom one should seriously address a prayer.

  It was exactly then, perhaps, at that very moment, that Routledge felt his first misgivings. Maybe there had been an administrative hitch, he told himself. Yes, without do
ubt: Louise’s letters were stuck at Dartmoor, or had been delivered to some other Routledge on some other island. There could be no other explanation. Next week, or the week after, the backlog would come.

  At the sound of the latch Routledge turned his head. The door opened and Franks entered.

  “Some tea, Father?” Godwin said, once Franks had told everyone to resume his seat.

  “Thank you, yes.”

  Franks took off his spectacles, placed them on the bench, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. For a moment he seemed pained; his eyes appeared small and weak, making him look vulnerable, but then, with a practised movement, the rimless lenses were again set between him and the outside world. His V-necked sweater, pale grey, was new, as were his corduroy trousers and a pure white shirt. On his wrist Routledge glimpsed a flash of Rolex. “I’ll get straight to the point,” he said, glancing at Routledge as if to indicate that he could now be considered privy to any and all secrets of the project. “I’ve just had word from Courtmacsherry. It’s got to be next year or never. Mr Thaine is ready to proceed, but says it’ll be tight.” He accepted the mug of tea from Fitzmaurice. “I must tell him today. Yes or no.”

  “This is too sudden. There’s still too much to be done.”

  For want of materials, Godwin had reluctantly opted for magnetostrictive rather than piezoelectric transducers, and had heavily modified four radio loudspeakers for the purpose. The transmitting and receiving amplifiers had been built and tested, the clock circuitry almost finished, the design of the pulsing unit finalized. They were now wiring the gating unit.

  “Yes or no, Mr Godwin.”

  “You’re asking me to risk twelve lives, including my own.”

  “And mine. If we go.”

  “But we can’t make the announcement and then hold back.”

  “True.”

  “So we’ll be going whatever?”

  “All else being equal. Next May. Provided we have the sonar.”

  “May?” Godwin said in alarm. “But the temperature differential will be dangerously high.”

  “High, but not unmanageable. Mr Thaine says he can step up the flow-rate.”

  Godwin let out a sigh, and then an oath, a plea to the Almighty, his forehead in his hand.

  “Yes or no.”

  “All right. Yes. I’m mad, but let’s say it. Yes.”

  10

  At ten past seven Routledge set out for the metalwork shop, where he was due to report to Thaine to do some stress calculations. The cloud had not lifted all day; the moaning in the larches had intensified to an ominously rising howl. Dusk was coming early, and on Thaine’s bench an oil lamp was already burning. But the forge was cold and dead, and when Routledge arrived he found only Chapman, drilling holes in a small steel plate.

  “He had to go over the Father’s,” Chapman said. “That’s where you’ll find him.”

  Talbot was again on duty at the veranda. As always, he remained firmly seated at Routledge’s approach.

  “I’ve come to see Mr Thaine. Mr Chapman said he was here.”

  “Not any more he ain’t. He left about half an hour ago.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Try the windmill. Or the carpentry shop.”

  “Did he say anything about leaving some figures for me?”

  “No.”

  Routledge considered asking Talbot to find out whether Stamper or Appleton, or Franks himself, might know; but decided against it. He would check the places Talbot had suggested. If that failed, he could with an easy conscience return to his house and begin getting it in order, since his stint for Godwin today was now over.

  “Better take a waterproof,” Talbot called after him. “Shipping forecast says we’re in for a big one.”

  Routledge waved an acknowledgement without looking round. If he had to go out to the windmill he would indeed take his PVC jacket, but the carpentry shop was nearer. It stood on the far side of the precinct, next to the woodyard. No lights were showing: the place seemed deserted. The outer door was shut. Nevertheless, Routledge opened it and looked inside.

  The two benches made areas of paler gloom. On one of them stood an unfinished frame, perhaps for a cabinet; the other was clear. Work had not long ceased, for the smell of fresh shavings and glue still hung in the air. The floor had been swept and all the tools put away.

  Routledge was about to leave when, above the wind, he thought he heard a noise from the storeroom at the back. Someone was in there. Puzzled at first, and then increasingly disturbed, he listened more closely. Not just someone: two people. Two males. There could be no mistaking that bestial rhythm. Every night, in the cell at Exeter he had shared, he had been made to listen and learn from a distance of no more than two metres.

  No recognizable words were being uttered, but from the timbre of one of the voices he suspected that its owner was Ojukwu. Of course: Ojukwu worked in the carpentry shop. Where else would he and Carter hold their assignations? After hours the chances of detection were slight – slight enough to be disregarded by men whose urges could no longer be denied.

  The rhythm abruptly ceased.

  Routledge heard a gasp, the exchange of murmurs. Ojukwu and Carter, for sure. Surprisingly, it seemed, as the Exeter argot would put it, Ojukwu and not Carter was the bitch. In a minute or two they might emerge. He had to decide what to do. The impulse to confront them could prove dangerous. They might kill him rather than face ejection from the Village.

  What they were doing to each other was not only sordid and depraved but also, given the medical risks, antisocial in the extreme. His first thought was to earn himself credit with Franks by reporting them. Then he remembered that Ojukwu had acted fairly towards him at all times: and so had Carter. Ojukwu had been on Sert for five years, Carter for slightly less. Was Routledge so sure of his own sexuality that he could not find it in him to understand their desperation? Men varied in the strength of their sexual drive. Some, like himself, could deal with abstinence, for ever if need be. Others were not so fortunate. Once temptation had summoned, once their desires had glimpsed the possibility of escape, all will was lost, all normal considerations were left behind. On the blind path downwards no shame or humiliation was too great to risk. Thus had it been with those two at Exeter.

  However, the facts of the matter were clear. They were breaking the rules of the Community. It was his duty to report them. If thereby he gained credit with the hierarchy, that would be no less than his due.

  The noises from the storeroom indicated that only a few moments of safety remained. He would leave at once, defer reaching a decision on how to handle the situation; but at any rate he wanted them to know they had been overheard. In this wind, merely leaving the door open would not be enough. From the nearer bench he silently took down the cabinet frame and used it to wedge the door open at its furthest extent, and then, as the rain began, hurried out of the workshop and across the precinct.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  He found Thaine at the windmill. There had been a mix-up. Stamper had forgotten to tell Talbot about the calculations Thaine had left for Routledge to collect.

  “They’re to do with the building moulds,” Thaine said. He was crouching, working by torchlight, in the final stages of some repair or adjustment to the rotor shaft. “We want to know whether the axles will take the weight. After all, she’ll be virtually full of water.” He glanced round, spanner in hand. “When I give the word, climb up and stick that rod in the lock, will you?”

  “In there?”

  “That’s it. All right. Now.”

  With difficulty Routledge pushed the pencil-thick steel pin into place, locking the rotor to the frame and preventing it from turning. He saw that Thaine was now checking and tightening the bolts of the framework itself. The precautions were not coming a minute too soon. Heavy rain was already falling, and the wind had strengthened even in the short time since Routledge had left the Village. Darkness had taken the sky in the east. To the west, over the sea, lou
ring cloud still retained traces of daylight. Routledge jumped down. “Mr Talbot said a storm was coming.”

  “The first of the autumn,” Thaine said. “‘Force eight, veering northerly, increasing storm force ten or violent storm force eleven, imminent.’ Force eleven is about a hundred kilometres an hour. It could gust to twice as much, maybe more. We don’t want to burn out the generator, or lose the mill entirely.” Thaine, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, finally stood up. “OK, Mr Routledge, that’ll do it,” he said. “By the way, I meant to ask you. Do you know anything about sailing?”

  This was a question which, for reasons which were obvious now, Appleton had not posed during the interviews.

  “It depends what you mean. I did a bit of dinghy sailing at school. On the local gravel pits. Never on the sea. I remember capsizing a lot.”

  “What did you sail?”

  “Enterprises, mainly. 5-0-5s. That kind of thing.”

  Thaine made a meaningless sound. Routledge took it to indicate that Thaine, as a representative of the Council, already knew all there was to know about seamanship and had asked merely on the off-chance, not expecting even the reply he had received. Routledge wondered whether he would tell Thaine about Ojukwu and Carter; and was almost on the point of deciding that he should when Thaine said, “We’re starting on the hull tomorrow. We’ll have lots of sums from now on. And measurements to be checked on plans, on timber, and on the finished pieces. I’ve asked the Father if I can use you a bit more. You’d be amenable to that, would you?”

  “Certainly. Anything I can do to help.”

  “Thanks. It’s appreciated.” He gestured at the hut. “Since you’re here, could you give me a hand with the tarp?”

  Wired to the framework and pegged into the ground with iron stakes, the tarpaulin was used as an aerodynamic foil to deflect the worst of the buffets. The wind had already reached the point where the job was made awkward. Three men, not two, were really needed. The rain was becoming heavier. Routledge was glad of Talbot’s advice about the waterproof, but Thaine, in his leather jacket and jeans, seemed indifferent to the wet.