The Penal Colony

by Richard Herley

  Feely persisted. “Why not scrag Martinson now, while we’ve got our hands on him? Why take the risk, Archie?”

  “I foreseen that possibility,” Martinson said. “I’ve got certain sureties, like.”

  “Such as?” Feely said.

  “You’ll have to kill me to find out.”

  “I told you to shut up, Harold,” Houlihan said. “Now, Jim. You haven’t given us your answer. Will you be murdering Nackett for us anyhows?”

  “If I do, it’ll be like I said. His blokes are strong. My leg in’t healed proper yet. Give it a couple of months. Three.”

  “Say till Christmas?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t you see what he’s doing, Archie? It’s just a trick to get us to take the pressure off Old Town.”

  “No it’s not. Jim was one of Peto’s boys. He don’t care for Nackett any more than us.” He looked back at Martinson. “Right?”

  “Right enough, Archie.”

  “So you’ll do the deed? Yes?”

  Now it was Martinson’s turn to shrug. “Yes,” he said. “Sure. What’s to lose?”

  “Excellent,” Houlihan said. “You give Mr Nackett his little Christmas present, then send me a card, and I’ll wish you a happy new year.” He arose. “No more arguments, Harold, and won’t you kindly show this gentleman downstairs?”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The easterly passage of the storm across the mainland was marked by radio reports of fallen trees, television pictures of drowned sheep, of army inflatables rescuing householders from the floods. Few of the men in the Village bothered to watch or listen: even fewer possessed radio or television sets. There was one large flatscreen at the recreation hut, owned by Appleton, powered by lithium batteries and used once or twice a week to show feature films. Godwin sometimes tuned in to BBC radio in his workshop, which was where Routledge usually heard the news. In a month’s time there was to be a general election. The incumbent party were certain to be returned to office: there was no chance, however remote, of a change in policy there. Only war with the Russians, now looking less and less likely, might produce a change, and then, no doubt, it would be for the worse.

  The Council monitored all bulletins and weather forecasts for anything relating to Sert. Such rare items of news were displayed by Appleton on a noticeboard at the bungalow veranda, beside which was another for announcements from the Village’s various clubs and groups. On the Friday after the storm, Appleton had pinned up a notice asking as many men as possible to gather in the bungalow precinct on Sunday at noon.

  “What do you reckon it’s about?” Scammell said.

  Routledge was sure he knew, but was not allowed to say. “We’ll know in twenty minutes,” he said. “I don’t suppose there’s much use in speculating before then.”

  Scammell agreed.

  Routledge said, “Can I have these three, please, Mr Tragasch?”

  The Village library was located in a small room in the recreation hut, and contained about five hundred books, mostly fiction, together with a large stock of magazines and some music tapes, all donated by villagers. Tragasch, the librarian, a short, mild-voiced man and one of the stalwarts of the chess club, also kept a list of those titles in private possession which were available for loan. The library opened for general use on Saturday afternoons and Sundays.

  Earlier this morning Routledge had visited the shack of Peagrim, the Community hairdresser, and had received the basic Sert cut, the same Peagrim gave to everyone from Franks down. Each villager was entitled to one of Peagrim’s haircuts a month. For the tenth time Routledge scratched his scalp.

  Smiling but refraining from comment, Tragasch issued Routledge’s three books: two thrillers and a volume of chess openings, for Routledge had now begun to attend the chess club with the ultimate object of at least defending himself with honour against King.

  “See you in the precinct, then, Mr Tragasch,” Routledge said, as he made for the door and the main room of the recreation hut. “And you, Mr Scammell.”

  “I’ll come with you, Mr Routledge,” Scammell said, nodding a farewell at Tragasch. “If you don’t mind.”

  “No, not at all.”

  Scammell’s books and magazines were issued and he accompanied Routledge into the calm, clouded morning. About thirty, with lank blond hair, Scammell was a former factory hand in a car plant. Now he worked mainly with the sheep and goats and poultry, occupying a lowly place in the hierarchy. “How you doing, Mr Routledge?” he said.

  “Not so bad.” Routledge was as yet on informal terms with fewer than a dozen men, and was truly friendly with none but King. He had known Scammell for several weeks, found him unobjectionable, even likeable. He decided to take a chance and risk a rebuff. “Just call me ‘Routledge’,” he said.

  “No. Thanks all the same. No offence. It wouldn’t be right. Not yet. You don’t mind me telling you this, do you? I mean, you’re new.”

  He glanced sideways at Scammell. His respect for him had suddenly grown. For Scammell had understood that the invitation had not arisen through the natural process of mutual regard, but had been forced and was therefore unacceptable.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Scammell,” Routledge said, “I didn’t mean —”

  “Nothing personal, Mr Routledge.”

  “Even so —”

  Either Scammell was not articulate enough to continue this line of conversation, or he felt the desire to move onto safer ground. “They say the Father’s going to change the work rotas,” he said. “That’s probably what it’s about. Usually something like that.”

  As they emerged from the lee of the recreation hut, Routledge saw that the bungalow precinct, almost deserted before, was rapidly filling with men. The stone slabs before the veranda were completely covered; newcomers were joining the back of the crowd, standing on the shale. At least a hundred and twenty villagers were already waiting, with more appearing on the tracks or leaving the doorways of their houses. The precinct was alive with the murmur of voices.

  Routledge had never seen the whole population together before. Only now did he appreciate the size and vigour of the Community. Each of these men was fit and strong, or he would not have been put in Category Z. This was that oddity, a society without women, without the weak, the sick, the old. There were no practical skills these men lacked. They had of necessity dispensed with the feminine touch. They spun wool and wove cloth. They could cook, clean and do everything else that was needful to survival. But Routledge was becoming increasingly conscious of the ludicrous in all the Community’s works. Men were little boys at heart, Louise had always said. They never grew up. What was Sert, if not a glorious, perennial game of Cowboys and Indians? A few of the men in the Village seemed happier here than ever they could have been on the mainland. Thaine, for one. Thaine’s life now was an endless series of model railways to be built and tested and played with; he never had to wash his hands and come in for tea. Without women, men became absurd.

  And yet, for all that, the things Thaine built were genuinely useful, often essential. For all that, there was no other choice open, except the downward path that led to Old Town or the lighthouse.

  Sunday noon. Usually at this time Routledge would have been doing something silly in the garden, squandering yet more labour on that emblem of suburban futility, the lawn; or, more likely, drinking in the golf club, just before turning his thoughts to Sunday lunch, which Louise always professed to prefer cooking in peace, without him around.

  Why hadn’t she written?

  The crowd had closed in behind him. Overhead the sky had the blandly patterned appearance of mother-of-pearl. Routledge noticed three large, brown-mottled gulls passing north-westwards, towards the open ocean, where the sky deepened to a heavier grey. And, far beyond the bungalow roof and the picturesque, silhouetted line of larches, he saw the superbly independent skyward spiral of a hunting buzzard, at this distance black against the cloud. It was high over America Point, gaining altitude above the seething ro
cks of Green Isles and the cliffs where even now two sets of raven-picked and weather-bleached bones were lying in disarray: one on a ledge part-way down, the other among the dark debris of the beach.

  Scammell nodded at the veranda. The murmur of voices ceased. The front door was open. One by one, the whole Council emerged: Mitchell, Stamper, Godwin, Thaine, Sibley, Foster, Appleton, each man moving to left or right. Finally Franks himself came out.

  The silence was complete. He moved to the front of the veranda, resting his hands on the rail, and again Routledge felt himself in the presence of a phenomenon. Franks’s personality had imposed itself on all these men. They had wished it; they had abandoned their independence to one who was wiser and stronger, and for the first time Routledge saw why they called him “Father”. Just as Franks had told him, they were not children. They were adults who knew the value of a leader when they saw one, knew the value of what he had to offer. But there was something more at work here, something that in civilized life had been lost. As Routledge, as the whole assembly, waited for Franks to speak, he felt the surge of a common feeling with its focus the man who had made life here endurable. The feeling was impossible to define, but, as it flowed over and through him, Routledge realized for the first time that he was generating it too.

  “Good morning,” Franks said. “I have an important announcement to make.” He looked around the congregation, including everyone in his gaze, and then, clearly, articulately, made the beginning of his speech.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “we are going to build a boat.”

  12

  On Tuesday 28 October, exactly a month after Franks’s announcement, Routledge took part in his fifth border patrol. His first four had been at night, and had passed off without incident. Today’s had begun at dawn and would not end until the early afternoon.

  The decision to patrol in daylight as well as after dark had been just one consequence of making the escape project public. Franks had explained the plans in detail, even down to the sonar. He had also explained the risks. According to Appleton’s calculations, the occupants of the ketch had less than a one-in-five chance of surviving the voyage. If the attempt failed and they were lucky they would drown. If they weren’t, the boat, which would carry hardly any rations, would go off course and into mid Atlantic. If they were discovered by a patrol-boat there was every chance of being deliberately rammed and sunk.

  The lottery for the remaining eight places would be held three weeks before sailing. As matters stood at the moment, departure date would be 1 May, or possibly, depending on the weather, 2 or 3 May. The original idea had been to sail in July or August, when sea temperatures were more favourable, but that had been prevented, Franks had said, by mainland factors.

  The announcement had had a remarkable effect on the Community. The first reaction had been one of astonishment, not only at the project itself, but also at the audacity of the thinking behind it. This was followed by a polarization, not anticipated by Routledge but foreseen by the Council, of the Community into two groups: those who wanted to go, and those who didn’t. Generally it was the older men who belonged to the second group, which was anyway much in the minority. For the others, the ketch and the lottery immediately became the sole topic of conversation. Then, a little later, the excitement was tempered by a realization of just how great were the odds against securing a place. To alleviate this, Franks had said that all plans, tools, and a construction diary were to be left behind so that the ketch could be duplicated.

  There was also disappointment over the news that Franks, not to mention Appleton and Thaine, intended to leave. But there was little or no resentment. On the contrary. The prevailing sentiment was that the four Council members richly deserved their places. Franks had worked harder than anybody, and for longer; it was he and Appleton and Thaine and Godwin who had conceived the escape and were making it happen. The eight spare places were manna from heaven.

  At first Routledge had been surprised that Franks had made the announcement so soon, and that he had gone into such detail. Franks seemed to have no fears that anyone would leak the information in a letter home. Considering this further, Routledge marvelled at his own naivety. Clearly, and there could be no other implication, all outgoing mail was secretly vetted by the Council. Routledge had hinted at the subject in conversation with King, without response.

  More surprising was the Council’s implicit trust that the project would not become known to the outsiders. This also implied that, between now and the launch, no one would need to be expelled from the Community. Soon after the announcement, however, this anomaly had begun to be explained.

  The Council’s attitude towards the outsiders had undergone a marked change. Two new arrivals, deemed to be unlikely candidates for acceptance, were rumoured to have been clandestinely disposed of rather than have them swell the outsiders’ ranks, though Routledge greatly doubted the truth of this. Indisputably, however, the period new arrivals were spending outside had been reduced.

  Foster and Johnson now spent all their time on surveillance, and border patrols were organized round the clock.

  Talbot was in charge this afternoon and carried the crossbow. He, Routledge, and a man named Huggins had been detailed to cover the eastern part of the border, from the red halfway marker rock to Star Cove.

  Heavy rain was again falling, cold, miserable, an ocean rain not meant for land-based men to endure. It had hardly stopped since the weekend, since the last day of Summer Time. Darkness now arrived before five-thirty: the real autumn had begun. Until now, with the light evenings, Routledge had almost been able to believe that he was here on a temporary basis, roughing it, that when the weather turned bad he would be going home to classify the specimens he had gathered or write an account of his experiences. He could delude himself no longer. He had finally become a fully fledged prisoner of Sert. And worse: for seven whole weeks now there had been no word from Louise.

  “Boring, ain’t it?” Huggins said.

  Routledge nodded, although he did not agree.

  “Don’t knock it,” Talbot said.

  Patrolling was irksome and tedious, but not boring. Despite the rain and cold, despite the work rotas and the demands of the Village, being out day after day in the open air, learning to be dependent on his surroundings for his food and drink and warmth, living in a thin-walled shack virtually exposed to the elements: all this, together with a sense of his own increasing physical strength and fitness, was beginning to effect a profound change in the way Routledge viewed the natural world. He had, together with most people, dismissed as over-reaction the protests raised by the Greens when Sert and the other penal islands had been taken over. Now he began to understand what the protesters had been fighting for. There were interludes in his self-pity, in his gnawing anxiety about Louise, in the grim business of survival, when he became conscious not only of the heart-stopping grandeur of the island, but also of his own place within it. He knew every inch of shoreline on the Village peninsula and, after beachcombing, blackberrying and goating expeditions with Daniels and the others, much of the rest. The ruins on Beacon Point, the peninsula where he had shot the wild man, were indeed, as he had guessed, those of the old monastery. He knew now why the monks had come to Sert. Among a handful of his fellow villagers he had sensed the same unspoken feeling. Talbot shared it, Talbot whom Routledge had at first so disliked. In him the feeling took expression as a fascination with birds and plants. The South London gangster, a four-year veteran of the island, had become a naturalist.

  The patrol had reached the cliffs once more, still without seeing anyone. Outsiders had too much sense to risk catching pneumonia on a day like this. They were all safely under cover. But during bad weather incursions by wild men were much more likely, and yesterday another patrol had caught and ejected a pair of them at Vanston Cove, within five hundred metres of the bungalow itself.

  Talbot glanced southwards along the cliffs, towards the drop zone. “I wonder if the ’copter’s coming
today.”

  “Should be,” Huggins said.

  “Yeah. He comes in worse than this.”

  “What’s the time?”

  “One o’clock.” A rivulet was running from Talbot’s sou’wester and down the back of his oilskin coat. He looked out over the sea. Routledge followed his gaze to the horizon, where, though the murk, came the distant flash, pause, flash of the southern lightship. Huggins, meanwhile, was scanning Pulpit Head with the binoculars.

  “Can’t see a bloody thing,” he said. “They’re all fogged up.”

  “Have you got rain on the eyepieces?”

  “No, it’s condensation inside.”

  Each time he came to Star Cove now Routledge thought about the cave where, according to the Father’s announcement, the ketch would be assembled and launched.

  “Look,” Talbot said to Routledge, pointing out to sea. “Killers.”

  With a fluttering escort of gulls, five black dorsal fins, six, seven, eight, were slicing through the outer part of the cove, all but indifferent to the swell, picking an easy course through the reefs, coming in diagonally towards the beach.

  Routledge watched in amazement and alarm; he had not known that killer whales occurred in British waters.

  “Holy Joe, look at ’em go,” Talbot said, his sense of wonder unconcealed. “They can do twenty-five knots when they feel like it. See that tall fin, Mr Routledge? That’s a male. There’s another one. Two males. The rest is females and young. It’s a pod, a family group.” He turned to Huggins. “What they after? Seals?”

  “Could be,” Huggins said, now studying the group, which was slowly spreading out, through the magnifying mist of the binoculars. “Yep. Seals. There’s three, at least.”

  “Fancy a dip, Mr Routledge?”

  Routledge had never felt more glad to be on land.

  Huggins was glued to the binoculars. “Jesus, they already got one! There’s red, there’s red! It’s bleeding!”

  The waters at the head of the cove had been turned into a maelstrom. Routledge glimpsed the piebald pattern of the larger male, the wounded seal, a big adult, in its jaws. With a toss of its head the seal was hurled several metres upwards and back, coming down with a tremendous splash among the other whales, which seemed instantly to tear it to pieces.