The Penal Colony

by Richard Herley

  Two fins were almost on the beach. As they reached the shallows the enormous glistening bulk of the whales was exposed, the white oval behind the eye, the dramatic division along the flanks between black above and white below. There could be no depth left: surely the whales were already grounded, but still they were advancing.

  Exploding from the surf with a terrified sideways leap, a huge bull seal scrabbled desperately up the narrow stretch of stones under the cliff. Only the middle state of the tide had allowed it to escape: with chilling, synchronized grace the two whales pursuing it turned and swam back into deeper water, rejoining their companions in the chase. “They’ve got another one!” Huggins shouted. “God Almighty! Swallowed it whole!”

  A minute later it was over and the whales were heading out to sea, leaving only the gulls searching for scraps and the refugee seal still cringing on the beach, its dread of man forgotten. Beyond the foaming reefs at the mouth of the cove, one by one, the fins dived, surfaced, dived, surfaced, and disappeared from view.

  “Opportunist feeders,” Talbot said. “Ever seen killers before, Mr Routledge?”

  Stunned by what he had just witnessed, Routledge shook his head. The sheer speed of the attack, as much as the realization that the anonymous seas surrounding Sert held such monsters, had shaken him to the core. Neptune had just shown his hand. “How did they know the seals were there?”

  “Heard ’em fooling about, I expect. They use sonar too.”

  Fleetingly he thought of the almost insuperable technical problems of echolocation, requiring all Godwin’s ingenuity and expertise, effortlessly solved in flesh and bone by nature, by evolution, by the Creator – whatever you wanted to call it. “Are killer whales common here?”

  “Not common. But they’re about.”

  “Mr Talbot,” Routledge said. “This is Star Cove.”

  “So?”

  “This is where the boat launches.”

  Talbot and Huggins exchanged glances. “You’re right,” Talbot said. “D’you still want to be included in that lottery, Mr Routledge?”

  “Reckon you ought to think about dropping out,” Huggins said.

  Talbot, seeing Routledge’s face, relented with a smile. “It’s all right, Mr Routledge, don’t worry about it. No one knows why, but they don’t never go for humans. Not unless they’re provoked. Maybe it’s the taste, or our funny skin.”

  The raid on the seals had been utterly ruthless. But then seals showed small mercy in their dealings with the crabs and fishes which comprised their prey. The whales, the seals, inhabited just the same world as Routledge himself. He thought of the man at Beacon Point, still the subject of his nightmares, emerging from the ruins of the chapel, from the ruins of civilized life, and knew that from now on the nightmares would not be the same. Eventually they might even dwindle and cease.

  “Come on,” Talbot said. “We can’t hang about here all day. Time to get back to it.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Her letter came that afternoon, reaching him just before four. The handwriting on the envelope, in black rollertip, was even more careful and controlled than usual. A. J. Routledge Z-160683, c/o H. M. Prison, Princetown, Devon, PL20 6SA. Even the stamp had been stuck in its corner with meticulous precision. It bore, not the Watford district postmark carried by Rickmansworth letters, but a neat dark circle inscribed London W1. This alone, documentary proof of the fact that her work now took her to the West End, would have been enough to cause him unease; but that stage had already been passed. In the last seven weeks there had been plenty of time for thought along these lines. Not long enough, though, to prepare him for the reality of the two sheets of buff paper which, seated at his desk, he now unfolded and began to read.

  “Bad news?” he heard Godwin say, after a while.

  “No,” Routledge said, stuffing the pages back in their envelope.

  In a daze he tried to resume work. The desk looked the same, the pencils, the calculator keys. Physically, everything was just as it had been before the delivery. The rain was still falling. A dismal autumn day. The same autumn rain had fallen on the helicopter which, carrying her letter deep in the darkness of its hold, had flown towards him, low over the sea, all the way from the mainland. Under Mitchell’s direction the boxes had been collected, the mail innocently sorted into alphabetical order. Ross, Routledge, Sibley. Stamper had rung the gong. Fitzmaurice had offered to go. He had received a luxury parcel. “Here you are, Mr Routledge,” he had said.

  Now Routledge heard him say, “Are you all right, Mr Routledge?”

  “What?”

  “I asked if you wanted a chocolate toffee.”

  “A what? I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

  “A chocolate toffee.”

  Fitzmaurice must have received them in his parcel. Already eating, he thrust the bag further in Routledge’s direction. Routledge saw that Godwin was chewing too.

  “Not just now, thanks. Perhaps later.”

  “Put one behind your ear.”

  Briefly Routledge saw Godwin frowning at Fitzmaurice and lightly shaking his head. Routledge looked away, out of the window, at the rain in the garden, at the dull gleam of the bungalow roof.

  “Letter from home?” Godwin said.

  “Yes. A letter from home.”

  “I think you’d better pack it in for today,” Godwin said.

  “I’m all right. Really.”

  “That’s an order.”

  Routledge went to his house. He read the letter over and over again. He lay on his bed. He stared at his photos. Towards dusk he remembered looking out towards King’s place.

  King did not return until nightfall, at half-past five. At six fifteen Routledge put on his waxed cotton jacket and went out into the rain.

  He knocked on King’s door. King was clearing up after his supper.

  “I need your help,” Routledge said. He did not know what he was doing. He had not intended to show the letter to anyone, or to speak about it. What had happened between him and Louise was the business of no one on Sert, no one in the Village. She had been, she was, the most important part of him. There was no allegiance left for anyone else.

  King, suddenly concerned, took the letter and held it close to the lamp. As he read, Routledge knew, word for word, line for line, exactly what was passing before his eyes.

  19th October

  Dear Anthony,

  This is the worst and hardest letter I have ever had to write. I do not know how to express what I must say to you. I know that I shall be hurting terribly the one person in the world who least deserves it. You have given me years of your love. The life we had together was special and unique and no one can take that away from us. You know that I love you and that I want the best for you. But we can never be together again and I, as I am sure you do, want the best for Christopher. He is at a difficult age and faces an uncertain future without a father’s influence.

  I do not how to break this to you. It would be so much better to speak face to face or even on the phone. XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXX XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX XXXX In the end one must be cruel because the truth is cruel.

  What I am trying to tell you, Anthony, and have been too cowardly to tell you before, is that I have met somebody else. I met him some time ago and now he has asked me to marry him. He is a successful businessman, a widower with two young children. I know that you would like him and hope that you can find it in you to wish us well, knowing that the position for you is hopeless now. Oh Anthony we tried so hard but in the end XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX

  I pray that you are safe on the island and every morning wait for the postman in case I hear word of you. Most of your last letter XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX
XXXX

  This is too painful for me. I beg you to give us your blessing. Soon you will receive papers to sign from my solicitor – another one, not XXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX

  I will continue to write, if you will let me, and send news of our son, for I know what torment you must be going through. I have already spoken to your mother and have asked her permission to introduce her to Tom.

  But whatever else happens know that I love you always.

  Forgive me.

  Louise

  PART THREE

  1

  The Christmas tree occupied most of the end wall of the recreation hut. It consisted of the crown of a Monterey pine, removed with the Father’s permission and decorated with tinfoil stars and streamers, small fake parcels in coloured paper, brightly painted papier mâché globes. Beneath the tree stood the prizes for the Christmas raffle: beer, two bottles of Thorne’s whisky, a box of biscuits, and, in pride of place, the iced fruit-cake sent over on yesterday’s helicopter, a gift from the governor’s wife.

  The fairy at the pinnacle, supervising tonight’s festivities, had been modelled by Venables in papier mâché, then dressed in a pink tutu and given a pair of silver wings. The outsize head was bald and bore a face painted red, with worm-like lips, watery blue eyes, and tufts of curly grey hair extending above the ears. To Routledge, who had never seen Houlihan, the caricature meant nothing; but King had laughed when he had first seen it, the more so when Fitzmaurice observed how and with what force Venables had thrust the figure down onto the wire holder at the top of the tree.

  “There’s bliss for you, Archie,” Fitzmaurice had said.

  Fitzmaurice was one of the impromptu band. He had brought his concertina. Mountfield, Macness, and Wright, all Irishmen, were playing too. Macness played the fiddle, Mountfield a drum, Wright a penny whistle. The air was thick with marijuana smoke. Routledge was already drunk, stamping his feet with the rest.

  “What do you think of the music?” King shouted in his ear.

  “Marvellous! Bloody marvellous!”

  He had not known that Fitzmaurice, that anyone on Sert, had such music in him. Celtic music, reels and jigs, wild, flowing tunes that stirred the heart, carried along with yelps and shrieks from the band and the room full of men. As the sound filled his veins Routledge could half believe that something in his own ancestry was responding too, and not just the drink. He had been here before; had visited this epicentre of comradeship in some different life, in a purer time when the honest values were all that mattered. Who cared what a man owned or what was the colour of his skin? Who cared how he spoke or where he’d been to school, just so long as he was on your bloody side when the chips were down?

  “Another! Another!” King was yelling, in chorus with the rest.

  Routledge, drinking moonshine from his glass, looked at him and blearily away, elated he knew not how. King was on his side all right. They all were. Even Fitzmaurice. Especially Fitzmaurice, Fitzmaurice and his Irish music. Routledge leaned over towards King. “King,” he tried to say. “I want to apologize. To you. To Mr Fitzmaurice. To the Father. Everybody.”

  King gave a puzzled frown. “What?”

  Routledge’s words were lost in the din. The band were protesting that they were dry and wanted to take a break for more beer, but that was impossible. Another tune was demanded: there was no refusing.

  “Come on,” King had said, a long time ago, five hours or more. Routledge held his watch towards the light. Five to twelve. Five to midnight. Yes, five hours ago. “Come on,” King had said. “We’re going to get you well and truly plastered.” He had dragged Routledge from his house and to the recreation hut, where, during the autumn, the stocks of drink had been built up to heroic proportions. Each man had an allowance, noted by Venables in his little red book. You could drink it gradually or all at once, or give it away. The Community made beer, not too badly, and an explosive potato moonshine. It made horrible carrot wine. It made every kind of booze. Thorne’s whisky was the thoroughbred. Routledge had acquired a half-bottle to give to King tomorrow morning. Christmas Day.

  The 23rd, yesterday, had been the last Tuesday before Christmas. No new prisoner had been deposited. Instead the helicopter had brought a bumper delivery of mail. A ludicrous greeting from the governor, which Appleton had pinned to the veranda noticeboard so that everyone could have a good laugh. With the greeting had come the cake. Most men had received at least one card. For Routledge there had been cards from his mother and his two sisters and their families.

  From Louise, from Christopher, there had been nothing. Nothing.

  “Come on,” King had said.

  On the mainland, Routledge’s circle of friends had been small and untrustworthy, held together only by the flimsy common circumstances of their life. Without exception they had let him down in his time of need. Some he had known at school; all were just like him, middle class, golfers mostly, members of clubs and professions, estate agents, accountants, solicitors, a dentist: all, just like him, relentlessly mediocre.

  Now he had no friends whatever. Except King. Routledge was beginning to think King was the first real friend he had ever had.

  His advice about Louise had been compassionate and sage. He had said that if Routledge really loved her, he would not wish to prevent her from starting a new life; he would, as the letter had asked, give her his blessing. If he couldn’t bring himself to do so, then perhaps his feelings for her were not as he had imagined. That being the case, losing her was not such a tragedy after all. At least she had promised to keep in touch. Some men in the Community would have given anything for such a letter: the first they had known about their divorce was the arrival of the papers.

  “Did you ever get married yourself?” Routledge had asked.

  “No. That was one pitfall I managed to avoid.”

  “Did you ever come close?”

  “Yes. I came close.”

  “What happened?”

  “She died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I was better off alone with my sister. Women these days … well.”

  “Women these days what?”

  “If you found a good one, just be thankful for the years you had.”

  Had he found a good one? She certainly hadn’t wasted any time in finding another mug to pay the bills. That much he knew.

  He had not heard from her since November, even though he had dutifully signed and promptly returned the divorce papers.

  The bitch.

  “Bitch,” he said. “Faithless bitch.”

  “What?”

  “Louise,” Routledge said. “Bitch.”

  “No.” King shook his head.

  The band were giving in. Another tune. Fitzmaurice conferring with Macness. Beginning to play. A rapid reel. A chorus. Men starting to sing. Stamping feet. Yells and laughter. The chorus again. Routledge made out the words and joined in, louder than the rest.

  If I had a wife to beggar me life

  I tell ye what I would do –

  I’d buy her a boat and put her afloat

  And paddle me own canoe.

  “Paddle me own canoe!” Routledge shouted, completely won over. Yes: he had to put her afloat. There was no other way. No use pretending. He had to get on with these people or he’d be dead. Buy her a boat and put her afloat. And what a canoe they were building! Bit by bit, component by component, the schedules were becoming intricate reality. He had never known such craftsmanship, such obsessive attention to detail. For it all had to work first time. There could be no tests, no trials. It all had to go together perfectly and nothing could be allowed to fail. He, Routledge, was one of the chief checkers. Every dimension of every last bit of wood had to be checked five times, written down and submitted to Appleton. The same quality control with the electronics, which Godwin and Fitzmaurice were now completing. No sea trials. Had to work first time. He wished Godwin were here so he could get
him a drink and shake his hand. Brilliant, brilliant Godwin! Brilliant Thaine! Brilliant Appleton! Brilliant Father! Then he thought of the other men who weren’t here tonight, who were sober on his behalf, patrolling the border, tending the stock. Foster and Johnson out there in the freezing darkness above Old Town or the lighthouse. Appleton in his office. The Father somewhere in the Village, aware of everything, bearing the entire weight of the Community’s problems. A wonderful, extraordinary man. Quite extraordinary. A privilege to know someone like that, to be tolerated, to be allowed to belong. As the music died and the band took on more beer he leaned towards King to try again.

  “Wish to formally apologize,” he said. “Formally apologize for being such an insufferable little … insufferable … the term is I believe … insufferable little …” He did not know whether he had said the word or not. It didn’t matter. For it was true. Now he belonged: he realized he belonged. After thirty-seven years of quiet desperation, of dwelling among two-faced people who were dead inside, the ineluctable workings of his destiny had brought him here and taught him the human lesson of belonging. For the first time in his life, Routledge knew he had outgrown the pitiable creature that had once been himself. He knew at last that he belonged.

  He saw the room tilt and sway and then he was falling, losing his balance, passing out, falling with heavenly grace forwards into midnight and stupor and the beatific silence of this, his first truly happy, because selfless, Christmas Day.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Looking north from Piper’s Beach, between Old Town and the lighthouse, the sea appeared almost mirror smooth. A black-backed gull and its reflection flapped in synchrony low across the water from right to left; at the curve of the headland two shags were perched on a white-squirted pinnacle of rock. The morning was frosty. Except for a haze which made the water seem even smoother, it was also bright. Here under the cliffs, out of the sun, the air felt damp and cold.