The Penal Colony

by Richard Herley

  Obie saw Myers start forward, drawing a long-bladed knife from the sheath at his belt. “No! No, wait! There’s somethin’ else! Somethin’ more! About Jim! About Martinson!”

  Franks held up his hand: the knife slowly returned to its sheath. “Let’s hear it, then.”

  “You’ll let me live?”

  “I might. No promises.”

  “Think you’re some sort of hard case, don’t you, Franks?”

  “You’ve got five seconds. Starting now.”

  Myers drew the knife once more. Obie looked at it, looked at Franks. He thought of what Martinson would do to him if he found out he had been betrayed.

  “All right, Mr Myers,” Franks said. “Do it.”

  “Wait! Martinson’s plannin’ to hit the Village! Could be any day.”

  “On his own, I suppose.”

  “No. He’s anglin’ to scrag Nackett and Houlihan. When he’s done that he wants to join the town and the light. He can do it, Franks. He’s the cleverest bloke outside. He knows we all want the ’copter.”

  “And Martinson himself? What does he want?”

  “He wants you. He hates you, Franks. Says he’s going to crucify you. Really do it. Really goin’ to nail you up. Told me yesterday. I always knew he was barmy. I always knew he had it in for you. But yesterday he told me for sure. He’s out of his head. That’s why I got to get off the island. That’s why I’m here. When he’s boss it’ll make now look like the good old days. Only reason you’ve been safe so far is Houlihan. Houlihan won’t risk fightin’ the Village. He’s nearly as clever as Jim, but not clever enough. You got to take me with you. Me and my mate. We’ll give you all the dope.”

  “Why shouldn’t we just go out and kill Mr Martinson?”

  “’Cause it’s bigger than him now. ’Cause he’s into the brain gang. The idea’s out. If you get rid of Jim one of the others’ll take over. Do it my way and you get the S.P. on all his moves. Do it my way and I’ll tell you how to block them.”

  “In return for a hypothetical place on our hypothetical boat. And one for your hypothetical mate.”

  “Your boat ain’t hypothetical. I know. If you’re worried about me and my mate, we’ll do our bit when we get out there.”

  “Out where?”

  “To the lightship.”

  Obie saw Appleton shoot a strange glance at Franks, whose expression remained impassive. For a second Obie did not twig what the glance meant. Then he did. “You ain’t goin’ to no lightship. You’re goin’ all the way. Right?”

  “It’s a shame about you, Obie. A shame you picked the wrong side. We could have used you in the Village.”

  “When’s it going?”

  “When’s what going?”

  “Me and my mate, we don’t want gettin’ left behind.”

  “You know what you’ve done, don’t you, Walker?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve placed me in an impossible position. If I agree to your proposal that’s as good as admitting that we have a boat. If I don’t and let you go, you could still spread a rumour that we have one. It looks very much as if we’re going to have to kill you after all.” He paused. “On the other hand, I am interested in what you have to say concerning Martinson. I would like to know more. If we kill you that will be difficult. What do you suggest?”

  “I ain’t pressin’ on the boat. One hand washes the other, right?”

  “What if your information isn’t reliable?”

  “What if you go without me? I mean, us.”

  “You forget, Obie. In the Village we tell no lies.”

  “You’ll take us, then?”

  Appleton was evincing signs of alarm, which Franks ignored. “If, as a result of your help, Martinson is thwarted in his attempt to attack the Village and take control of the island, I will be favourably disposed towards you. How that favour will be manifested I cannot yet say.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “It’s that or a knife in the guts. Choose.”

  Obie felt his advantage go. He had lost. Somehow, he had lost. He would have no guarantees. But he could not go back. He had already blown the whistle on Jim. This way, at least he would escape from the Village with his life. Had Franks not held up his hand just now, Obie knew he would already be dead. There was no doubt in his mind about that.

  Franks went on talking. “And if you spread the word about our hypothetical boat, and if the other outsiders come to take it from us, your prospects of getting a place from them will be exactly zero. I feel I should remind you of that. Furthermore, if we lose the boat because of you, you will also have earned my extreme displeasure. The consequences of that you are familiar with from the past. So. Take your pick.”

  Franks had left him nothing to choose. If Obie failed to keep his part of the bargain, Franks would get word to Martinson about this meeting. All that remained was to settle the details of the betrayal, to arrange a clandestine rendezvous where messages could be conveyed. All that remained was to hope and pray and get down on his knees and beg that Martinson didn’t find out.

  Yes. Obie had been right. Coming here had been a mistake, the worst in the entire blighted span of his miserable, rancid, twenty-eight years of poxy life.

  5

  As soon as Stamper had brought the news about the arrival of the outsider, Routledge had been sent from the bungalow. He had gone to the carpentry shop where, having calculated the required width of the rangefinder, he had sat checking and rechecking the cutting-lists. His pleasure and disbelief in his meteoric rise in status, in the realization that the Father had taken to addressing him simply as “Routledge”, had been completely overshadowed by the awareness that news of the escape project had gone beyond the border hedge.

  It was at the carpentry shop, half an hour later, that Routledge saw Stamper next.

  “Mr Routledge,” he said, beckoning from the doorway.

  Routledge rose from his seat at the plan-table. Betteridge was standing by one bench, Chapman and Ojukwu by another. They returned Stamper’s greetings and went on with their work.

  Outside, in the thin, cold, February sunshine, Stamper rapidly drew Routledge away from the open door of the shop and into the middle of the woodyard, moving him towards the bungalow. “The Father wants to see you, Routledge.”

  Not only was Routledge now addressed informally by the Father: he had in consequence been admitted to informal terms with Stamper also.

  “Is it about that outsider?”

  “Yes. The Council’s in emergency session.”

  On entering the laboratory, Routledge saw that two trestle tables had been put together to make one large table in the centre of the room. Franks was at the head, facing the main door; on his right sat Appleton. Then came Foster, Sibley, Thaine, Godwin, a vacant chair, and Mitchell. The vacant chair was Stamper’s.

  “Thank you for coming, Routledge,” Franks said. “Take a seat.”

  Routledge pulled a chair from a stack by the wall. Thaine and Godwin moved apart to create a space.

  The Council normally met once a week, on Friday. Its decisions owed little to collective thought. They were usually those of the Father, merely informed and refined by the contribution of his advisers. But to serve on the Council at all was to tread one of the most rarefied regions of the Father’s favour, and Routledge, sitting down between two of its most prominent members, could not for the moment absorb the knowledge that he had been invited to join, however briefly and peripherally, in the proceedings.

  No direct sunshine reached the laboratory at this hour and at this time of year. The light in the room seemed unreal, derived at second or third hand from the normal, solid world beyond the glass. Together with the arrangement of the seating round the trestles, it put Routledge in mind of some sacred medieval painting, freezing in time the gestures and attitudes, each in turn, of the apostles. But there were only seven, not twelve; and the repast consisted not of bread and wine but the ruthless, unsymbolic substance of an agenda for surviv
al.

  When Routledge was settled, Franks nodded at Appleton.

  Appleton turned to Routledge. “Everything spoken here must remain in the strictest confidence,” he said. “As must the fact that the Village has received a visit from an outsider. You are one of the few men to know.”

  “I understand.”

  “We have asked you here because you’ve been inside Martinson’s hut. We need to know the layout.”

  Routledge wondered how all this concerned Martinson, what the Village intended to do to him, and why; but knew better than to ask.

  During his interview with Appleton on the morning after his acceptance into the Village, Routledge had been “debriefed” – that was the word Appleton had used – on his experiences outside. Appleton had been mainly interested in any names Routledge had been able to remember. He had not asked then for detailed information about Martinson’s hut.

  Routledge was given a pencil and paper and to the best of his recollection drew the floor-plan. “That’s where he usually sleeps,” he said. “This other room’s the store where he keeps his weapons. The big room is the kitchen. The outer door is kept barred at night.”

  Foster said, “Could we force the latch without making any noise?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What about the walls? They look pretty sturdy from the outside.”

  “They’re worse inside. I couldn’t break out of them. I had to make a hole in the roof.”

  “How easy was it?”

  “Quite easy. But he’d hear.”

  “Now, Routledge,” Franks said. “I want your opinion. Do you think it would be possible for us to get in at night, kill Martinson, and remain undetected by the rest of the towners?”

  Routledge took a moment for reflection and then said, “No, Father, I do not.”

  Franks glanced at Foster. “I agree with him. We can’t risk it. Much as I’d like to.”

  “You’re saying we ought to let Walker go?” Foster said.

  “Yes,” Franks said. “That was my first conclusion. Anybody got any further thoughts on that?”

  No one spoke.

  “All right,” Franks said. “Obie can leave the Village.” He nodded at Stamper, who rose and left the room.

  Routledge had the feeling that he himself was just about to be dismissed. “Forgive me, Father,” he said, mentally preparing to depart. “Did you say ‘Obie’?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yes. If it’s the same Obie, he was one of the three who caught me.”

  “Martinson being another,” Appleton said.

  “Yes,” Routledge said. Looking back, he discovered that, despite Obie’s part in his abduction, he had rather liked him, just as he had developed a grudging respect for Martinson.

  Franks said, “Perhaps we should let Routledge sit in for a while. He might be able to contribute something. Mr Appleton, tell him what’s at stake.”

  Appleton gave Routledge a concise summary of the implications of Obie’s visit. As Routledge already knew, Obie had somehow found out about the boat. He wanted a place on board. In return he would provide details of a plot by Martinson to murder the two outsider chieftains and unite Old Town and the lighthouse settlement in common cause to attack the Village, kill the Father, and take over the whole island. Such a contingency had long ago been foreseen by the Father, but he had not yet decided how to deal with the immediate problem Obie had posed.

  There had been two alternatives, Appleton said. The first, just rejected, had been to kill Obie right away to prevent him spreading the story any further, and for a squad to go in tonight to kill Martinson. Obie, however, claimed that he had an accomplice. He also claimed that the plot had already got as far as Houlihan’s brain gang, who, living as they did inside the lighthouse, could not be disposed of so simply.

  The better alternative was to let him go and to make use of whatever information he provided, unreliable as it might be. Advance warning of Martinson’s plans would be of enormous value in defending the Village, if such a defence were considered practicable.

  “And the ketch?” Routledge said. “May I ask what’s to happen to that?”

  “The Father wants to postpone the launch,” Appleton said. “We’re trying to persuade him otherwise.”

  Routledge saw why the Father would take such an attitude. Equally he saw why, just for once, he should not be allowed to have his way.

  “We come down,” Franks said, when Stamper had returned, “to a choice of tactics. Straightforward defence we have already discussed. The alternatives to that are simple. One: we could give the outsiders their share of the helicopter drops. That would remove their main source of grievance. Unfortunately it would not be enough. They would want the entire drop. Then they would want everything in the Village. Finally, the Village would be destroyed anyway. Two: shall we follow the advice of Mr Foster and certain other hard-liners? Is it now the time for a cull? My objections to this, as always, have little to do with moral or philosophical considerations. From the strictly practical point of view, a cull would be worse than useless, because it would arouse and mobilize even stronger feelings against the Village than already exist and make an invasion not merely likely, but certain. Until now we have remained unmolested for two main reasons. Archie Houlihan will not risk a confrontation; and we have offered no violence to the outsiders.” Franks removed his glasses, placed them on the table, and rubbed his eyes. “Three. Since Houlihan is all that stands between Martinson and us, shall we warn him that his life is in danger? What will happen if we do? The brain gang will learn that we know of the plot and in all likelihood Obie will be identified as the informer, losing us the only advantage we have. Four: shall we set Houlihan against Nackett and vice versa in an attempt to make the outsiders reduce their own numbers? Well, if we do that we shall only be playing into Martinson’s hands, since he wants in any case to be rid of Nackett and Houlihan.” Franks replaced his glasses and sat back. “Further suggestions, please, gentlemen. Mr Sibley?”

  Sibley shrugged. “You’ve covered it, Father. That’s it.”

  “Anyone? Anyone at all?”

  When none of the others spoke, Routledge shifted uneasily in his seat.

  “Routledge?”

  “There is something else we could do, Father.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Poison them. Poison their water. Most of the drums that get washed up seem to be marked with a skull and crossbones. We keep all kinds of industrial chemicals in store. We’d need something colourless and tasteless and highly toxic. Then we go in at night and contaminate the wells. We might kill fifty per cent, maybe more. Even if we didn’t, they’d never be certain it was us. Each camp would blame the other, or they might put it down to disease.”

  Thaine barely suppressed a smile.

  Franks also seemed amused. “That idea is repugnant and exceedingly unsporting, Routledge,” he said. “Shameful to admit, I regret to say that it has already occurred to us. For some months we have even kept aside a drum of weedkiller with the exact properties you describe. But there are difficulties. If large numbers of outsiders in both camps were to die mysteriously, the Service might well break with tradition and investigate, and then we would lose the privileges we have worked so long and hard to acquire. If we restricted the poison to one camp, so making it look more like an epidemic, the survivors might well, eventually, join the other camp and an invasion would then be almost certain. So far our tactics have consisted in preserving the status quo. If, however, we come under prolonged and serious attack and all else fails, we will not hesitate to use poison.” Franks looked round the table. “Right, then,” he said. “We’re agreed. We do nothing. We concentrate on the defence of the Community. Any dissenting voices?”

  There were none.

  “The final decision today concerns the ketch. Mr Thaine, I believe there was something further you wanted to say on this topic.”

  Routledge noticed grease under Thaine’s fingernai
ls. His hands had been but hastily cleaned. Routledge wondered what he had been doing.

  “I can’t add much to what Mr Appleton said. I just agree with him and think it would be wrong to let the outsiders dictate what we can do and what we can’t. If you postpone the launch, Courtmacsherry goes and the whole project might as well be cancelled. I may be biased because I’m guaranteed a place, but that’s the way I see it.”

  Foster, Sibley and Mitchell now voiced similar opinions.

  “And what about you, Routledge?” Franks said. “What do you think? You’re heavily involved with the work, after all.”

  “I think it would be a tragedy to postpone the launch. When I first arrived on Sert and Mr Appleton explained the advantages of living in the Community, he said that foremost among them was the opportunity to be a man. He said it was one of your sayings. At the time I didn’t know what he was talking about. Once I went outside I damn soon understood. The first thing they did was try to rape me. I decided I wouldn’t have it, and I didn’t. Next they tried to auction me off for a gang-bang. I wouldn’t have that either. Finally some caveman in animal skins forced a showdown. He was determined that it should be him or me. In the end I had a choice. I decided it would be him. That is not the way for men to live. What we have here in the Village is an oasis of peace and order. Once we let the outsiders breach the hedge we might as well forget about being men. They don’t necessarily have to breach it physically. If we let them dictate to us they’ve breached it just the same. There’s not a man in the Village who wouldn’t agree, and there’s not one of them who’d resent the ketch leaving, even under threat of an attack. Not one. Whatever else happens, the project must go ahead. It must.”

  Routledge had surprised even himself with the vehemence of his delivery. In his argument he had somehow crystallized the whole of his attitude to the Village and the island, previously vague, formless, half-conscious. For perhaps the first time in his life he found that he cared deeply enough to get truly angry. As he finished speaking, he became aware of the startled silence in which his words had been received.