The Penal Colony

by Richard Herley

  At the highest tides the sea almost entered the cave. Below the mouth the beach sloped fairly sharply, devoid now of any but trivial obstructions: for, one by one, under cover of fog, the larger rocks had been levered up and rolled aside to leave a narrow slipway nine metres long.

  The beachcombers spread out. “See you tomorrow, weather permitting,” Thaine said to Daniels, as he and Routledge ducked under the overhang.

  Betteridge and Chapman were waiting inside the cave.

  “How did it go?” Thaine asked Chapman, giving him his beachcombing sack.

  “Like a dream.”

  Routledge handed his sack to Betteridge and inspected the beginnings of the ketch. Chapman and Betteridge had come down here last night, during the storm, and started the first stage in the assembly process, fitting the heavy members of the hull into the cradle of the building moulds which, when fitted with wheels, would also serve as the launching trolley. The wheels had come from a Ferguson tractor found abandoned after the evacuation at the lighthouse. Until last autumn they had been on a horse-drawn cart used for hauling crops. Perished now, the tyres were stuffed with turf; Thaine had made the axles and bearings in his workshop.

  He and Routledge gave their coats to Chapman and Betteridge and exchanged woollen hats. The two carpenters then joined the others outside. Using a beachcombing party for the changeover had been Routledge’s idea; normally all visits were restricted to conditions of bad light, low cloud, or fog.

  Thaine and Routledge set down their bags and emptied their pockets of the nails, clench-rings and drift bolts required for the next stage of construction. The light was beginning to fail: Routledge hung a tarpaulin across the entrance and Thaine lit the Tilley lamps. He also lit the paraffin stove to heat water for coffee.

  The back of the cave had been fitted with two bunks, a bench, and a rack for the collection of tools which, like the timbers and the pre-finished parts leaning against the cave wall, had already been brought down from the Village.

  Thaine cast a more detailed and critical eye over the work.

  “Everything all right?” Routledge said.

  Thaine nodded, running his finger over the finish of one of the scarf joints the carpenters had made.

  He looked up and grinned. “Do you want to know a secret, Routledge? I’m really beginning to believe this harebrained scheme might even work.”

  7

  Routledge watched as Franks reached into the cardboard box and drew out another slip, which he handed to Appleton. In total silence the assembly waited for Appleton to unfold the paper and speak the fifth name.

  Routledge’s hands, fingers tightly crossed, had been thrust deep in his jacket pockets.

  It was nearly noon on the first day of Easter, the ancient festival of rebirth. Like almost everyone in the lottery, Routledge had hardly slept last night. At dawn he had conducted Prine to the site of wall-repairs at one of the south-west pastures, where Phelps and Rothstein and a couple of others who had not entered the lottery were today supervising the probationers. The weather then had been clear, with a chilly north-east wind. At mid-morning the sky had clouded over. There had been squalls of hail, rattling the corrugated plastic on the roof of the carpentry shop, where the final prefabricated sections of the ketch were being checked.

  After the hail the sun had come out again. Banks of cloud were now drifting south-westwards, out to sea. When they uncovered the sun its rays felt warm. Spring had returned. In three weeks it would be the first of May. Soon after that, Routledge might be in Ireland, heading for the airport. Heading for Brazil.

  Appleton spoke the fifth name. “Mr Blackshaw.”

  From his place on the veranda, Routledge saw Blackshaw standing near the back of the crowd, among members of his congregation, which had half an hour earlier emerged from the Good Friday service. Mouth wide, Blackshaw clapped a hand to his brow, was patted and helped towards the veranda with envious but congratulatory gestures.

  Three to go. Three chances left. Three out of a hundred and thirty-seven. The final figure for the draw had been a hundred and forty-two. Some had dropped out; others had changed their minds and decided to enter after all. The slips had been prepared yesterday. The tombola drum was an ordinary clothes-issue box with a hole cut in the top. The Father was being as fair as he could, stirring the slips when he put his hand inside, taking his time.

  “Mr Peagrim.”

  Overwhelmed, the barber came forward to the rail of the veranda and joined the rest of the chosen ones: Redfern, Carr, Thursby, Reynolds, Blackshaw.

  Two chances left. Freedom, sweet freedom, two whole chances away. Probability: 0.015. It was going to take a miracle now. “O God,” Routledge thought. “You gave a place to Blackshaw. Give one to me. Give one to me. Give one to me and I’ll believe in you again.”

  The upsurge of hope in the precinct became almost tangible.

  “Mr Gunter.”

  It was then that Routledge knew that God wasn’t listening. Knew that he didn’t exist. Routledge wasn’t going. One place left. He would never get it. Once chance in a hundred and thirty-five. He had never won anything in his life, never would. The judge had been right. He would remain on Sert for the rest of his days. The same feelings of doubt had already begun to afflict some of those remaining in the body of the crowd, more and more as Franks stirred the slips for the last time. He pulled one out, gave it to Appleton.

  Appleton unfolded the paper and looked at the name.

  “Please, God,” Routledge breathed. “Let it be me. This is all I’ll ever ask. I promise.”

  “Mr Ojukwu.”

  Ojukwu’s scream of delight was like the deflating slash of a knife. The lottery, so eagerly and anxiously awaited, for so long anticipated, was abruptly over.

  Routledge’s thoughts returned to an evening in September, to the impending gale and the twilit carpentry shop. He thought of the house-warming party that night and of the quixotic decision he had made. And now, he reflected, thanks to his soft and foolish heart, Ojukwu had won the place that might have gone to him.

  God had played his cruellest yet, his most ingenious practical joke.

  Routledge’s heart, or the place in his chest occupied by his heart, actually felt heavy, physically heavy. Tears prickled at his eyes. He fought them away, pressing his lips together as hard as he could, trying not to let anyone else see. He looked sideways at Foster, at Sibley, Mitchell, Stamper – at the other councilmen, none of whom had been chosen. They too were doing their best not to show their feelings. He noticed that Myers, standing on the steps, had briefly covered his face.

  The fortunate eight were taken inside the bungalow by Thaine. Franks followed them in; the rest of the Council lingered for a while yet on the veranda.

  The remaining slips were emptied out on the trestle table. Appleton opened each one and called the name; the slip was then handed to its owner. When King came to collect his, Routledge gave him a commiserating glance of solidarity.

  “Maybe next time,” King said, in response.

  “Yes. Next time.”

  Singly or in pairs or threes, the men in the precinct began to drift away.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Franks stood in one corner of the laboratory while each of the winners was measured and weighed. Last on the beam-balance was Ojukwu, at ninety-seven kilos the heaviest of the group. Peagrim was the lightest, registering only sixty-six. He would probably be in position four or seven, paired with Redfern, who was the next lightest at sixty-eight kilos.

  After the weighing, the men sat down and Franks explained the full plan, describing the role each individual was expected to take.

  He spared them nothing. “Our chances are not good,” he said. “What we will be doing, in pitch darkness, during a spring tide on a coast like this, is very dangerous indeed. When she launches, that will be the first time the ketch has ever tasted water. She has no emergency buoyancy. If she leaks, that’s it. If she hits a rock, we go down. If something goes wrong and we�
�re caught inside the Magic Circle, we’ll get no sympathy from the patrols. The ketch may well be rammed, or she may be taken in tow back to the mainland for examination. Either way, we can expect to be left behind. They won’t risk escorting us to the island, and they won’t have us aboard the patrol-boat. We have no room for lifejackets. That means we drown.”

  He looked from one face to another, from Thursby to Carr to Ojukwu. “But if we do succeed in crossing the Circle, our chances will rapidly begin to improve. If the ketch handles as Mr Thaine predicts, and if Mr Godwin’s electronics behave, only collision with a ship or intervention by the armed forces will prevent us from reaching our destination. Once we make land, success is virtually guaranteed. We are going to Courtmacsherry because that is not far from where I was born. I used to sail in the harbour there when I was a boy, so we’ll need no chart to get safely ashore. From the second of May onwards, my wife and some other people will be waiting in a safe house near the landing place. As you know, each of you will be supplied with a passport, the visa of your choice and two thousand punts in cash. Over a period of ten days you will leave the house and be driven to Cork, Dublin, Rosslare, or Shannon Airport, or anywhere else in the Republic you choose. After that it’s up to you. Well,” he said, in conclusion. “That’s about it for now. If any of you are having second thoughts, this is the time to say so.”

  No one spoke.

  “Are there any questions?”

  “One question, Father,” Reynolds said, hesitantly. “Why are you doing all this for us?”

  “You know why. Without this number of men the scheme could never work.”

  “But the passports and the money. Where do they come from?”

  “The money I supply. I still have some in the bank. The passports and visas will be provided by friends in Dublin, likewise the safe house at Courtmacsherry.”

  “But why should they do that for us?”

  “Not for you, Mr Reynolds, nor just for me. There are many political prisoners on these islands. I’ll be honest. When I get to America we’re going to blow the lid off Category Z.”

  “But all that’s finished with now,” Thursby said. “The European Court and everything.”

  “The EU didn’t give its approval to what’s happening on Sert. The British are breaking their own rules here and they know it.”

  “Are you in Sinn Fein?” Thursby said.

  “I think this discussion has gone far enough, Father,” Appleton said.

  “I agree,” Franks said, surprised that he himself had not stopped it earlier. The truth was that, at long last, he was beginning to allow himself to believe that the attempt might succeed. Uncharacteristically, he was becoming excited; the prospect of liberty had reminded him of the wider issues involved, issues which should not concern the other escapers or interfere with the relationship they had with him. For the moment, they were still on Sert. All that mattered now was getting off. The politics could come later.

  But if he were honest with himself, he knew he was not escaping for the cause: he was escaping because he wanted to see Siobhan and his children again. He was escaping because he had to have medical treatment or he might end up deaf and blind. And, most of all, he was escaping because he wanted to be free, free of Sert, of Martinson, of a future spent, like the present, in the iron grip of despair.

  After the meeting, Godwin entered the bungalow and came to Franks’s office. He seemed unusually withdrawn, deeply preoccupied, and sat in the spare armchair like a man condemned. Franks regarded him closely, waiting for him to speak. When Godwin remained silent, Franks said quietly, “I understand, Godwin.” He had seen this coming. For Godwin, the escape was purely an intellectual exercise. The challenge for him was to outwit the prison authorities and get away with it.

  Godwin removed his glasses, covered his face with his hands, and began to weep. “I thought it would be all right. But today suddenly it’s real. I can’t do it, I know I can’t. I’m too old. I’d let the others down. And anyway, I’ve got nowhere to go. My only friends are here.”

  “Don’t be hasty, Godwin.”

  “I’m not being hasty. I’ve thought it through. I want Fitzmaurice to have my place. He deserves it.”

  Godwin would not be persuaded otherwise. Franks offered him a week in which to change his mind: he turned it down. Godwin wanted to tell Fitzmaurice today. He wanted Caldecote to know immediately so that Fitzmaurice’s suit could be made in good time.

  “Are you absolutely certain?” Franks said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I don’t want to see you left behind. This project is yours as much as Thaine’s.”

  “Don’t make it any worse for me, Father.”

  Unworthy as it was, the thought now occurred to Franks that Fitzmaurice might want to come to Pittsburgh too. Franks had been prepared to testify to the world’s press alone: that would have been sensational enough, but with the two of them side by side the impact would be more than doubled.

  Even so, he would sacrifice almost anything to have Godwin along.

  “I urge you, Godwin, think what you’re doing. You may never get another chance.”

  “I’m resolute.”

  “All right,” Franks said, standing up. “If that’s what you really want, we’ll go and tell Fitzmaurice.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  For five anxious days after the 15th, the rock on Piper’s Beach had stayed untouched. This morning Martinson had found it turned upside down.

  That had been the signal; and tonight, bang on cue, a small, harsh, remote segment of moon slid from wreathing cloud and flooded the landing pad with bluish, ghostly light.

  Martinson gave the rope another experimental tug. “Pity it in’t Christmas,” he said. “Then I could’ve powdered me beard and worn a red coat. Still, better late than never.”

  “God’s sake, Jim,” Obie said. “This ain’t funny.”

  “If this in’t funny, I don’t know what is.” Martinson took a more earnest grasp. “Here goes.”

  “Make it quick. I don’t want to get caught.”

  “Don’t worry. First sign of bother upstairs and you leg it away, like we agreed. Meanwhile keep watching them tombs.”

  With that, Martinson began to climb. He had left his boots on the landing pad: his feet, wrapped in two pairs of thick white socks, found soft and easy purchase on the roughcast of the lighthouse wall. In the dim moonlight he could see well enough to avoid dislodging any loose patches of rendering. He hoped that to the guards by the tombs, if there were any, he would be invisible. During the descent of the cliffs both he and Obie had worn black. On reaching the landing pad Martinson had stripped off his outer layer of clothing, and now he was clad entirely in white.

  Father Christmas did not usually come through the window; but then lighthouses didn’t have chimneys, so just this once he supposed it was permissible.

  Wayne Pope had been as good as his word and had left a rope dangling from the gallery. Houlihan’s room was situated on the third storey. He slept on the floor, on a large mattress about three paces from the window. The window was covered at night, during winter, with a firmly fastened wooden shutter. But during the spring and summer it was covered with nothing more substantial than a curtain, so confident was he that the lighthouse walls were unscalable. The door was always kept triple-bolted from the inside. On the staircase outside the door were at least two heavies armed with iron bars. More guards kept watch in the mess: Martinson and Obie had overheard them playing brag, and seen the flickering lamplight at the window.

  If anything went wrong, Pope had said, Martinson would be on his own. The directions, the rope: that was the sum total of his involvement. Pope was presently in his own room on the fourth floor. He had tied the rope to the gallery railings some time earlier this evening and would take it away again before dawn. For all the lighthousers but Pope, Martinson was now constructing a version of the classic locked-room mystery. Unless he were seen disposing of the rope, Pope’s alibi woul
d be as good as anybody’s. Obie’s job was to ascertain that Martinson had remained unobserved.

  Martinson knew what Pope was planning and had taken it into account. The risk to his own life, tonight, was at its greatest. At any moment on the return climb Pope might appear at his fourth-floor window with a knife and saw through the rope. It was not just possible, but highly likely, that Pope had set him up.

  Martinson had considered every alternative before committing himself to this course of action. The other main routes held their appeal, but generated a multiplicity of danger points, most of them far worse than this, both in Old Town and here at the light. Since Houlihan had to go eventually, Martinson had reasoned, an unannounced night visit was the obvious way to begin.

  Houlihan had to go because he was a cunning Irish git who had no intention whatever of jeopardizing his position by attacking Franks or the Village. Houlihan was an obstacle, and like all obstacles had either to be circumvented or, if that was impossible, removed.

  Martinson grimaced. His leg was hurting again. The past winter had cost him a lot of strength. At one time he could have shinned up a rope like this with no trouble at all. His arms felt heavy. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. He paused, hanging there, four metres above Obie and the landing pad, Houlihan’s window another couple of metres up. Far below, from the rocks of the promontory, came the swirling boom of the sea.

  He resumed his climb.

  Houlihan’s curtain, the deep window-ledge, were just as Pope had described. Martinson gained noiseless entry, tucking back the curtain to admit as much light as possible.

  Looking off to the side, using the edges rather than the centre of his visual field, he examined the room. There was a glimmer of fulmar light along the bottom of the door, but no sound from the stairwell. If the guards were anything like Nackett’s, they were probably dozing. Martinson made out the form of shelves, a chair, a cupboard.