Ways of the Doomed

by McPartlin, Moira;

  • • •

  Three hours had passed since the shutdown and no Transports came. When I’d packed the air mask back in place and returned to bed, I tucked the secret back in its womb and took a last look at my Ma’s image. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I wanted to ask, but of course it was much too late for that.

  Did Davie know Ishbel was his daughter? Possibly not – he called her a whore. Ma had told her to give Davie the passport, and Ishbel defied that instruction. Ishbel must have been the one to hide the paper. But why?

  Part Three

  Chapter Sixteen

  When a rather chirpy Scud swung by next morning I asked what had happened with the power but he just tapped his nose. Although he looked healthier, he retained the walnut eyes. He looked almost Privileged and even though he could never have suspected, for once our roles seemed reversed.

  It monsoon rained all that week. Scud’s colouring and skin tone plateaued. He of the Walnut Eyes gravitated to the window every once in a while and even declared rain ‘quite beautiful’. He was like one of those mad arty-farties who maintained a lump of concrete was a huge contribution to modern architecture – clueless. There was nothing to see out there except gloomy skies and rain-streaked glass. Even the perimeter lights were dimmed by the constant haar. My concentration for work dissolved in a pitcher of diluting nativeness. Scud was raging with me. He said that if I didn’t buck up I would fail my exams.

  ‘What exam?’ I said. ‘The whole thing is pointless.’

  Scud rubbed his scraggy chin. ‘Ah, the tantrums of Privilege – so last year.’

  What the snaf did that mean?

  • • •

  Then one day an unusually strong sunlight stroked my face as I woke. With my hands behind my head, I stretched in bed and bathed in it. Scud dragged into the room, almost dropping the tray before reaching the desk. It seemed as if the weight was three times the normal capacity of his capabilities. Without saying a word he left and returned seconds later with a bag, which he dumped on the floor.

  ‘A present for ye,’ he grinned. ‘Looks like ye’ve done yer prison stint, young Sorlie.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well now, let’s see.’ He knelt down, ripped open the bag and pulled out a waterproof jacket, trousers and boots. ‘It seems that perseverance pays off,’ he chirped. ‘Ye don’t need these in yer cosy wee cell. So you must be going outside.’

  • • •

  Scud said Davie had given him instructions to leave me after he’d delivered my breakfast and clothes. His grin cracked so wide I was sure his face would shatter like porcelain. As he left the room, he tapped his stupid nose and creaked a corncrake call – a very realistic corncrake call based on the recordings I had heard on FuB. I couldn’t believe I was finally being let out, but before the fact fully sank in a dull knock sounded at the door. It was the Bas guard, the one who checked on my health many days ago. He hulked in the doorway, taller than me but not as tall as most of the Privileged, though what he lacked in height he made up for in girth. The parcel Scud had dropped spewed garments over the floor like a badly constructed soya kebab. And judging the screwed up nose on the guard’s face it could have smelt like one. He didn’t smile as he toed the mess on the floor, then signalled to the door with his head. ‘Better get kitted out sir, it’s pretty wild out there.’

  ‘So, I’m being allowed to leave the compound.’ Stupid statement but it was better than hugging him which is what I almost did when he arrived.

  ‘That’s right sir.’ His voice was strange, clipped, neither that of a native nor of a Privileged. The way he pronounced his R’s was weird. I wondered how he ended up here. He wore his uniform with misplaced pride and carried red waterproofs. On his belt was slung the regulation baton and gun.

  I pointed to them. ‘So I’m still to be treated as a prisoner.’ He shrugged, the usual response in this place.

  • • •

  The yellow jacket drowned me. I rolled up the sleeves and hoped for the best. The trousers hung long but I tucked them into socks I found in the bag. The boots were also too big so I dug around and found another pair of thick socks which padded the space; a purple hat and matching mitts had been stuffed into the pockets of the yellow jacket. We looked like the united colours of Black Rock. With his red and my yellow, even in the heavy rain and mist we’d be hard to miss. I peeked a look at the guard for any sign of impatience at my faffing but saw only boredom. Probably some human traits had been trained out of him. He stared straight ahead and waited until I was ready. His indifference gave me the opportunity to tuck my passport into the oversized jacket without his noticing. As we left the room I intuitively turned towards the library but the guard strode the other way, towards the shutter door. I followed along the short corridor past what looked like a cooking area where Scud bustled and crashed. It was strange to see him in there, so close to my quarters. I had assumed the meals came from the main building.

  Scud nodded sagely as he handed a package to the guard. ‘Just a wee something for the young master, in case ye’re not back in time fur a meal.’ The formality could have been some sort of code, but there was no follow through with the nose tap.

  ‘He’ll be back in plenty time,’ the guard grumbled as he stowed the food in his sac. Scud smiled nervously even though he looked fit to fall in a heap on the floor.

  When we reached the shutter at the end of the passage the guard drew his gun and pointed it at Scud.

  ‘You know the drill. Don’t move a muscle.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ I said.

  My communicator buzzed with a one word message from Davie. SILENCE. Of course he was watching. And Scud was a prisoner.

  The guard looked uncertain for a split second, but Scud’s mournful eyes were not on the gun but on me. He had a pleading look of a fighting bear whose nerve had left it and knew it was about to enter the ring for the last time. I don’t think he could quite believe this was at last happening. My shoulders sagged with the weight his look placed on me and the opposing pressure of the passport in my pocket. Failure wasn’t an option.

  While the gun stayed trained on Scud the door shuddered upwards, grating and grinding, setting my teeth to water. I was relieved for Scud’s sake that the door did not open to the outside. I was sure with his window obsession, gun or no gun he would have bolted just to catch a moment of outside freedom before he was gunned down. As we entered the brightly lit ante-chamber I took one last look at those beseeching eyes before the shutter cranked down, erasing the frozen image of Scud piece by piece from head to toe. My palms were sweating. I still couldn’t believe I was leaving the prison after all these weeks.

  The guard lifted some walking poles propped against the other door and handed a pair to me. He drew in his breath and his chest as if to make himself even taller.

  ‘Right Master Sorlie, we are to venture outside,’ he said. ‘I will walk with you at all times. There will be sections where we cannot walk side by side, at these times you will walk in front of me. Do you understand?’

  My skin bristled – how dare he speak to me like that? I squared my shoulders to tell him so, but before I had a chance his head drooped and he continued.

  ‘These are the instructions of your grandfather; to disobey would mean deep trouble for you and even deeper trouble for me.’ He peered at me and there was something indiscernible in his eyes. ‘Do you understand?’

  I nodded even though I didn’t really understand. Did he hate Davie, or fear him?

  From his pocket he pulled a map reader and held it out for me to see.

  ‘We are to go to the other side of the island and back, nothing more today.’ He traced a line on the map with a stylus which showed the journey as the crow flies. This man hadn’t a clue how to read a map or how to use a map reader. His route would take us across wide unbridged rivers and over sheer cliffs. Th
ere was a natural contour that meandered cross-country with dotted markings of old drove roads. The other side of the island was a good couple of hours walk away following the path marked on the map and I knew that once outside the guard would blindly follow this.

  ‘Can I have a copy of the map? I love orienteering.’

  He thought for a moment, obvious of his own shortcomings no doubt.

  ‘Your grandfather didn’t forbid it,’ was all he said as he beamed the map to my communicator. It was that easy. This guy was a cretin.

  Escape was in my grasp and I could see many possibilities, but first I needed to quell the panic in my belly and keep calm. We climbed a spiral stairwell that narrowed with each step and, as if we were being squeezed out of a tube, the higher we climbed the tighter the turn, wringing the breath out of me like a wash rag. When we reached the top and the guard opened the door a rush of air hit me with a force that almost sent me spiralling downwards again. I inhaled fresh salt air for the first time since arriving here.

  I had expected us to come out on some high Transport platform but the door led onto a podium projecting over the clifftop, protected only by a rusting metal rail. My ears whistled with the exposure. My eyes teared with the light and breadth of the sky. When I grasped the rail it wobbled and I fell towards the guard, snatching his sleeve to stop me tumbling over the edge. He stood rigid and stared straight ahead. I tried to protest at the dangers but the words whipped from my mouth. The guard took hold of my shoulders, easing me forward towards uneven steps cut into the cliff edge, but my feet were glued. My knuckles, white and cold, tightened on the material of his jacket. I sensed rather than saw the horrific drop to the rocks below, long and deadly. I wanted to retreat back through the door. The guard said something I couldn’t hear. He slapped his hand on the rock of the prison wall. He prised my fingers from his jacket and placed it on a metal wire. The wire threaded through iron rings bolted to the wall to provide an inadequate make-shift hand rail down the cliff face. Despite his earlier instruction for me to stay in front he squeezed past me to relieve me of my poles and with one step behind the other he descended backward, his free hand held out to me for support. Like a fledgling I was led down the precarious steps to a broad path on a mound twenty metres below.

  When we reached level ground my panic flew into the wind and my legs at last supported me. I shook my shoulders back and stood straight, but my cover was blown; me and heights went together like salt and slugs.

  Bored was the only word to describe the expression on the guard’s face. He obviously would have preferred to be back inside in the warm, slumped in front of surveillance monitors.

  ‘Right come on then,’ I blustered, ‘show me your island.’

  • • •

  The path was composed of ash and shale with culverts that ran with water, some of which disappeared into the manmade mound we stood on. This mound must be within the grounds of the penitentiary but it was almost unrecognisable as such. Any invaders would be hard put to find this hidden bunker in daylight, but lights from quarters such as mine with windows out to the cliffs must give the game away in the dark. There could be a barrier deflecting the light back into the installation, but it was impossible to tell from this position.

  We walked from the mound along another cliff edge that dropped sheer into the sea a hundred metres or so below. Weird rock sea stacks, like chess pieces, thrust their heads from the foaming waters as if they had once been attached to the island, but constant pounding of the sea had eroded the rock to form small channels and a new coastline. I had a strange notion to lie on the ground and edge my way to stretch over and see if I could locate my window; my phobia would hold if my whole body was anchored. Soon the path veered from the cliff and the iron fence that protected us from the crumbling edge. The sound of the sea was constant and the rivers that ran into it threw up white flags of surrender on impact. The booming sea meant I had to shout to be heard. The topography of the ground changed, which signalled the boundary of the building perimeter. Looking back I saw the ancient crown of the old fortress with no visible lights showing. They must only emerge after dark. From here the prison looked as innocent as a ruined castle. The guard ignored my dallying and strode on ahead despite his earlier reluctance and instructions. He seemed eager to move into open ground and away from the compound, as if he too felt a prisoner. As we cornered the last bastion of my grandfather’s dominion I stopped. A few times I had been to the High Lands where military manoeuvres took place but islands have always been forbidden territories. It’s strange to think until only a few months ago I had never seen the sea and now, standing on a small hillock on Black Rock, I embraced the surrounding aspect of the wild and vast Western Sea. The changing government regimes may try to stifle and tame many things in the world but they will never tame the sea.

  We followed a path into a dip and through a patch of invasive dying bracken. The path was overgrown but every now and then the guard stopped, looked at the ground and then towards the sea. What was he doing? I followed his example and found trampled vegetation and evidence of recent boot prints, not his, which were large and broad; these were smaller, narrower boots. Some other inhabitant? Every now and then the guard looked over his shoulder to check I was keeping up but he never mentioned the marks.

  Find Him

  But I had other nests to raid.

  Terraces of slanting crags bearded the slopes to our left. Water ran over the rock forming green fluorescent sludge. I wanted to stop and taste this water that was rumoured to still be pure, hard to believe in a world where all water was routinely purified before consumption. But I had no chance, for the guard sped on and grunted that I do the same. Acquiescence to minions didn’t sit well with me but I was loath to displease my grandfather on my first outing. The pounding of feet on the path summoned images to my mind, like that of my father standing straight against a wall followed by the sound of a shot, so loud and clear I almost ducked. Why hadn’t he told me about Ishbel on the camping trip? No. No more thoughts of my father.

  The sight of any manmade forms disappeared behind us. Even without the map I knew we were moving northwards just by the position of the weak sun behind the clouds. We banked a rise and I could see the path stretch forward, a watery trail weaving straight through the heather and bracken like a fine silver thread through tartan. There were no trees apart from the occasional mountain ash, the one with the red berries: the tree my father said everyone should have in their backyard for luck. And yet each tree he tried to plant in our yard died. Sakes! Stop it Sorlie!

  The western shore had looked far away from our start point and yet we reached it in no time and were soon standing on a headland. The guard consulted his communicator, no doubt checking the time. I was surprised his belly didn’t tell him that. He looked as though he couldn’t go for much longer than a couple of hours without a good feed. The view from the headland was sea, but as I breathed deeply I imagined land. The other side of this water was the United States of the West with no stopping points between here and there except a few floating islands constructed for deep sea mineral mining and gas storage. The guard sat on a rock and began to unhook the laces of a boot. He took it off, shook it upside down and rubbed his toe.

  ‘Do you live here?’ I asked him. ‘All the time I mean.’

  He glowered at me. ‘I am not permitted to converse with you,’ he said and returned his concentration back to his boot.

  To the south of us a small cairn marked a path junction: one path led towards a peat moor while the other disappeared down a couloir to the sea. The guard started to retrace our steps from the headland, but before I moved I consulted the map. It showed the junction and its branches. The path to the sea led not just to the shore but to a sandy beach and cove.

  ‘Can we stop for some food? I’m starving.’

  The guard checked his communicator again.

  ‘We should go back.’


  I plonked myself down on a boulder. ‘Well I’m stopping here for a bit. I’m starving.’

  ‘I was instructed to bring you back before fifteen hundred hours,’ he grumbled.

  ‘We’ve plenty time then.’

  He sighed, sat back on his rock and unzipped the sac, handed me a grain bar and a piece of synthetic fruit. I took a bite of the fruit then doubled over clutching my belly.

  ‘Ooh I’ve such a pain. I need to go drop some.’

  The guard clocked around him in shock. ‘Didn’t you perform your body waste management today?’

  ‘Yes but this is extra, unexpected. Something’s wrong with my gut.’

  I watched indecision cross his face. ‘You can’t go here, you have no cleansing unit.’

  ‘I need to go – I can go in the wild, I’ve been taught, I can use moss. OOH!’

  Panic flashed his eyes. He didn’t want a mess on his hands. ‘Alright, but be quick.’

  ‘I’ll just nip down here.’ I pointed to the couloir leading to the shore. He began to shake his head, but I was already on my way.

  ‘It’s alright, there is nowhere for me to go.’

  He nodded. ‘OK, but hurry. And don’t go near the beach, it’s mined.’

  The path was steep and narrow, at times slippery. I fell and skittered down the last few metres on my bottom. I would need to be quick to view the passport. But fate had other plans for me. When I stopped scarting down the path, I brushed my pants and then froze. A small fishing boat was anchored in the bay, one of the trawlers broken free from its pack. I looked back up the couloir – was it far enough inland to be hidden from the high path? It seemed to be deserted. How to make contact? The only thing I had apart from the dazzling yellow jacket was the lens on my communicator, which I tried to catch in the light but the sky as usual was dull and the light dimming. Nothing flashed but just as I’d waited as long as I dared a light winked in the corner of the boat – a signal. My heart crash dived. Was it intended for me or for Him? Or was He on the boat? Beads of sweat blistered my brow. Was there a chance I could escape? Just then a rock tumbled down the slope and I scrambled up the path before the guard spied the boat. He narrowed his eyes at my approach as if my secret was plastered over my sweaty face.