Colony

by Hugo Wilcken

  The boat slips by, barely rippling the water, as if hovering just above the surface. And now it recedes into the distance, an apparition shimmering uncertainly under the bulge of the sun hanging low in the sky, until finally it melts away into the river.

  ‘C’mon. It’ll be dark soon enough.’

  Carpette’s words snap Sabir out of his dazed state. The world comes back into focus: Edouard has already moved on, Carpette’s now following him. Carpette’s the one who speaks, who relays orders, and yet it’s Edouard who leads. Say-Say’s still there beside him. Sabir hoists the boy up by the armpits. ‘You can rest up once we get to the creek. Anyway, you won’t have anything to do till we get into open sea.’

  They pass by the Boni village. There seem to be no men about. Naked children play in the dirt; semi-naked women sit cross-legged on the ground, breastfeeding babies or working at something intricate, although Sabir can’t make out what. There’s always the possibility they’ll report the évadés, but it’s unlikely at this hour. Most of the women don’t even bother to look up from their work as the convicts pass. One seems slightly startled but then stares up into the distance beyond Sabir, as if she’s heard the noise but the men themselves are somehow invisible.

  Just after the village, the clouds open up like bags slit with a knife. Visibility shrinks and the going is tougher under the rage of wind and rain. Edouard and Carpette have disappeared ahead; Sabir’s practically carrying Say-Say along with him – hard, slow work, what with his barrel plus the water urn. As the rain tumbles down, Sabir is assaulted by a welter of thoughts. He wonders what Edouard is hiding in his bag, about his apparent well-being in the face of Carpette’s stories of his ill health. He thinks back to those few days he spent in Charleville, fruitlessly trying to track down Edouard’s family.

  They trudge along for another quarter of an hour. There’s a break in the rain and now Sabir can see Edouard and Carpette stopped at a curve in the path. They’re arguing about something; Carpette’s wagging his finger at Edouard. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but from their expressions, their body language, from the enigmatic remarks Carpette’s made in the past, Sabir intuitively grasps the underlying situation. For Carpette, Edouard is everything, an obsession. But for Edouard, Carpette is temporary, a means to an end. Perhaps he needed Carpette for the money, for his wheeler-dealing instincts. Or for sex. Or for company and friendship. Or simply because in order to survive in this colony, two is always better than one. They stop arguing as Sabir approaches.

  ‘The creek’s down there,’ says Carpette. ‘We’ve got to go and find the boat. The spot should be marked with a pile of stones. Leave the stuff here with the kid.’

  Sabir sets the boy down under a tree for protection against the rain – quite pointless since they’re all drenched through now. Sick and terrified, Say-Say doesn’t say a word. No doubt if he wasn’t so sick, he’d skip off back to camp once he was on his own, thinks Sabir. He consoles himself with the thought that no matter what Say-Say wants right now, this escape attempt is his best chance of staying alive. He, Sabir, knows what’s best for the boy, even if the boy can’t understand that.

  The three of them scramble down the bank and wade along the shallow creek. The rain’s slowly clearing and the sun’s occasionally visible again, casting long evening shadows along the disturbed water. They continue in silence, with nothing but the sound of the creek washing about their feet and the crunch of pebbles. Far away across the river, a lone bird shrieks as it wheels in the sky. They’re less than an hour from the commandant’s house, only twenty minutes from the Boni village, and yet this closeness merely seems to emphasise the isolation. Never has the human world felt quite so far away, so fragile.

  Edouard’s voice breaks through Sabir’s thoughts: ‘I see it. Over there.’

  The pile of rocks, on the other side of the creek. Edouard and Sabir plunge forward across the water. The creek gets deeper and deeper, and once it reaches his chest, Sabir starts up a clumsy breaststroke. Carpette has held back; now he shouts: ‘You two should manage it. I’ll stay here on the other bank.’ In a few strokes, Edouard and Sabir have made it over to the other bank. The water’s muddy, impossible to see anything, but under the water by the rock pile, Sabir’s knee hits against something solid. He feels about in the water. It’s the boat, weighted down with stones; it takes a few minutes to clear it of the stones, then they try to haul it out.

  ‘Too heavy,’ Sabir calls to Carpette. ‘Come over and give us a hand!’

  His own voice echoes back to him from across the water. No reply from Carpette, though.

  ‘He won’t come over,’ Edouard says. ‘He’s scared to get out of his depth.’

  ‘He can’t swim?’

  ‘No!’

  They’re the first words they’ve exchanged since their meeting in the forest all those weeks ago. Edouard flashes him a sour grin that perfectly conveys the absurdity of a non-swimmer escaping across the ocean. It reminds Sabir of old times, the camaraderie and the black jokes that used to punctuate the days and months in the trenches.

  ‘We’ll just have to get this done ourselves.’

  They set to it in a sudden fire of enthusiasm. A few failed attempts later, they finally manage to beach the boat and then roll it over to get the water out. It’s a back-breaking job, but it feels good to be working with Edouard again. When they’re through, the two slump down next to the boat, exhausted by the effort. Carpette shouts out: ‘The sails! They’re under the rocks!’ Sabir wearily climbs back up the bank to the rocks. They’re a patchwork affair, these sails, sewn together from old flour sacks – who knows if they’ll survive the winds of the open sea. He puts them down by the boat, takes off his dripping shirt, sits down again to get his breath back.

  ‘I’d forgotten that,’ says Edouard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your back. The tattoo. Remember?’ Edouard takes off his shirt as well to reveal a tattooed flower that’s the mirror image of Sabir’s – his is on his right shoulder blade, while Sabir’s is on the left.

  ‘God, yes. That’s right.’

  ‘Sobralia fragrans. They probably grow somewhere not far from here. I used to ship them to France before the war.’

  Sabir had forgotten, too. It was the dog days of summer, 1917, and there hadn’t been much action on their trench section for weeks, other than the morning shellings. Together they got a couple of days’ leave, and spent it in the bars and maisons closes of Lille. There was a tattooist who worked out of one of the brothels they frequented, and Edouard had become friendly with him. One evening, all three were sharing a drink and the man offered to tattoo them for free. Edouard immediately agreed. This surprised Sabir, since Edouard, unlike almost all of the other enlisted men, had bourgeois manners and an accent to match. Even among the respectable working class, a tattoo marked you out as a thief, ruffian or sailor. Edouard opened his satchel, pulled out his notebook and quickly sketched out a flower in strong, clear lines. ‘Here, let’s see what you can do with that,’ he said to the tattooist.

  ‘Anyway, let’s get this thing back over to the other side.’

  They push the boat out into the water, paddle it to where Carpette’s standing, with his arms crossed. ‘Shit!’ he mutters as he climbs clumsily into the boat. ‘Little bastard told me it was five metres long. Lying little bastard!’

  ‘I’ve seen worse,’ Edouard replies.

  The sun has dipped below the horizon and it’s getting difficult to see as they paddle their way back towards the mouth of the creek. Yes, the boat’s small enough, not too much bigger than a dinghy. Sabir didn’t really notice that in the effort to get it up out of the water, when it had seemed so huge and unmanageable. It’s a river boat, certainly not built for high winds and ocean waves. Sabir is pricked by a terrible doubt about the conventional wisdom of the old lags. Surely taking your chances through the jungle would be better than this.

  ‘Looks sound enough, at least,’ says Carpette after a long sile
nce, more to persuade himself than anyone else, it seems. ‘If the weather holds, we’ll be all right.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’ Sabir asks.

  Edouard jumps in. ‘If it doesn’t, it’ll all be over so quick you won’t have time to think about it.’

  Silence again. They paddle on for a minute or so before Carpette suddenly starts. ‘Who’s that with the boy? There’s a man there!’

  ‘Where?’

  Say-Say’s propped up where Sabir left him. Impossible to tell whether he’s dead or alive. Crouched down beside him, against the luminescent horizon, is the shadow of a man.

  ‘Turn around! Let’s turn around!’

  ‘No,’ says Edouard. ‘He’ll have seen us anyway.’

  They paddle closer. As they approach, Bonifacio moves away from the boy and climbs down towards the bank. Edouard has his hand to his pocket; Sabir too has his knife at the ready, but his hand is shaking and he knows he wouldn’t be able to get it out in time.

  ‘Ahoy there!’ Bonifacio’s tone is faux-jovial. The boat nudges at the bank and Bonifacio pulls at it as if to help them beach it. ‘Fine-looking vessel you got there.’

  ‘Leave it alone!’ Edouard shouts. He jumps into the water, up to his knees.

  ‘Easy, boys, easy, boys.’

  ‘I said leave the boat alone!’

  ‘Easy now.’

  Bonifacio takes his hands off the boat with an exaggerated gesture. He and Edouard are facing each other in the shallow water, a couple of metres apart.

  ‘Who are you? What’re you doing here?’

  ‘No need to get all aggressive about it.’ Bonifacio points towards Sabir, who’s still sitting in the boat with Carpette. ‘Didn’t your friend tell you who I am? He knows.’

  It’s too sombre to make out much of Bonifacio’s face now, although Sabir can still see Carpette’s, which is twisted into an astonished scowl. But he can feel Bonifacio’s gaze penetrating and confusing him once again.

  ‘Well?’ says Edouard.

  ‘He’s … he’s …’ Sabir stutters to a halt.

  ‘We been helping each other out, right?’

  ‘Yeah … that’s right.’

  ‘Kipping down together, eating together … just like a married couple, isn’t that so?’

  ‘I know who you are,’ says Carpette. ‘You’re the guy who killed a guard.’

  Bonifacio ignores Carpette. ‘And we became friends. Such damn good friends that he told me all about this little escapade. Asked me along, too. Wasn’t too sure at first. Then I figured what the hell. So here I am!’

  Sabir and Carpette climb out of the boat. Bonifacio has a big fake grin on his face. All four of them are standing in the water, but Carpette immediately moves to Edouard’s side, leaving Sabir next to Bonifacio, as if two camps had formed.

  ‘What makes you think you can just hitch a ride?’ says Edouard. ‘We all paid good money for this.’

  ‘Fair point. Let’s cut a deal right now, then.’ Bonifacio pushes his hand into his pocket. Sabir tenses up, but all Bonifacio brings out is a wad of money. ‘Lad here told me he paid two hundred. Sounds over the odds to me, but I’ll play along. In fact, I’ll throw in another hundred for you.’

  ‘You’re a guard killer. If we get caught …’

  Bonifacio laughs. ‘Oh, we won’t get caught!’

  The two-edged reply hangs in the air. Bonifacio makes a move over to Edouard and Carpette. Despite the fact that it’s Edouard who’s done most of the talking, Bonifacio proffers the money to Carpette. ‘Here, you divvy up.’

  ‘Wait,’ says Edouard. ‘Leave us alone for a second. Go over there while we talk this over.’

  Bonifacio freezes for a few seconds, as if affronted, then finally says: ‘Sure. Anything you say. You’re the boss.’

  Edouard and Carpette get out of the water and huddle together. They don’t invite Sabir over. Sabir moves to the bank as well and sits down on the ground, not far from Bonifacio, who says nothing to him, acts as if Sabir isn’t even there. Furious whisperings from Edouard and Carpette. Sabir can imagine it easily enough: Carpette’s tempted by the money; Edouard doesn’t care about that and doesn’t like the look of Bonifacio. Still, does he have any choice? Sabir inwardly shivers. If they don’t accept Bonifacio, he doesn’t quite know what’ll happen, but there’ll be some kind of bloodletting. Bonifacio will take Edouard by surprise – kill him quickly and impose his will on the rest of them. And kill Carpette, too. Or perhaps not: some kind of crew is necessary, Sabir supposes. For a moment, he thinks back to the killing of Masque in the barracks, and how petrified he was then. Now, it’s quite different. He considers the various possibilities in a detached frame of mind, as if watching a performance or looking at a picture. The image of the woman on the boat comes back to him. He sees her tearful face again, and he realises that, in some way, he envies her tears.

  ‘All right. We’ll take the money.’

  ‘Thought you’d see sense, boys.’

  ‘Let’s pack the supplies in the boat before it gets too dark.’

  The storm has completely dissipated – almost as if it never happened at all. A still night now, not a breath of wind in the air; stars creeping across the sky. The water, smooth as mercury, is dark silver under a glittering loop of moon. It’s too perfect, this moon; it belongs to the world of fairy tales.

  The boat’s been made ready for the pre-dawn tidal run. It’s too dangerous to light a fire, and the men sitting by Sabir have dissolved into dim half-presences under the moonlight. Bonifacio has a couple of bottles of rum with him. They’re from the commandant’s cellar, Sabir’s pretty sure of it – where else would he have got hold of them? The nerve, risking the guillotine just to pinch rum from the commandant’s house. It reinforces this feeling of Bonifacio being everything, everywhere. He uncorks a bottle, shouts out: ‘To the whores of Pigalle!’ The forest replies with a ferocious silence. It’s a minute before the usual assortment of insect hums, animal rustlings and monkey howls slowly fade back in.

  ‘Here, have a swig.’

  ‘No,’ says Edouard, but Carpette grabs the bottle from Bonifacio and takes a long draught. Sabir too has his turn, the alcohol ripping through his empty stomach.

  ‘Hey, stutterer, y-y-you want some t-t-t-oo?’

  Say-Say shakes his head. He’s looking better, the fever seems to have died down for the moment. He’s no longer trembling, but seems just as wiped out and terrified.

  ‘Well, I say you have some!’

  Bonifacio seizes the back of the boy’s head, tips the bottle down his throat until Say-Say’s practically choking on it. He’s trying to get us all dead drunk, thinks Sabir, so there’s less chance of any of us attacking him in the night.

  ‘That boat’s no ocean liner,’ says Bonifacio a little later on, once most of the first bottle has gone. ‘I say we feed ourselves up now, so there’s less to carry. We dump everything we don’t need for the trip. Everything. We’ve all got plenty of dough now, boys, eh? We buy anything else once we get there … What do you need all that for?’ He points to Edouard and the unwieldy bag he has slung over his shoulder. ‘We’re not moving house, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Bag stays with me.’

  ‘What’ve you got in there?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘And I say the bag goes!’ Bonifacio thumps the bottle of rum down on the ground. ‘No room for it. Look at the size of the boat. It’s a damn thimble!’

  ‘The bag stays with me. You don’t like it, then fuck you!’

  Edouard’s uncharacteristic outburst slices through the febrile atmosphere. Carpette and Sabir are sitting between Edouard and Bonifacio – impossible to read anyone’s face in the dim moonlight. Sabir watches the other men’s hands, dares not make any movement with his own.

  ‘Okay,’ says Bonifacio finally. ‘If that’s the way you want it. It’s your plan. Your escape. You’re the boss.’

  Carpette breaks open one of the barrels, hands out some biscu
its and salted meat. The immediate tension has been defused, but a sullen silence reigns. As he chews at the meat, Sabir reflects on Bonifacio. He’s struck once again by his sense of assurance in keeping his money in his pocket rather than in a plan. Bonifacio’s no simpleton fort-à-bras; he uses anger coldly for a purpose. He’s violent when he needs to be, conciliatory when it’s to his advantage. He knows how to back off without losing face. Perhaps he was testing how far he could push Edouard – or he’d calculated his chances of leaping at Edouard’s throat and decided against it. Edouard’s wise not to get drunk like the rest of them. He knows well enough that they’ve exchanged one form of imprisonment for another.

  As for Sabir, he’s cushioned from the worst of the fear by this feeling that it’s all happening to someone else. As if he’s looking down at himself from above. The confused thought strikes him as he drifts off into drink-induced stupor that, in any case, the various futures have already been lived out, played out, and all one can do is wearily continue along these set paths. Only the past remains obscure. It hasn’t happened and perhaps it never will.

  XI

  The sky is still a wall of night, although the horizon’s now tinged with the faintest of pre-dawn glimmers. Sabir’s arms and face are sticky with blood – a cloud of mosquitoes descended upon them in the middle of the night, so thick it was even difficult to breathe. He sat up with the others, furiously smoking, in the hope it’d drive the insects away. His face is swollen and itching terribly.