The Penal Colony (14 page)

The ruins had a serene, ecclesiastical air,
as if the place had centuries ago been made hallow, as if, despite
the use to which Sert had since been put, this protection still
held good today. Entering the rubble-strewn floor space of the
tower, he noticed a niche in the eastern wall. And there, higher
up, near the top, was a wide slab of stone which might have run
under an arched window paned with coloured glass.

This, surely, was the chapel of the old
monastery.

He went outside again, imagining he could
trace in the foundations the layout of the monastery buildings.
This part might have been the kitchen, the broader area next to it
the refectory, those the walls of the living quarters.

He tried to imagine also what sort of men had
voluntarily embraced the tedium and austerity of a small island in
the north Atlantic. Religious fervour had had quite a bit to do
with it, of course. Probably it had been no great hardship to leave
the oppressions and persecutions of medieval England behind.
Islands had always been a place of sanctuary. The difference today
was that, in a sense, the people taking sanctuary were those on the
mainland.

This was no time for such idle speculation,
or for sightseeing. His examination took no more than a minute.
Having established that the ruins were of no practical importance
to him, he decided to change course to the right, heading westwards
to see whether he had indeed walked out to the end of a peninsula.
With one last glance at the tower, and holding the crossbow clear
of the undergrowth, he began to move in that direction.

It was then that he knew that someone was
watching him.

A moment ago, looking over the ruins, he had
felt the touch of eyes more strongly still, but he had dismissed it
as fanciful. He did not believe in ghosts, nor did he seriously
believe, as some might have done, that a place could absorb
supernatural influences from the people who had lived and died
there. And besides, in his present state he no longer trusted
himself.

But now he knew. Someone was behind him,
hiding in the scrub.

The back of his neck tingling, Routledge
moved off. Then he stopped and whirled round.

He did not really see the man. All that
registered was a sense of movement, across there, beyond a big
clump of brambles.

By now Routledge was trembling with fear. He
only had one shot. Suppose there were several of them? No. Several
would have been able to rush him. One shot, then. But suppose even
that first shot missed? The machete was ready to hand. He would use
that as well. The watcher must have seen the crossbow. He would
want it, probably very badly. He would want the machete, the
haversack, the boots and clothes.

There was the slightest movement of
vegetation beyond the bramble clump. Not caused by a bird. Not by a
goat or rabbit. Not by the wind. By a man. It was definite. Someone
was there, trying to tempt Routledge into loosing off his single
crossbow bolt.

Worst of all: the thought occurred to him
that it might be Martinson. Had Martinson been silently following,
waiting his chance? Was it Martinson the gulls had seen? Routledge
remembered all too well how quietly Martinson and the other two had
come up behind him in the woods.

Or was Routledge imagining things again? That
was what he wanted to believe. He would resolutely investigate the
bramble clump, just to show himself there was nothing to be afraid
of.

But what if he were right? Could he afford to
do something so reckless? Options, he told himself: quickly,
options. You can look or you can refrain from looking. You can stay
or you can go. If you go, and no one follows, that’s just as good
as going to look. Or better, because you avoid all risk.

And if there were someone, and he followed?
The watcher had already demonstrated his ability to move in
complete silence. Using the cover of the scrub, might he not circle
ahead? Judging by the position of the sun, the time was now about
six. There were at least four hours to go before the Village bell
rang. Martinson, anyone who lived on Sert, would know the routine.
He would know that Routledge would have to wait near the gate, and
that, within one hour of the bell, he would have to present himself
or for ever forfeit his chance of a place inside.

This situation was precisely what Routledge
had been dreading, so much so that he feared he had now almost
willed it into existence.

He started to move away, towards the west, as
he had originally intended. He reached the edge of the monastery
precincts and looked round. Nothing. The bramble clump was as
before. He went on, through thicker scrub of bracken and gorse. He
felt the sea wind on his face, and the solidity under his boot
soles as the ground began again to climb. He wanted to look back,
but didn’t. Finally the desire became overwhelming. He could resist
it no more.

By the tower, beyond accurate range, a shaggy
figure came that instant into view: a savage, an aborigine, utterly
unlike any of the men Routledge had seen in Old Town. He owed
nothing whatever to civilization; he was armed with a wooden spear
and clad entirely in furs and skins, crudely hung about his body or
strapped in place with thongs. His feet were bare, as were his arms
and shoulders, which were deeply tanned. A fur band encircled his
forehead; an extensive bald patch showed plainly in the sun.
Dark-haired, and about Routledge’s own age and weight and height,
he was nevertheless endowed with a frighteningly languid, lithe
athleticism Routledge had never observed before in any Caucasian
male, let alone a British one. The man saw Routledge watching him
and moved the spear in a gesture without meaning.

He was deliberately loitering there, waiting
for Routledge to make more ground before following.

Routledge took two steps towards him and
raised the crossbow. At his leisure, the man retreated behind the
stonework of the tower. He knew he was beyond range but, now that
he had been discovered, it seemed he wanted to indicate the nature
of the game.

Routledge did not know what to do. The
important thing was to get to open ground where he was sure of a
good all-round view. The scrub through which he had come was no
use. He could not go back that way. If he really were at the end of
a peninsula, then, unless the terrain opened out on its western
side, he was done for. And he was done for if the man had a
companion, or companions. Perhaps they were already closing in.
That would explain his easy manner, his insolence.

Routledge began to wish he had put his time
in the cave to better use. He should have practised his
marksmanship.

The sun went in as he turned and continued
uphill, at the fastest rate he could, just short of breaking into a
run. Each time he looked round, the man was following, keeping up
with him exactly, maintaining the same distance. Veering more to
the right, Routledge avoided the densest area of gorse and in ten
minutes came to the top of the rise. Before him and to his right
lay a kilometre’s width of sea, a deep bay defined on its far side
by serried formations of sunlit cliffs and headlands which extended
westwards for at least four kilometres, maybe more. On top of the
final headland, under cloud but almost directly against the
brightest part of the sky, his retina briefly caught the pattern of
organization: buildings, fields, walls. The Village.

He had indeed trapped himself at the end of a
peninsula. But this western side, exposed to the prevailing wind,
was more open than the way he had come. For some distance to the
right, for half a kilometre at least, he would be safe.

As he went, Routledge dropped first the
sheepskin waistcoat and then the goatskin hat. He hoped the man
would pause to pick them up, that their weight would be better
carried by the pursuer than the pursued. His own PVC jacket, which
he was wearing, he decided to retain. To lose it would cost him
points when he reached the Village.

The moment he had dropped the hat he
regretted his action, for it would be seen as an attempt at
appeasement and as evidence that Routledge had yet more desirable
objects in his possession. It had been a mistake. A bad mistake;
but it was too late now to change his mind.

Looking back, he saw the man bend down. The
next time Routledge looked, he was wearing the hat and carrying the
waistcoat, but still maintaining the same easy, assured, relentless
pace.

They were crossing rough, tussocky turf
interspersed with clumps of low bracken and gorse. Routledge made a
detour past a broad area of heather which, spreading down the
hillside nearly to the cliff edge, almost threatened to lie in his
path. By now he was beginning to tire. He felt his speed beginning
to fade and angrily redoubled his efforts to keep it going. For the
twentieth time he looked back. His pursuer, if anything, seemed
fresher, just getting into his stride, moving with a leisurely,
economical gait that he could maintain all day, and all night too,
if need be.

The cliffs here were not steep. A couple of
hundred metres ahead, almost at their edge, lay a large outcrop of
rock, and behind it another. Beyond them the ground was more
sheltered, and to his horror and consternation Routledge saw that
the scrub there again became gradually thicker, much thicker, thick
enough to take away the advantage of the crossbow and allow the man
to catch up or circle ahead unseen. That was what he had been
waiting for: that explained why he had been content to hang back
till now.

In his frantic attempt to find another
passage through, Routledge changed course more to the right,
climbing slantwise across the face of the slope. He got to the top
of the rise before acknowledging to himself the truth of what he
already feared: that there was no way out.

Either he could keep on, or he could stay and
stand his ground. He knew he couldn’t take much more of this
exertion. The weight of the crossbow was becoming intolerable. He
stopped and turned round. The man stopped too. By going no farther,
Routledge could at least rest. He might even be able to sit down,
keeping the crossbow levelled at his adversary. But for how long?
What would happen when the light began to fail?

Routledge’s voice cracked as he screamed his
desperate, hopeless oath of dismissal.

For reply the man moved a few metres nearer,
confident that Routledge’s aim was being steadily impaired by fear,
by exhaustion, by his pounding pulse. Routledge raised the crossbow
and unsuccessfully tried to align the bead. He remembered the way
the bolt had smashed the rock on the beach. There was a chance.
Just a chance; but he couldn’t afford to take it.

Suddenly he was making for the outcrop of
rock at the cliff edge, two hundred metres away down the slope. A
hundred and fifty. Fifty. A flashing backward glance told him the
man was gaining fast, no longer so cocky, for he had now seen what
Routledge had in mind: to get momentarily out of sight, to hide in
a defensible position and thus force his pursuer to take the
initiative. With the last few strides Routledge realized he had
done it.

The outcrop was about half the height of a
house, shaped somewhat like the end of crude boat jutting sideways
from the sparse, thrift-grown turf; the far side was split and
fissured into irregular gullies. One of these gullies made a
partial alcove, damp and cool, permanently concealed from the sun.
Routledge pressed himself into it, and, panting, waited for
whatever was going to happen next.

He could hear nothing but the wind and the
sound of the surf. The man had stopped moving, or had once again
switched to his silent mode of travel. Then, from the shore below
him and to his left, Routledge heard the loud, quick piping of two
wading-birds, rising to an ecstatic crescendo which abruptly died.
The sea there looked grey: he saw the birds, black and white, with
red beaks, perching on two adjacent rocks.

Still there was no sign of his companion. A
minute had passed. What would he do? Which side would he come from?
Or was he just going to sit it out and wait?

Routledge tried to reduce the trembling in
his hands. Already he was beginning to get his breath back: his
lungs no longer felt as if they were about to burst. He had to keep
calm. He had to be in control of himself.

Another minute passed, and Routledge started
to have second thoughts about this strategy. It was worse not being
able to see him. At least in the open …

He had expected the attack to come from the
left. Most of his attention had been directed there, with the rest
directed to the right. The thought had not occurred to him, obvious
though it now seemed, that it would come from above. He must have
detected an inadvertent sound, or sensed slight motion in the
uppermost edge of his peripheral vision: whatever the reason, he
looked up and saw the man there, three metres above him, in the act
of raising both arms to hurl a rock down on his head.

Later, he had no recollection of stepping
back and raising the crossbow, no recollection of bringing bead and
sight into line with the man’s body. It all happened too fast. But
he did remember, as if frozen on film, the moment when his finger,
already inside the guard, began to make contact with the trigger.
At that moment he had conscious control. This was not like the
frenzied, automatic attack on Gazzer and Tortuga. Now he had a
choice. He could shoot to wound, or he could shoot to kill.

His hand and arm and eye made the decision
without further reference to his brain. The pressure of his touch,
faithfully transmitted by both pivots, arrived at the waiting nib,
which, more rapidly than thought, and receiving the only command it
knew, smoothly descended and allowed the crossbow to let fly.

The bolt hit the man in the centre of his
chest, so hard that he was thrown backwards, toppling out of sight.
Routledge dodged the falling rock and scrabbled in his pack for the
machete, then ran to the far side of the outcrop, where it would be
easier to climb.