The Penal Colony (21 page)

Ojukwo was not interested in darts. He had
plucked a grass stalk and was chewing it while he reclined, head in
hands, full length on the turf. Routledge, following his example,
was also chewing a grass stalk, but remained leaning on one elbow,
with his free hand foiling the efforts of an ant to pursue the
direction it wanted to take.

The sun felt hot. The breeze from the south
was soft and balmy. He gave scant attention to the talk around him.
He was among people, but he was utterly alone. They were his
countrymen, his peers, sharing further the common bond of Sert, but
still he was alone.

From time to time in his life he had known
moments of a strangely heightened, cold, and detached defiance.
This was one of them. His position was hopeless. He would never
leave the island alive. All his former plans and expectations had
been reduced to this present moment of unreality, to this feeling
of alienation and despair, and yet, and yet, somehow it did not
matter. He remembered once being caught practising on a golf course
by an electric storm. Counting by seconds, the lightning had been
only a mile away and coming closer. The received wisdom would have
required him to humiliate himself by lying down on the ground,
preferably in a bunker, getting himself not only wet but also
covered in orange sand. He should also have distanced himself from
his golf bag, and especially from the steel stem of his
multi-coloured umbrella. But he had continued walking along the
open fairway with the umbrella raised skywards. In that torrential
downpour he had not been sure that the faint vibration of the
handle had been caused by the rain; equally it might have been
caused by the expectation that at any instant he would be hit with
a couple of million joules. Rationality had urged him to take
cover. Something else, deeper, more essentially himself, had
refused to listen. “Go on, you old bastard,” he had breathed, “go
on, do your worst. Do your worst! See if I care!”

Well, now the worst had been done and he was
still here. It was Routledge alone who had disposed of Gazzer and
Tortuga, who had escaped from Martinson and employed superior
intelligence and nerve to eliminate the man at the ruins. The old
bastard had had nothing to do with it.

“He’s comin’,” Ojukwo said, without opening
his eyes.

Routledge heard it then, the faint sound of
approaching rotors.

The general conversation ceased.

Near the centre of the circle lay a pile of
empty paraffin canisters and buttercup-yellow mail crates,
brilliant in the full glare of the sun. Mitchell was in charge of
the drop, and earlier he and his gang had brought the crates and
canisters from the bungalow precinct.

“There it is,” Carter said, pointing a
kilometre out to sea, where Routledge now discerned, gunmetal grey
against ultramarine, the shape of the approaching helicopter. It
was less dragonfly-like than most of its kind, with a humped back,
windshields rather than a dome, and a sharp, somewhat downturned
snout. Seen from this elevation, it did not even break the
horizon.

“Where’s it based?” Routledge said.

“Dartmoor,” Ojukwo said.

All eyes were raised as the intensifying
racket heralded the sweep across the cliffs and then, turning on
its axis, the deceleration of the helicopter, the yellow bands on
the rear rotor making a blurred circle which vanished and
reappeared as the machine reached the drop zone and prepared to
land.

The engines seemed impossibly loud and
intrusive. Routledge made out the words
H. M. Prisons
and
the numerals
3-947
, painted in white on the length of the
tail. The tyres hanging from the cowled main undercarriage reached
for and made contact with the turf, and were followed a moment
later by the nosewheel.

The pilot, sitting behind his Plexiglas,
could be seen checking the controls even as the hatch in the
left-hand side slid open and two white-helmeted crewmen jumped out,
wearing fluorescent yellow lifejackets and grey flying-suits. While
the rotors kept the grass bent flat, the crewmen hurriedly unloaded
the full canisters and crates and loaded the empty ones. When the
loading was finished, they brought out a stretcher bearing a
fair-haired man, left its contents supine on the ground and, almost
as an afterthought, dumped the cardboard box containing his
issue.

Just as Routledge had been, exactly a week
ago, the newcomer was out cold. As far as the brain inside that
head was aware, he was still a prisoner on the mainland. He had an
unpleasant surprise in store.

The whole operation had lasted no longer than
three minutes: the helicopter was already airborne again, its hatch
sliding shut as, nose down, it gained altitude and headed out to
sea.

Routledge had half expected an undisciplined
rush for the mail crates. Instead, no one stirred except Mitchell
and his five assistants, two of whom picked up the newly arrived
convict and stretchered him off towards the Village. Mitchell
himself examined the supplies. When satisfied that everything was
in order, he issued a wave, and Routledge joined the group of
twenty or so who went down to the drop zone. The mail crates
remained sealed: Routledge found that he had volunteered to help
carry everything back to the bungalow. He and King shared the
weight of a hundred-litre plastic canister embossed with the words
DANGER – HIGHLY INFLAMMABLE
.

Routledge was not as strong as King. At
frequent intervals he had to ask to stop and rest, and soon they
fell far behind. The sun was burning the back of his neck; his
hands already reeked of paraffin.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as they sat down beside
the track. “I can see I’ve got a bit of toughening up to do.”

“Don’t let it bother you.”

“Why is the drop made where it is? Why not at
the Village?”

“Two reasons, really. First, at the Warrens
the helicopter has an all-round view: they’re understandably
nervous about anyone wanting a lift back to the mainland. At one
time they used to drop at Half Moon Bay, but once the Village got
going the Father persuaded them to do it here. Secondly, the
official line is that supplies are shared equally among all the
islanders, so we could hardly ask them to make a doorstep
delivery.”

“Is the island under surveillance?”

“Of course. From a geostationary
satellite.”

“Meaning it stays in one place with respect
to the planet surface?”

King nodded. “It serves this place, Lundy,
and Dartmoor for good measure. High-resolution optics, image
intensifiers, the lot. The computers scan all movement and
automatically alert the technicians to anything that happens. The
image can be enhanced, magnified, and manipulated however they
want. It’s all part of the security network. Have you been told
about the Magic Circle yet?”

“No,” Routledge said. “Not yet.”

“There used to be two lighthouses on Sert, an
unmanned one at Beacon Point and the main installation at Angara
Point. At the evacuation they brought in two lightships instead,
one north of the island and the other to the south. Each one is
stuffed with electronics. Between them they monitor the entire
coast and the sea round the island to a distance of several
kilometres. They’re coordinated on the mainland. The whole thing
forms a circle round the island. It’s impossible to break it
undetected. In fact, it’s impossible to do anything in the open and
remain undetected, day or night.”

“Has anyone ever escaped?”

“I wondered when you’d ask me that. The
answer’s no.”

“Has anyone ever tried?”

“No. There’s no way you could build a boat
without them knowing. Even if you did, it’d show on the radar as
soon as you got into open water.”

“You could swim.”

“It’s forty kilometres to the nearest land.
The currents would make it nearer eighty. Assuming you survived the
reefs. And exposure. Even in late summer you’d be unconscious in no
time, and dead soon after that. But, just say you did manage to
keep alive. Within a couple of minutes your body heat would
register on the infrared. They have the very best equipment.
However much money they spend, it still works out cheaper than
running a maximum security prison for five hundred men. Outdoors,
anywhere, the chances are you’re being watched. The cameras
probably aren’t good enough to resolve faces, because the
authorities rely on us to tell them who’s died. At least, they
appear to rely on us. It may be that they accept our figures so
they can send more prisoners than the regulations would otherwise
permit. Mr Godwin says they’ve got cameras now that can resolve
newspaper text. If that’s the case, they’re aware of even more than
we think.”

“So they know about the outsiders and the
distribution of supplies?”

“They must do. If the penal reform people
found out they’d make a stink, as they would about the numbers, but
then they’re not privy to that information either. Unofficially, I
suppose the authorities don’t care. It’s probably pretty much the
same on all the penal colonies.”

“But the outsiders – don’t they object?”

King shrugged.

“Do they make trouble?”

“All the time. But then they’d make trouble
whatever happened, even if we handed them everything we produced.
We waste most of our energies maintaining the border. You’ll find
out. You’ll be on night patrol in a couple of months. When you’ve
finished building your house.”

“What?” Routledge had fondly been imagining
that he need have nothing more to do with the outsiders.

“We all take our turn.”

“Are there many incidents?”

“Enough. There was one last night. A man was
caught near the piggery. He repeatedly refused to stop when
challenged.”

“And?”

“Dead, I’m afraid.”

Routledge looked round. He had just become
aware that no one else was in sight. “Are we safe here?” he said.
“It’s not very far from the border.”

“They haven’t started attacking in daylight.
Yet. I’m not criticizing the Father, but there’s a certain amount
of pressure in Council to change the intake procedure. The present
arrangement merely tends to increase the number of outsiders. Some
people are saying it would be safer to weed them out straight after
the interview. The same people advocate going outside to reduce the
numbers of those already here.”

“Do you mean kill them?”

“Of course. We’re not in Rickmansworth now,
Mr Routledge.”

“So I’d noticed.”

King gestured at the two handles of the
canister. “Ready?”

When they reached the bungalow they found
Appleton on the veranda, handing out the last of the mail and
requisitions. For King there was a single letter, which he retired
to his shack to read. For Routledge there was a brown envelope from
Exeter Prison, containing his wristwatch, his wedding ring, and his
photographs.

“I see they came, Mr Routledge. Mr Appleton
here said you were anxious.”

Franks had silently appeared on the veranda
and was leaning on the rail, watching Routledge rip open the
envelope and examine its contents. Behind him, Appleton observed
from the shadows. In the presence of the Father, Talbot was
standing, almost to attention, by his chair.

“Yes,” Routledge said. “Thank you. Would you
like to … see them?”

Franks studied the snapshots briefly but
appreciatively before handing them back. “A pretty wife, Mr
Routledge. And a fine-looking boy.”

“Christopher. That’s his name.”

“What can we say about this island of ours?”
He stood upright. “I want you to come and meet someone. Mr
Appleton, will you accompany us?” To Talbot he said, “We’re going
to see Mr Godwin.”

After supper that evening, King took
Routledge to the recreation hut. Quite a few men were seated
outside, talking and playing cards or dice in the last of the
sunshine. As he approached, Routledge detected the smell of
marijuana smoke.

It was even stronger inside: the hut was
crammed full, with every chair occupied and a number of men sitting
on the floor. No one arose when King entered, even though a number
of those present were his inferiors. King had already explained
that the usual rules were relaxed here, and here only.

Under King’s supervision, Routledge was
served with a glass of tepid beer. No payment of any kind was
demanded at the bar, but the man officiating there seemed to know
precisely who was entitled to what, refusing some requests while
acceding to others, occasionally keeping tally in a notebook.

Again Routledge felt his isolation. He had
nothing in common with these people; he would never belong. Despite
the fact that the Village had attracted an undue share of the more
educated and intelligent convicts, the majority were just like
those he had been forced to live with at Exeter. King, Godwin,
Stamper, Appleton, Sibley, Daniels, Franks himself: these were very
much the exception.

At Exeter, blacks had constituted about a
quarter of the population. At Old Town it had seemed more like
half. Here, it was about a third. Most were young, in their
twenties. All, black and white, belonged to the worst and most
dangerous stratum of the criminal class.

Yet more introductions were made, yet more
hands shaken, yet more names mentioned which Routledge instantly
forgot. Until ten o’clock he was still technically a guest of the
Community, and that was how he was being treated. A chair was
vacated for him. He was offered a reefer, which he declined. The
fumes alone, a few sips of the unexpectedly powerful beer, the
crush and noise of the place, his own deep sense of exhaustion and
unreality, were already combining to make him intoxicated.

“Where does the jang come from?” he asked,
moving closer to King’s ear and raising his voice to make himself
heard.

“We grow it.”