The Penal Colony (28 page)

“I don’t know,” he said finally, wiping his
finger on his trouser leg. “There’s so much bad blood, I don’t know
if my boys’d go for it at all.”

“It’s our only chance of getting him,”
Martinson said.

“Make no mistake. I hate that Liam Franks as
much as you.”

Impossible. Martinson’s hatred was both
personal and impersonal, specific and general. As a representative
of the other side, Franks was just about ideal. It was his race of
bigheads that had always infested every position of authority and
ease, exploited every opportunity, imposed their will on those
unable to protect themselves. They ran the world. Franks had
gathered about him all those on the island who shared the same
trait, like that bighead Jenkins, the one who had stolen the
crossbow and wrecked his house, the one whom he would have tracked
down and killed had it not been for the fracas about the goats.
Jenkins was on the list too, second only to Appleton.

“What’s it to be?” Martinson said. “D’you
want Nackett or not?”

“I could get him myself. I nearly had him
this morning.”

“Yes, and five of your blokes topped in the
process.”

“Looking long-term, like,” Houlihan said,
innocently enquiring, “what happens when you get ideas?”

“I won’t get no ideas. Franks is all I
want.”

“That’s your word on it tonight. Tonight is
tonight. Later is later. It could come down to it.”

“You got to take a chance.”

“Honest enough, anyhow.” Houlihan’s finger
returned to his nose for a final brief visit. He glanced at Feely.
“What d’you say to our friend’s scheme, Harold?”

Feely shrugged and made a sputtering noise,
the beginnings of a raspberry. “He’s got a point about joining
forces. But then we’ve always known that. If you draw up a list of
pros and cons, the cons always outweigh. Pro: we eliminate Franks.
Pro: we get our deliveries back. Pro: we get the stuff in the
Village. And that’s it. Con: we have to fight them. Not easy.
They’ve got crossbows and God knows what else. They’re well
organized, better than us. At the moment we get no bother from them
at all. If Franks goes that might change. Con: we have to risk
sovereignty over the lighthouse. Con: we have to forget our
differences, and, as you say, Archie, there’s just too many old
scores to settle for that. Then the last and biggest con of all, we
have to trust the word of a nutter like Martinson here.”

Yes, Feely, Martinson thought. Nutter. That’s
what the shrinks reckoned. And that’s what you’ll reckon when I’m
driving in the nails.

The meeting was working out much as he had
expected. The campaign would have been quicker and neater with
Houlihan’s co-operation, but it was by no means essential. He might
have counted on Feely to put the boot into his proposals: but Pope
was another matter. Pope was less of a brown-nose, more
representative of the rest of the brain gang, more realistic and
pragmatic. Martinson had been studying him closely. It was early
days yet. Probably best not to make a move too soon.

“And Wayne,” Houlihan said. “Your opinion,
please.”

After a moment, Pope said, “It be nice to say
goodbye to Dave Nackett.”

“This is true,” Houlihan said. “This is very
true. It wouldn’t be your personal ambition talking, would it now,
Jim?”

“I told you. I want Franks.”

“And nothing else? Not even leadership of
your illustrious borough? Nor even of mine? No, don’t answer that
again.” He scratched his pate. “Let’s say you bod Mr Nackett
anyway, just to show willing. Then if your boys make you boss,
we’ll talk again.”

“Do we want that?” Feely said, nervously. “Do
we want Martinson in charge? At least we know Nackett’s little
ways. He’s no worse than Peto.”

“Be quiet, Harold.”

Feely persisted. “Why not scrag Martinson
now, while we’ve got our hands on him? Why take the risk,
Archie?”

“I foreseen that possibility,” Martinson
said. “I’ve got certain sureties, like.”

“Such as?” Feely said.

“You’ll have to kill me to find out.”

“I told you to shut up, Harold,” Houlihan
said. “Now, Jim. You haven’t given us your answer. Will you be
murdering Nackett for us anyhows?”

“If I do, it’ll be like I said. His blokes
are strong. My leg in’t healed proper yet. Give it a couple of
months. Three.”

“Say till Christmas?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you see what he’s doing, Archie? It’s
just a trick to get us to take the pressure off Old Town.”

“No it’s not. Jim was one of Peto’s boys. He
don’t care for Nackett any more than us.” He looked back at
Martinson. “Right?”

“Right enough, Archie.”

“So you’ll do the deed? Yes?”

Now it was Martinson’s turn to shrug. “Yes,”
he said. “Sure. What’s to lose?”

“Excellent,” Houlihan said. “You give Mr
Nackett his little Christmas present, then send me a card, and I’ll
wish you a happy new year.” He arose. “No more arguments, Harold,
and won’t you kindly show this gentleman downstairs?”

* * *

The easterly passage of the storm across the
mainland was marked by radio reports of fallen trees, television
pictures of drowned sheep, of army inflatables rescuing
householders from the floods. Few of the men in the Village
bothered to watch or listen: even fewer possessed radio or
television sets. There was one large flatscreen at the recreation
hut, owned by Appleton, powered by lithium batteries and used once
or twice a week to show feature films. Godwin sometimes tuned in to
BBC radio in his workshop, which was where Routledge usually heard
the news. In a month’s time there was to be a general election. The
incumbent party were certain to be returned to office: there was no
chance, however remote, of a change in policy there. Only war with
the Russians, now looking less and less likely, might produce a
change, and then, no doubt, it would be for the worse.

The Council monitored all bulletins and
weather forecasts for anything relating to Sert. Such rare items of
news were displayed by Appleton on a noticeboard at the bungalow
veranda, beside which was another for announcements from the
Village’s various clubs and groups. On the Friday after the storm,
Appleton had pinned up a notice asking as many men as possible to
gather in the bungalow precinct on Sunday at noon.

“What do you reckon it’s about?” Scammell
said.

Routledge was sure he knew, but was not
allowed to say. “We’ll know in twenty minutes,” he said. “I don’t
suppose there’s much use in speculating before then.”

Scammell agreed.

Routledge said, “Can I have these three,
please, Mr Tragasch?”

The Village library was located in a small
room in the recreation hut, and contained about five hundred books,
mostly fiction, together with a large stock of magazines and some
music tapes, all donated by villagers. Tragasch, the librarian, a
short, mild-voiced man and one of the stalwarts of the chess club,
also kept a list of those titles in private possession which were
available for loan. The library opened for general use on Saturday
afternoons and Sundays.

Earlier this morning Routledge had visited
the shack of Peagrim, the Community hairdresser, and had received
the basic Sert cut, the same Peagrim gave to everyone from Franks
down. Each villager was entitled to one of Peagrim’s haircuts a
month. For the tenth time Routledge scratched his scalp.

Smiling but refraining from comment, Tragasch
issued Routledge’s three books: two thrillers and a volume of chess
openings, for Routledge had now begun to attend the chess club with
the ultimate object of at least defending himself with honour
against King.

“See you in the precinct, then, Mr Tragasch,”
Routledge said, as he made for the door and the main room of the
recreation hut. “And you, Mr Scammell.”

“I’ll come with you, Mr Routledge,” Scammell
said, nodding a farewell at Tragasch. “If you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all.”

Scammell’s books and magazines were issued
and he accompanied Routledge into the calm, clouded morning. About
thirty, with lank blond hair, Scammell was a former factory hand in
a car plant. Now he worked mainly with the sheep and goats and
poultry, occupying a lowly place in the hierarchy. “How you doing,
Mr Routledge?” he said.

“Not so bad.” Routledge was as yet on
informal terms with fewer than a dozen men, and was truly friendly
with none but King. He had known Scammell for several weeks, found
him unobjectionable, even likeable. He decided to take a chance and
risk a rebuff. “Just call me ‘Routledge’,” he said.

“No. Thanks all the same. No offence. It
wouldn’t be right. Not yet. You don’t mind me telling you this, do
you? I mean, you’re new.”

He glanced sideways at Scammell. His respect
for him had suddenly grown. For Scammell had understood that the
invitation had not arisen through the natural process of mutual
regard, but had been forced and was therefore unacceptable.

“I’m sorry, Mr Scammell,” Routledge said, “I
didn’t mean —”

“Nothing personal, Mr Routledge.”

“Even so —”

Either Scammell was not articulate enough to
continue this line of conversation, or he felt the desire to move
onto safer ground. “They say the Father’s going to change the work
rotas,” he said. “That’s probably what it’s about. Usually
something like that.”

As they emerged from the lee of the
recreation hut, Routledge saw that the bungalow precinct, almost
deserted before, was rapidly filling with men. The stone slabs
before the veranda were completely covered; newcomers were joining
the back of the crowd, standing on the shale. At least a hundred
and twenty villagers were already waiting, with more appearing on
the tracks or leaving the doorways of their houses. The precinct
was alive with the murmur of voices.

Routledge had never seen the whole population
together before. Only now did he appreciate the size and vigour of
the Community. Each of these men was fit and strong, or he would
not have been put in Category Z. This was that oddity, a society
without women, without the weak, the sick, the old. There were no
practical skills these men lacked. They had of necessity dispensed
with the feminine touch. They spun wool and wove cloth. They could
cook, clean and do everything else that was needful to survival.
But Routledge was becoming increasingly conscious of the ludicrous
in all the Community’s works. Men were little boys at heart, Louise
had always said. They never grew up. What was Sert, if not a
glorious, perennial game of Cowboys and Indians? A few of the men
in the Village seemed happier here than ever they could have been
on the mainland. Thaine, for one. Thaine’s life now was an endless
series of model railways to be built and tested and played with; he
never had to wash his hands and come in for tea. Without women, men
became absurd.

And yet, for all that, the things Thaine
built were genuinely useful, often essential. For all that, there
was no other choice open, except the downward path that led to Old
Town or the lighthouse.

Sunday noon. Usually at this time Routledge
would have been doing something silly in the garden, squandering
yet more labour on that emblem of suburban futility, the lawn; or,
more likely, drinking in the golf club, just before turning his
thoughts to Sunday lunch, which Louise always professed to prefer
cooking in peace, without him around.

Why hadn’t she written?

The crowd had closed in behind him. Overhead
the sky had the blandly patterned appearance of mother-of-pearl.
Routledge noticed three large, brown-mottled gulls passing
north-westwards, towards the open ocean, where the sky deepened to
a heavier grey. And, far beyond the bungalow roof and the
picturesque, silhouetted line of larches, he saw the superbly
independent skyward spiral of a hunting buzzard, at this distance
black against the cloud. It was high over America Point, gaining
altitude above the seething rocks of Green Isles and the cliffs
where even now two sets of raven-picked and weather-bleached bones
were lying in disarray: one on a ledge part-way down, the other
among the dark debris of the beach.

Scammell nodded at the veranda. The murmur of
voices ceased. The front door was open. One by one, the whole
Council emerged: Mitchell, Stamper, Godwin, Thaine, Sibley, Foster,
Appleton, each man moving to left or right. Finally Franks himself
came out.

The silence was complete. He moved to the
front of the veranda, resting his hands on the rail, and again
Routledge felt himself in the presence of a phenomenon. Franks’s
personality had imposed itself on all these men. They had wished
it; they had abandoned their independence to one who was wiser and
stronger, and for the first time Routledge saw why they called him
“Father”. Just as Franks had told him, they were not children. They
were adults who knew the value of a leader when they saw one, knew
the value of what he had to offer. But there was something more at
work here, something that in civilized life had been lost. As
Routledge, as the whole assembly, waited for Franks to speak, he
felt the surge of a common feeling with its focus the man who had
made life here endurable. The feeling was impossible to define,
but, as it flowed over and through him, Routledge realized for the
first time that he was generating it too.

“Good morning,” Franks said. “I have an
important announcement to make.” He looked around the congregation,
including everyone in his gaze, and then, clearly, articulately,
made the beginning of his speech.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “we are going to build
a boat.”

On Tuesday 28 October, exactly a month after
Franks’s announcement, Routledge took part in his fifth border
patrol. His first four had been at night, and had passed off
without incident. Today’s had begun at dawn and would not end until
the early afternoon.