The Penal Colony Read online

  “No.”

  “Sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “It also says you were a quantity surveyor.”

  “Do you mind if I sit down? I’m not feeling very well.”

  Appleton looked from side to side, as if to say, “Any objections?” There were none, so he motioned Routledge to help himself to one of the plastic chairs by the door.

  “A quantity surveyor,” Appleton went on. “Working where?”

  “London, most of the time.”

  “Ever go abroad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please be more forthcoming.”

  “I worked in the Middle East. In Qatar. And Kuwait.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Building a hospital in one, roads in another.”

  “Senior position?”

  “Yes. Fairly.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I was resident quantity surveyor on site.”

  “So you know a bit about civil engineering?”

  “You could say that. But only the theory. I know more about materials and measurement.”

  Appleton made a pencil note on the topmost sheet. “What were your hobbies?”

  “I played golf.”

  “Any interest in, say, electronics? Radio, computers, that sort of thing?”

  “No. We used computers at work, of course.”

  “Ever write any professional software?”

  “No. I mean, I couldn’t. It’s beyond me.”

  “What about do-it-yourself? Woodwork?”

  Routledge shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I haven’t got any skills you’d find useful.”

  “That’s for us to decide,” Appleton said, so coldly that Routledge feared he had made a major blunder. The interview was going wrong, badly wrong: Routledge had been unable to take the initiative, and now it was all slipping further and further from his grasp. In the intense, unhealthy glare of the lamps the room seemed more than ever a scene from a nightmare. He noticed that Appleton and the others, like the guard on the door, were wearing relatively new clothes. Appleton’s were the newest and best-fitting. Stamper and Mitchell seemed by their very postures to defer to him; Routledge wondered whether they were to take any active part in the proceedings at all.

  Appleton gave the papers a further leisurely examination. He finally looked up. “Since you are in Category Z, we can assume you enjoy good health. You are thirty-seven years of age and a man of some intelligence and education. Apart from your conviction, you have no criminal record. It is in my discretion to recommend that you be offered a place in the Community. Before considering such an offer, you will naturally want to know what the Community is and the terms on which you will be admitted to it.”

  Routledge did not know whether he was expected to respond. He looked from Appleton to Stamper and then to Mitchell. “Yes,” he said. “On the mainland —”

  “On the mainland they tell many lies,” Appleton said. “Mr Mitchell, kindly explain the objects of the Community.”

  Almost imperceptibly, Mitchell became more upright in his seat. He was about thirty, with dark, close features. The skin on his face bore the ancient scars of severe acne. “Well,” he said, in a rather thick and husky voice; and with that one word Routledge placed him in a social class the advertising industry might have called “C plus”. Routledge suddenly realized that, as an Englishman, he had been conditioned throughout his life to categorize everyone in this way. King, the guard, Stamper, Appleton – whom he had judged to be on a level marginally superior to his own, and now Mitchell: Routledge had done it to them all.

  “On Sert at any one time are about five hundred men,” Mitchell said. “Of these, at present, one hundred and eighty-three belong to the Community. We live here in the Village in houses built by co-operative labour. We grow our own produce and keep livestock. We organize expeditions to catch the wild goats on the island, to collect seabirds and eggs, and to salvage anything useful that gets washed up on the beach. We run educational classes. Some people attend the church. But whether they are religious or not, everyone here tries to make the best of it.” He paused; he seemed to have reached the end of his set speech, for such, Routledge had guessed, it was.

  Routledge was completely nonplussed. The idea of the convicts attending church was so far removed from the stories he had heard that he began to doubt the validity of any of his preconceptions.

  Appleton now resumed talking. “We also liaise with the Prison Service. Not because we wish to have any truck with them, but because they provide things that are useful to us. It is part of my duty, for example, to interview new arrivals and keep a ledger. If a body is found we are asked to identify it and let the Prison Service know. To help us with this, they send particulars with each prisoner.” He tapped a green pencil on the papers. “These particulars have told us something about you, Mr Anthony John Routledge, but we don’t take too much notice of that. They are mainland particulars, compiled by mainland men. Our opinion of you is and will be, of necessity, based on different criteria altogether. As Mr Mitchell has rightly said, everyone here tries to make the best of it. In this we are aided by each other. We have nothing else but that. Before we admit a man to our midst, therefore, we must be reasonably certain of his character and his propensities. Much as we would like to extend a hand to those outside the Community, the exigencies of survival on Sert deny us that pleasure.” Appleton sat back, elbows on the arms of his chair, holding his pencil lightly at each end. “Mr Stamper, will you go on?”

  Stamper, a round-shouldered man of forty-five or fifty with spectacles, blue jowls and wet, red lips, bore a resemblance to an unpopular physics master who had taught at Routledge’s old school. His voice, though, grating and harsh, was quite different.

  “The rules of the Community are these. You will work as directed by the Father. You will not intentionally injure any member of the Community or damage Community property. You will not lie, steal, cheat, or engage in deviant sexual practices. As there are no women here, that means you are allowed to do nothing to anyone or anything but yourself. Do you understand the rules?”

  Routledge was slowly becoming convinced that he was after all dreaming; or had gone mad. “Who … who is the Father?” he said, looking at Appleton.

  “All in good time,” Appleton said.

  “The advantages of life in the Community are self-evident,” Stamper continued, “as you will doubtless discover. The greatest, perhaps, is the opportunity to be a man.”

  Appleton broke in. “One of the Father’s sayings. You will understand it in due course.”

  “Breach of the rules is punished by expulsion,” Stamper said, and folded his arms, as if to indicate both the finality of his utterance and the end of his speech.

  “Don’t get the idea that we are Communists here,” Appleton said, smiling faintly. “The Father is in control of the Village. Absolute control. It is he who decides who stays in and who stays out. The Father has examined your papers, and indeed inspected you when you arrived. He has authorized me to make this offer and, within the limits decided by him, to set the terms.”

  Routledge remained silent.

  “Every man in the Community must earn the right to be here. He must demonstrate that he can look after himself and will not be a burden on the others. The way he does this is to remain outside the Community for a specified period of time. The standard period in July is ten days, more if we have doubts about him, fewer if we do not. The Father also recognizes that a man’s age and former mode of life play a part in determining how long he can survive alone. You had a fairly sedentary sort of job, are not yet middle-aged, and, on the face of it, might be a useful member of the Community. I have therefore decided that you will remain outside for six days.”

  Mitchell and Stamper gave barely perceptible signs of approval.

  “One hundred and forty-four hours after you leave here tonight, a bell will summon you to the main gate. If you then wish and are abl
e to ask for a place in the Community, and present yourself within one hour of the bell, you will be taken to the Father. You will prostrate yourself before him, renounce all rights, and humbly beg for admittance. Is that clear?”

  Routledge nodded.

  Appleton pointed at the pile of clothing next to the lamp. “This is what you arrived in. The rest of your property is in a cardboard box in the corner, courtesy of the Prison Service. The whole issue consists of enough clothing to last you about two years, some vegetable seeds, and sundry hand-tools. You may take all or part of it now, or leave it here for safe keeping, in which case you will be given a receipt. What do you wish to do?”

  Routledge involuntarily looked down at the old clothes he was wearing.

  “They are a gift to you from the Father,” Appleton said. “You are under no obligation to return them at the end of the six days.”

  “What … what do you suggest I do?”

  “That is not for me to say.”

  “Is there a waterproof jacket in the issue?”

  “Yes. One waxed cotton and one PVC.”

  “The PVC. I’ll take that.”

  Appleton made a pencil note.

  Routledge said, “What happens if I’m not accepted?”

  “We keep it all.”

  Routledge began to grasp the full implication of his impending ordeal. “Do you mind if I look through the box? See what else I might need?”

  “It’s your property.”

  At Appleton’s request, Mitchell brought the box and put it on the table. There was more clothing than Routledge might have expected, and of a better quality than mainland prisoners wore. The tools were mostly for gardening: a hoe head, a hand-fork, a small trowel, but there was also a long sheath-knife, which Routledge decided to take.

  Taped to the side of the box was a polythene wallet containing a slim pad of yellow forms. Mitchell took it out and gave it to Stamper.

  “These are your requisition slips,” Stamper said. “You are allowed five requisitions a year. Each requisition is in two parts. In the first you can ask the Prison Service for certain articles of hardware or clothing. It tells you on the back what you can have and how often. The second part is forwarded to your friends or relatives, if you have any. You can ask them for luxuries like extra food, books, toiletries, and so on. Anything, provided the Prison Service agrees, and provided it can go into a parcel no greater than twenty-five litres in volume and twenty kilos in weight. Luxury parcels are delivered in strict rotation. They come over on the next available helicopter, as soon as there’s space. Drops are made every Tuesday, weather permitting, or on the first suitable day thereafter.” Stamper reached into his breast pocket and brought out a ballpoint pen, which, together with the pad of slips, he proffered to Routledge. “Will you sign them, please? All of them.”

  Routledge hesitated.

  “Perhaps we should explain in more detail,” Appleton said to Stamper.

  Stamper, immediately acceding, continued in the same matter-of-fact tone as before. “If you remain outside,” he said, “you won’t be having any requisitions. Outsiders are not allowed near the drop zone. If you enter the Community your slips will of course be returned to you. Signing will cost you nothing, and will be regarded as a token of good faith by the Father. Alternatively, you are entirely free to take them with you. You understand that, if you remain outside and have taken your slips, you will immediately be reported dead so that another prisoner can be received. On the other hand, if you are outside but have left your slips, you will officially remain alive until they are all used up.”

  “I’ll sign.”

  With the pad on his knee, Routledge began the task of signing each of the numbered slips in turn, making on it the unique set of marks with which, in his former life, he had solemnized and authorized all his dealings with the world. After several repetitions his signature started to appear increasingly unfamiliar, a meaningless scribble of black ballpen on yellow government paper. The yellow itself was of an artificial shade which soon began to have a peculiar effect on his eyesight, such that the black ink seemed to be acquiring a progressively browner tinge, which was also imparted somehow to the surrounding view – his knee, his hand, the floor: he did not pause in his work or dare to look up.

  As Routledge continued signing, Appleton resumed talking. “It goes without saying that, in the event of your failing to join us, your slips will be used only for requisitions on the Prison Service. By accepting the terms of our offer, you have already become a probationary member of the Community. All property left by an individual on his death is taken into Community ownership. The resources budgeted by the State for your upkeep here are your property, because they come from contributions made by you during mainland life. They are therefore legitimately transferred to the Community if you remain outside, since those outside are regarded as dead.”

  The signing was over; Routledge was relieved of the pad and pen. Mitchell gave him the PVC jacket and sheath-knife and a receipt for his remaining property.

  “Good,” Appleton said. “That’s it. You’ve got six days.” He stood up, and the others did the same.

  Routledge remained seated. “What do you mean, that’s it?”

  “Exactly what I say. You will now leave the Village.”

  Routledge was afraid, but he was also beginning to get angry. “At night? Now? Without even anything to eat or drink? Without any proper explanation of what I’m up against?”

  “Mr Mitchell, get Mr Myers.”

  Myers, he supposed, was one of the guards. “Wait,” Routledge said. “Wait – please. At least tell me somewhere safe I can go till morning. You owe me that, if nothing else. You’ve got my stuff. I signed the slips, like you asked.”

  “Mr Mitchell.”

  Mitchell, ignoring Routledge’s pleas and protestations, went to the door and called into the corridor.

  “No,” Routledge said, before Myers had had a chance to appear. “It’s all right. I’m going. Just show me the way.”

  3

  At dawn Routledge saw the cliffs for the first time and, in spite of everything, could not contain a gasp of wonder, and of a feeling, in some deep, secret, and unacknowledged corner of his heart, of excitement that now and for ever he was sentenced to live in such a dreadful place.

  He came upon them almost unexpectedly, in the middle of fighting his way through the dense scrub of stunted willow, gorse, and holly which blanketed this part of the island. Where the trunks of the trees were exposed to the full force of the Atlantic gales they were burnished to silvery grey; the lower branches were hung with grey-green lichens in a profusion he had never seen before. Underfoot were clumps of flowerless bluebells and many other plants whose names he did not know and, in damp hollows, thick tufts of giant woodrush. He heard and saw no birds except one, a big black crow, perhaps a raven, which passed overhead just a few yards to seaward.

  A moment later he was at the very brink of the land, where the vegetation yielded and the reddish earth of the clifftop lay exposed. Sections of ground had crumbled and fallen here: he drew back a little and took firm grip on the wrist-thick bole of a dwarfed rowan tree.

  “My God.”

  The cliffs were at least a hundred and fifty metres high. He was standing at one side of a large cove, curving outward to his right, making a shallow bay terminated by a jagged stack. Beyond this, repeating the same formation but on an even more majestic scale, another bay stretched into the half-light. At the farther stack the shoreline turned and there was nothing but the dark, dawn-misted expanse of sea.

  Most impressive of all was the suddenness with which the cliffs fell away. In places they appeared almost vertical. The rock was stratified, consisting of thick, perpendicular layers, each one aligned in the same direction and pointing slantwise out to sea, so that, in the middle of the cove, it presented a torn and uneven face, but at either side the open layers made an overlapping series of smooth, artificial-looking expanses of stone.


  Especially in the middle of the cove, slabs of rock had calved off and crashed, littering the shore with colossal rubble. Against and among these slabs, and on short stretches of stony dark beach, the sea broke with a dutiful sort of monotony, swilling through the channels and crevices and occasionally throwing up a listless shower of spray. A dozen metres out and directly below the place where Routledge was standing, a ridge of rock lay athwart the tide. With each incoming wave the sea poured over the ridge, making a seething waterfall; and as each wave returned it poured back, making now a waterfall on the other side. Elsewhere were ridges that as yet were too high for the tide, or others that had already been submerged, only their peaks jutting above the surface of the foam.

  A single white canister, perhaps an old plastic bleach-bottle, lay washed up on the beach. Except for this there was no trace of human life, no evidence whatever of civilization or mankind. Bleach-bottle apart, the view from this spot could not have changed materially in the past three thousand years.

  After gazing for a moment longer, Routledge remembered himself and turned back into the scrub. He was searching for a suitable place to hide, somewhere he could safely sleep.

  He was no more than two kilometres from the Village here, on part of the coast facing west. As far as he could tell, the Village was sited on a peninsula at the south-western corner of the island, isolated from the rest of Sert by a fortified border made from two young thorn-hedges with an intervening no man’s land of stakes, concrete rubble, rusty barbed wire, and other materials retrieved from the ruined lighthouse, perhaps, or from wartime defences on the beaches, or both. The gate through which he had been expelled last night was sited at the western end of the border, and was itself fortified even more heavily than the rest. Three men had been on guard, armed with clubs and machetes; one had been carrying an axe.

  Routledge had spent the night, cold, hungry, and desperately thirsty, lying in the bracken a few hundred metres from the gate. It had been too dark to go further without risk of injury. As it was, he had fallen over several times, and had nearly sprained his ankle in a rabbit hole.