The Penal Colony (2 page)

Sniffing and wiping his face, Routledge
managed to recover himself slightly. The man’s voice was cultured,
the voice of someone who had read books and listened to music,
someone whom one could address in the old language that Routledge
had been learning to keep hidden from view. “I’m sorry,” he said,
two or three times. “Forgive me.”

The man fetched a can of water and, with a
rag, wiped the mess from Routledge’s clothes. Routledge saw that
his prison uniform had disappeared: instead he was dressed in an
ill-fitting black sweater, a threadbare shirt, and a pair of
patched and baggy dark twill trousers. “Take the rag,” the man
said. “Clean your face up a bit.”

While Routledge did as he had been told, the
man brought a comb from the mantelshelf. With his wrists bound
together, it was no easy matter for Routledge to comb his hair. His
awkwardness, the reason for it, the nature of his surroundings, the
future that awaited him – all these suddenly conspired to reveal
the absurdity of rearranging his hair in this way, to set it in a
pattern devised and approved by a society which for him would never
exist again. It almost began to seem funny. He realized then how
near he must be to mental exhaustion, emotional collapse, outright
madness. There was nothing funny about his predicament. Nothing
whatever.

“That’ll do,” the man said, half gruffly, as
if he were ashamed of having displayed a trace of sentiment just
now. “Do you think you’ll be able to walk all right this time?”

Routledge nodded reluctantly. He was dreading
what was coming next, his interview with the ominous Mr Appleton.
From what he had read and seen on television, he knew a little
about the organization of the penal colonies, of which Sert had by
far the worst reputation. There were no warders, no guards: the
authorities never set foot on these islands, using helicopters to
drop supplies or fresh prisoners. He himself must have been flown
out from Exeter this morning or last night and dumped, unconscious,
for Mr Appleton and his henchmen to find. For presumably, and
judging from the note of awe in the man’s voice when he had
mentioned the name, this Appleton had set himself up as leader, or
chieftain, and Routledge was about to be presented for his approval
or otherwise. If the interview went well, Routledge would have a
chance of surviving. If it didn’t, he would soon be dead. That much
he had already guessed. But, whether it went well or badly, the
outcome was really just the same. The law-courts would have been
kinder and less hypocritical to have hanged him. The punishment he
faced now, with Mr Appleton or alone, was infinitely worse.

These were the thoughts he had entertained
for the past months, waiting for this to happen, hoping against all
reason that his status would be revised, that he would be put in
some other category. In prison he had decided to commit suicide if
he were sent to one of these places. The decision then had seemed
absolutely unshakeable; but now he found he had already abandoned
it. As the man took his elbow, Routledge understood why it is that
human beings can so readily be made to dig their own graves.

“By the way,” the man said. “My name’s King.
Brian King.”

“How do you do.”

The door, such as it was, consisted of what
looked like odd planks of driftwood held together by two
crosspieces. King lifted it open on its rope hinges, and went back
to extinguish the lamp before leaving.

The night was extremely dark, unseasonably
cool and fresh, with heavy cloud. Yesterday had been wet; perhaps
today also.

“I wonder,” Routledge said, taking the first
steps beyond the threshold, “I wonder if I might …” and he searched
his vocabulary for an appropriate phrase, “… take a slash before we
…”

“Yes, of course. Anywhere there. Off the
path.”

“Thanks.” The urge to urinate had been almost
the first thing he had been conscious of on awakening; indeed, that
urge may of itself have brought him round.

“I’ll have to keep hold of your jersey.”

Routledge clumsily unzipped his fly. Much as
he wanted to relieve his bladder, nothing would come. So long as
King continued to clutch the back of his sweater, Routledge knew he
would be unable to do it. He needed privacy.

“What are you waiting for?”

“Nothing.”

Then Routledge saw that he could no longer
afford such niceties. His bladder was giving him a plain signal.
For its own good, for the welfare of his body as a whole, it was
demanding to be emptied at once. He was holding back for no
sensible reason, for a reason that had nothing to do with survival
or self-preservation.

Consciously he abandoned his inhibition, let
it go, and immediately the flow of urine began to fall, unimpeded,
into the darkness.

Routledge took the opportunity to look about
him. Little could be seen. The bothy or shack from which they had
just emerged seemed to be one of a group, perhaps a dozen, perhaps
more, loosely clustered about the central precinct where he was now
standing. In several, dim yellow lights were flickering at cracks
in doors or shuttered windows. Across the precinct stood a more
imposing building, almost a bungalow, within which much whiter,
stronger lights were burning. Routledge’s apprehension grew. Was
then Appleton so important, so powerful, so much above the run of
his subjects, that he had electricity, while they burned feeble
lamp-oil?

“Is that where Mr Appleton lives?”

Again the question went unanswered. It was as
if Routledge hadn’t spoken, or as if he had made some solecism
which superior breeding bade his companion overlook.

On closer inspection Routledge saw that the
building was indeed a bungalow, professionally constructed. The
path to it across the precinct felt and sounded underfoot like
shale. In front of the house it gave on to a broad area that seemed
to be paved with slabs of stone. From the slabs, a flight of low
steps led up to a porch or veranda where a man, barely visible in
the light seeping from a window-shutter at the left, was seated by
the door. He rose at their approach.

“Who’s that? King?”

“Yes.”

“Got the new boy with you?”

“He came round just now.”

The guard appeared to be armed with a club.
He knocked lightly at the door and said, “New boy’s here.” His
accent had its origins in the East End of London; his manner and
bearing exuded authority, privilege. Routledge’s apprehension grew
yet more.

“Come on, Stamper, open up!”

There was a sound of bolts being drawn back.
The door opened, releasing a widening shaft of light which spilled
across the boards of the veranda and illuminated the guard, a man
in his twenties with curly dark hair. The club he was holding was
in fact an iron bar, the sort with a pointed end used for digging
post-holes. Besides this, attached to the belt of his corduroy
jeans, he was equipped with a machete in a broad leather scabbard.
His plaid shirt looked new, much better than any of King’s clothes,
and on his feet was a pair of workman’s boots with heavy-duty
rubber soles.

“Right, you,” he said, addressing Routledge.
“Inside.”

As if in a nightmare Routledge stood facing
the panel, or tribunal, at whose centre sat the greying,
middle-aged man who had just opened the proceedings by introducing
himself, politely enough, as “Appleton”. “On my right is Mr
Mitchell, and this is Mr Stamper. Mr King you already know, of
course. Mr King: your report, please.”

King nervously prepared himself to speak. He
was standing a little way to Routledge’s left.

The two men had spent half an hour waiting to
be summoned to Appleton’s presence, sitting in a small, stuffy, and
drably furnished room deep inside the bungalow. The hint of
sympathy that Routledge had first detected in King had been
confirmed by his subsequent demeanour. He had struck Routledge as a
genial, essentially harmless man who seemed incapable of committing
any crime at all, still less one that could have landed him in
Category Z. In other circumstances Routledge might have tried to
make more conversation with him. As it was, they had sat in virtual
silence. The single question that Routledge had ventured to ask had
been answered: the bungalow, King had explained, had been erected
for the warden in the days when Sert had been a nature reserve.
Apart from the lighthouse, and the ruined cottages of Old Town –
the former fishing village – it was the only proper building on the
island, and certainly the only one fit to be lived in.

Routledge knew, for his own sake, that he
should have questioned King more, pumped him about Appleton, but he
had felt too ill and frightened to make a start. Then the one
called Stamper, the one who had first let them in, had conducted
King and Routledge to this considerably larger room, formerly,
perhaps, a reception area for visitors or a laboratory for the
biologists who must have stayed on the island.

The room was about six metres square, lined
on two sides with fitted cupboards faced with grey laminate. The
floor was of parquet, much worn and scuffed but, like everything in
the house, scrupulously clean. Faded floral curtains hung at the
three large windows, one of which ran behind the inquisitors’
trestle table.

Routledge had been mistaken about the
lighting. There was no electricity; the bungalow was instead lit
with incandescent pressure lamps running on petrol or paraffin.
Three were burning in this room, hissing softly, two hanging from
the ceiling and a third standing near the centre of the table, just
in front of Appleton and to his left.

In the pool of light under this lamp
Routledge saw a flimsy sheaf of papers – possibly relating to
himself – next to which was a quantity of clothing, neatly folded
and arranged.

“He gave his name correctly when asked,” King
began.

“Did you tell him where he’s been sent?”

“Yes, Mr Appleton.”

“Anything more?”

“No.” King checked himself. “I did tell him
how this house came to be here.”

“That was a mistake, Mr King.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I also told him that the
lighthouse exists, and the houses at Old Town. Nothing more. Just
that they exist.”

“Very well.” Appleton’s expressionless brown
eyes examined Routledge for a moment. “Go on. Did he talk in his
sleep?”

“Yes, but nothing made any sense. He said
‘Louise’ once or twice.”

With a confirming forefinger Appleton briefly
consulted his papers. Routledge wondered what else Appleton knew
about him, besides the name of his wife. “What happened when he
awoke?”

“He threw up, or tried to. Then he started to
cry.”

“Was this after you’d told him where he
is?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“Only that he wanted a piss.”

“Yes, well.” Appleton glanced from side to
side. It appeared that neither Mitchell nor Stamper wanted to
contribute to this part of the interrogation.

“Will that be all?” King said.

“Yes. Yes, thank you. We’re most grateful to
you, Mr King.”

King moved obsequiously to the door and let
himself out. Routledge was sorry to see him go.

Appleton picked up the papers and absently
scanned the top sheet. “Anthony John Routledge. Born 6 April 1960.
Late of Exeter Prison.”

Routledge had been standing for some time
now. He began to fear his legs would give way again.

“Sentenced last year for the rape and murder
of one Jacqueline Lister.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“It says here you’re married with one
child.”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“The ‘Louise’ you mentioned in your sleep.
Your wife?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a homosexual?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Ever had any homosexual tendencies or
encounters?”

“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.