The Penal Colony (3 page)

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 able 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.”

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.