The Penal Colony Read Online Free Page B

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