The Penal Colony (38 page)

Appleton unfolded the paper and looked at the
name.

“Please, God,” Routledge breathed. “Let it be
me. This is all I’ll ever ask. I promise.”

“Mr Ojukwo.”

Ojukwo’s scream of delight was like the
deflating slash of a knife. The lottery, so eagerly and anxiously
awaited, for so long anticipated, was abruptly over.

Routledge’s thoughts returned to an evening
in September, to the impending gale and the twilit carpentry shop.
He thought of the house-warming party that night and of the
quixotic decision he had made. And now, he reflected, thanks to his
soft and foolish heart, Ojukwo had won the place that might have
gone to him.

God had played his cruellest yet, his most
ingenious practical joke.

Routledge’s heart, or the place in his chest
occupied by his heart, actually felt heavy, physically heavy. Tears
prickled at his eyes. He fought them away, pressing his lips
together as hard as he could, trying not to let anyone else see. He
looked sideways at Foster, at Sibley, Mitchell, Stamper – at the
other councilmen, none of whom had been chosen. They too were doing
their best not to show their feelings. He noticed that Myers,
standing on the steps, had briefly covered his face.

The fortunate eight were taken inside the
bungalow by Thaine. Franks followed them in; the rest of the
Council lingered for a while yet on the veranda.

The remaining slips were emptied out on the
trestle table. Appleton opened each one and called the name; the
slip was then handed to its owner. When King came to collect his,
Routledge gave him a commiserating glance of solidarity.

“Maybe next time,” King said, in
response.

“Yes. Next time.”

Singly or in pairs or threes, the men in the
precinct began to drift away.

* * *

Franks stood in one corner of the laboratory
while each of the winners was measured and weighed. Last on the
beam-balance was Ojukwo, at ninety-seven kilos the heaviest of the
group. Peagrim was the lightest, registering only sixty-six. He
would probably be in position four or seven, paired with Redfern,
who was the next lightest at sixty-eight kilos.

After the weighing, the men sat down and
Franks explained the full plan, describing the role each individual
was expected to take.

He spared them nothing. “Our chances are not
good,” he said. “What we will be doing, in pitch darkness, during a
spring tide on a coast like this, is very dangerous indeed. When
she launches, that will be the first time the ketch has ever tasted
water. She has no emergency buoyancy. If she leaks, that’s it. If
she hits a rock, we go down. If something goes wrong and we’re
caught inside the Magic Circle, we’ll get no sympathy from the
patrols. The ketch may well be rammed, or she may be taken in tow
back to the mainland for examination. Either way, we can expect to
be left behind. They won’t risk escorting us to the island, and
they won’t have us aboard the patrol-boat. We have no room for
lifejackets. That means we drown.”

He looked from one face to another, from
Thursby to Carr to Ojukwo. “But if we do succeed in crossing the
Circle, our chances will rapidly begin to improve. If the ketch
handles as Mr Thaine predicts, and if Mr Godwin’s electronics
behave, only collision with a ship or intervention by the armed
forces will prevent us from reaching our destination. Once we make
land, success is virtually guaranteed. We are going to
Courtmacsherry because that is not far from where I was born. I
used to sail in the harbour there when I was a boy, so we’ll need
no chart to get safely ashore. From the second of May onwards, my
wife and some other people will be waiting in a safe house near the
landing place. As you know, each of you will be supplied with a
passport, the visa of your choice and two thousand punts in cash.
Over a period of ten days you will leave the house and be driven to
Cork, Dublin, Rosslare, or Shannon Airport, or anywhere else in the
Republic you choose. After that it’s up to you. Well,” he said, in
conclusion. “That’s about it for now. If any of you are having
second thoughts, this is the time to say so.”

No one spoke.

“Are there any questions?”

“One question, Father,” Reynolds said,
hesitantly. “Why are you doing all this for us?”

“You know why. Without this number of men the
scheme could never work.”

“But the passports and the money. Where do
they come from?”

“The money I supply. I still have some in the
bank. The passports and visas will be provided by friends in
Dublin, likewise the safe house at Courtmacsherry.”

“But why should they do that for us?”

“Not for you, Mr Reynolds, nor just for me.
There are many political prisoners on these islands. I’ll be
honest. When I get to America we’re going to blow the lid off
Category Z.”

“But all that’s finished with now,” Thursby
said. “The European Court and everything.”

“The EU didn’t give its approval to what’s
happening on Sert. The British are breaking their own rules here
and they know it.”

“Are you in Sinn Fein?” Thursby said.

“I think this discussion has gone far enough,
Father,” Appleton said.

“I agree,” Franks said, surprised that he
himself had not stopped it earlier. The truth was that, at long
last, he was beginning to allow himself to believe that the attempt
might succeed. Uncharacteristically, he was becoming excited; the
prospect of liberty had reminded him of the wider issues involved,
issues which should not concern the other escapers or interfere
with the relationship they had with him. For the moment, they were
still on Sert. All that mattered now was getting off. The politics
could come later.

But if he were honest with himself, he knew
he was not escaping for the cause: he was escaping because he
wanted to see Siobhan and his children again. He was escaping
because he had to have medical treatment or he might end up deaf
and blind. And, most of all, he was escaping because he wanted to
be free, free of Sert, of Martinson, of a future spent, like the
present, in the iron grip of despair.

After the meeting, Godwin entered the
bungalow and came to Franks’s office. He seemed unusually
withdrawn, deeply preoccupied, and sat in the spare armchair like a
man condemned. Franks regarded him closely, waiting for him to
speak. When Godwin remained silent, Franks said quietly, “I
understand, Godwin.” He had seen this coming. For Godwin, the
escape was purely an intellectual exercise. The challenge for him
was to outwit the prison authorities and get away with it.

Godwin removed his glasses, covered his face
with his hands, and began to weep. “I thought it would be all
right. But today suddenly it’s real. I can’t do it, I know I can’t.
I’m too old. I’d let the others down. And anyway, I’ve got nowhere
to go. My only friends are here.”

“Don’t be hasty, Godwin.”

“I’m not being hasty. I’ve thought it
through. I want Fitzmaurice to have my place. He deserves it.”

Godwin would not be persuaded otherwise.
Franks offered him a week in which to change his mind: he turned it
down. Godwin wanted to tell Fitzmaurice today. He wanted Caldecote
to know immediately so that Fitzmaurice’s suit could be made in
good time.

“Are you absolutely certain?” Franks
said.

“Absolutely.”

“I don’t want to see you left behind. This
project is yours as much as Thaine’s.”

“Don’t make it any worse for me, Father.”

Unworthy as it was, the thought now occurred
to Franks that Fitzmaurice might want to come to Pittsburgh too.
Franks had been prepared to testify to the world’s press alone:
that would have been sensational enough, but with the two of them
side by side the impact would be more than doubled.

Even so, he would sacrifice almost anything
to have Godwin along.

“I urge you, Godwin, think what you’re doing.
You may never get another chance.”

“I’m resolute.”

“All right,” Franks said, standing up. “If
that’s what you really want, we’ll go and tell Fitzmaurice.”

* * *

For five anxious days after the 15th, the
rock on Piper’s Beach had stayed untouched. This morning Martinson
had found it turned upside down.

That had been the signal; and tonight, bang
on cue, a small, harsh, remote segment of moon slid from wreathing
cloud and flooded the landing pad with bluish, ghostly light.

Martinson gave the rope another experimental
tug. “Pity it in’t Christmas,” he said. “Then I could’ve powdered
me beard and worn a red coat. Still, better late than never.”

“God’s sake, Jim,” Obie said. “This ain’t
funny.”

“If this in’t funny, I don’t know what is.”
Martinson took a more earnest grasp. “Here goes.”

“Make it quick. I don’t want to get
caught.”

“Don’t worry. First sign of bother upstairs
and you leg it away, like we agreed. Meanwhile keep watching them
tombs.”

With that, Martinson began to climb. He had
left his boots on the landing pad: his feet, wrapped in two pairs
of thick white socks, found soft and easy purchase on the roughcast
of the lighthouse wall. In the dim moonlight he could see well
enough to avoid dislodging any loose patches of rendering. He hoped
that to the guards by the tombs, if there were any, he would be
invisible. During the descent of the cliffs both he and Obie had
worn black. On reaching the landing pad Martinson had stripped off
his outer layer of clothing, and now he was clad entirely in
white.

Father Christmas did not usually come through
the window; but then lighthouses didn’t have chimneys, so just this
once he supposed it was permissible.

Wayne Pope had been as good as his word and
had left a rope dangling from the gallery. Houlihan’s room was
situated on the third storey. He slept on the floor, on a large
mattress about three paces from the window. The window was covered
at night, during winter, with a firmly fastened wooden shutter. But
during the spring and summer it was covered with nothing more
substantial than a curtain, so confident was he that the lighthouse
walls were unscalable. The door was always kept triple-bolted from
the inside. On the staircase outside the door were at least two
heavies armed with iron bars. More guards kept watch in the mess:
Martinson and Obie had overheard them playing brag, and seen the
flickering lamplight at the window.

If anything went wrong, Pope had said,
Martinson would be on his own. The directions, the rope: that was
the sum total of his involvement. Pope was presently in his own
room on the fourth floor. He had tied the rope to the gallery
railings some time earlier this evening and would take it away
again before dawn. For all the lighthousers but Pope, Martinson was
now constructing a version of the classic locked-room mystery.
Unless he were seen disposing of the rope, Pope’s alibi would be as
good as anybody’s. Obie’s job was to ascertain that Martinson had
remained unobserved.

Martinson knew what Pope was planning and had
taken it into account. The risk to his own life, tonight, was at
its greatest. At any moment on the return climb Pope might appear
at his fourth-floor window with a knife and saw through the rope.
It was not just possible, but highly likely, that Pope had set him
up.

Martinson had considered every alternative
before committing himself to this course of action. The other main
routes held their appeal, but generated a multiplicity of danger
points, most of them far worse than this, both in Old Town and here
at the light. Since Houlihan had to go eventually, Martinson had
reasoned, an unannounced night visit was the obvious way to
begin.

Houlihan had to go because he was a cunning
Irish git who had no intention whatever of jeopardizing his
position by attacking Franks or the Village. Houlihan was an
obstacle, and like all obstacles had either to be circumvented or,
if that was impossible, removed.

Martinson grimaced. His leg was hurting
again. The past winter had cost him a lot of strength. At one time
he could have shinned up a rope like this with no trouble at all.
His arms felt heavy. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. He
paused, hanging there, four metres above Obie and the landing pad,
Houlihan’s window another couple of metres up. Far below, from the
rocks of the promontory, came the swirling boom of the sea.

He resumed his climb.

Houlihan’s curtain, the deep window-ledge,
were just as Pope had described. Martinson gained noiseless entry,
tucking back the curtain to admit as much light as possible.

Looking off to the side, using the edges
rather than the centre of his visual field, he examined the room.
There was a glimmer of fulmar light along the bottom of the door,
but no sound from the stairwell. If the guards were anything like
Nackett’s, they were probably dozing. Martinson made out the form
of shelves, a chair, a cupboard.

A faint gleam of bald skin identified
Houlihan’s head. As Pope had predicted, he was not alone. Both men
were fast asleep, lying on their backs.

Martinson crouched down by the mattress. For
a moment he thought the other man was Desborough, whose grief at
Peto’s passing had, it seemed, taken second place to considerations
of the practical merits of remaining here as Houlihan’s
toss-artist; but, although fair-haired, this kid was not
Desborough, but the new meat Nackett had acquired on the day of
Peto’s death.

From the back of his belt Martinson took a
long-bladed survival knife which Tompkins had lost in the wars. In
sinister Japanese steel, with a serrated spine and a half-kilo
grip, the knife was Martinson’s favourite, lovingly brought to
scalpel sharpness and, now that the crossbow had gone, the pride of
his collection.

He peeled back the bedclothes. Houlihan was
wearing a vest, his little friend nothing at all. Houlihan was
breathing the more heavily, so Martinson killed the boy first,
placing the point directly above his heart and banging down the
pommel with the heel of his right hand. Blood welled up, its animal
stink filling Martinson’s nostrils.