Free The Penal Colony by Richard Herley

disappeared.”
    “‘Disappeared’?”
    “Last night,” Martinson said. “He thinks
Archie might know something about it. He thought, seeing as how
Archie’s his friend, Archie wouldn’t mind if we had a quick look
round.”
    “Are you accusing Mr Houlihan of stealing
Peto’s goat?”
    “No, course not. It’s just that, like Obie
says, Billy’s disappeared. He might have wandered this way, like.
One of youse lot might have taken him in, not knowing who he was.
That’s all we’re saying, in’t it, Obie?”
    “That’s right.”
    “I seem to remember Mr Houlihan giving his
word of honour on the goat question last April. I seem to remember
him and Peto making a covenant. He gave his word, which is to say,
his sacred bond. And now you two come here with a demand to search
his property.”
    “It’s not like that, F—” Obie began, just
stopping himself in time. “It’s not like that, Harold.”
    Feely crooked his finger at McGrath. “Show
these men the way back to Old Town.” Then, ignoring Obie, he
addressed his final remark to Martinson. “If you two pillocks come
round here again, you’ll be sorry.”

    * * *

    Martinson saw him first.
    “Hullo,” he said.
    “What is it?”
    “Quick. Give us them glasses.”
    After leaving the lighthouse, Obie and
Martinson had returned to the cliff to collect Brookes before
continuing with their mission. Since Houlihan, through Feely, had
denied the charge so strongly, Martinson had suggested that it
might be worth taking a look at the Village stock, just in case
Franks had, after all, been responsible for stealing the goat. They
had now followed the coastline as far south as Illislig Bay.
    Martinson raised the binoculars to his eyes.
“That’s it, dummy,” he said. “Go on. Show us what you got.”
    “What?” Brookes said. “What is it?”
    “If I in’t mistaken, I’m looking at the new
meat. Buggeration, the way he’s looning about he must want to get
caught.”
    Obie took the binoculars. “Where? I can’t see
nothing.”
    “Inland, about a kilo from the crest. In line
with Pulpit Head.”
    Among the low gorse and bracken scrub a
distant figure came suddenly into Obie’s view: a dark-haired man in
a blue shirt and dark trousers, clutching some black clothing in
one hand and something else – perhaps a stick – in the other. It
seemed he had just come down from the ridge and was making his way
towards Perdew Wood and the middle of the island. Even at this
range it was apparent, both from his general demeanour and from the
mere fact that he was crossing such a visible stretch of ground,
that he was completely ignorant of the basic rules of Sert. Either
he was a wild man gone off his rocker, or he was, as Martinson had
surmised, the new meat.
    “How do you want to play it?” Obie said: for
it was Martinson’s privilege, having found the quarry, to
decide.
    “It could just be a trap,” Martinson said.
“It could be wild men. They could’ve seen us coming. Still, he’s
clean-faced. It’s got to be him.” He smiled at Obie. “We’ll get him
in the wood. If someone else don’t get to him first.”
    At least seven men from Old Town, and
probably a similar number from the lighthouse, had set out to look
for yesterday’s arrival. The Prison Service helicopter had touched
down at its usual hour, in the early afternoon, and Bruno had
reported a prisoner deposited for Franks’s people to find.
    The landing place was well inside the Village
boundary, impossible to get at from outside, an expanse of
close-cropped turf where the pilot was guaranteed a clear view in
all directions. From the hedge, Bruno had watched the usual routine
of boxes and sacks of stores being left, and had seen the full
plastic canisters of mail unloaded and the empty ones taken
away.
    During this process the pilot always kept the
rotors turning. Despite the cosy agreement with Franks, the crewmen
never wasted any time on the ground. As soon as they could they
would