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Morton Bain

Prisoners Go Free
 Published by Rosden 2018
Copyright © Morton Bain 2018
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,
by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out,
or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior
consent in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition,
including this condition, being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser

Rosden
5 Mansfield Road,
London, E11 2JN

A CIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780955888267
 Also by Morton Bain:

Psychopath! (2012)
Fraternal Affairs (2014)
 1

T hey ambushed Adam as he was nearing Tinker’s shelter. He was

squeezing a cut on his hand that was showing the first signs of
infection, when two men he’d never seen before stepped out from
behind the rusting shell of a van and blocked his path. The attack-
ers’ first words came from behind, however: a female voice instruct-
ing Adam to drop to his knees. He turned and saw two sharp-faced
women staring at him menacingly, one of them holding a machete.
The blade of the weapon was rusty except for where it mattered: the
cutting edge.
‘Knees . . . now!’ This time it was one of the men who addressed
him. He turned to face the voice, and saw that the taller of the two
men was now holding a shank. A crudely hammered strip of met-
al had been sharpened along one edge; it lacked a point, and had
a makeshift handle made by binding the blade’s lower portion with
thick string.
Accepting he had no choice but to comply, Adam dropped to his
knees, using his hands to arrest a movement that threatened to turn
into a bow of prostration.
‘So,’ the shorter of the two men said, stepping forward. ‘Just a
regular little mugging. Weapons, gold, antibiotics, jewelry, all gladly
accepted.’ He grinned, revealing a missing tooth and a gold tooth.
The women moved to stand by their male companions, the female
that held the machete slicing the air menacingly. The man with the
shank said, ‘Come on, empty yer pockets. We haven’t got all day.’
The other man began to rifle Adam’s pockets, starting with his
trousers. He could smell tobacco and booze as he was being searched,
fingers prodding his thighs as they dug into fabric. Finding nothing
in his lower garment, the man began to pat coat and shirt pockets,
becoming rougher as it became apparent there was nothing to find.
4
‘Where are ya goodies, fella?’ the man asked. ‘You shoved them up
your arse?’
‘He probably has, you know,’ the woman with the machete said.
‘Listen, buddy,’ – Adam was being addressed now – ‘you’ve got about
ten seconds before you lose your first appendage.’
And that day had started so well . . . Adam had received his release
date just after breakfast, followed a couple of hours later by a food
parcel from Sophie.
‘Should have robbed me yesterday,’ Adam said. ‘I had some weed
on me. Sorry to disappoint.’
‘Sorry to disappoint,’ one of the women repeated mockingly, in the
voice of a whiney adolescent. In her normal voice: ‘We’re about to
disappoint you if your pockets don’t start producing.’
‘Go fuck youselves. Got nothing on me . . . or up my arse.’
There was a delay of a couple of seconds, before the taller man
swung his foot back and kicked Adam in the face; he was soon tasting
the blood that began to trickle from his nose.
‘Kill him first and then check his arse, or check his arse then kill
him?’ the machete-wielder asked. She didn’t look like she was joking.
Several of Adam’s harassers exchanged glances, before simultane-
ously setting upon him with fist and foot. The man could handle
himself, but there’s only so much one person can do when attacked
by four, especially when two of them are armed. Adam weathered the
initial barrage of blows, shielding his head as best he could, but when
the machete swung at his shoulder he knew he was in serious trouble.
Just as he’d decided he’d have to somehow disarm the machete mani-
ac, a shot rang out. Before Adam had time to wonder whether he’d
been hit there was another blast, followed by two more. Suddenly,
he wasn’t being hit anymore, and his attackers were fleeing, one of
them grasping a wound to the upper arm. That’s when he saw Tinker,
strolling towards him with a shotgun over his shoulder.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ Adam said, standing up. ‘If you’d
turned up about a minute earlier that would have been even better.’
‘Come on, let’s get you back to the cabin,’ Tinker replied. He of-
fered Adam a handkerchief to take care of the blood on the man’s
face.
‘Do you know who that bunch was?’ Adam asked as they walked.
5
 ‘One of them I recognised,’ Tinker said. ‘Toe-rags we haven’t
chased off yet. What were they after?’
‘Anything of value, including antibiotics.’
‘Mmm. Someone must have a severe case of the clap to be so des-
perate to get their hands on medicine.’
They carried on along the track Adam been following prior to his
attack, before leaving it to pick their way through a broad stand of
beech trees, at the edge of which was Tinker’s shelter. It was a ram-
shackle affair, with an assortment of planks, logs, pieces of corru-
gated iron and sheets of rigid plastic somehow being fashioned into
a structure with four walls and a roof. When they reached it, Tinker
unlocked a hefty padlock that kept the door secured, before ushering
his friend in.
It was gloomy inside – the product of two small windows and no
electricity – but warm, smelt of freshly baked bread . . . and safe.
Adam threw himself onto the battered sofa without being invited,
and kicked his shoes off. Seconds later Tinker offered him a moist
cloth, and he used it to wipe blood off his face that was already start-
ing to crust.
‘Well, I hope you didn’t come all this way just to bid me good day,’
Tinker said, plonking a stool down opposite his friend and sitting on
it. ‘That was almost very nasty back there.’
‘No . . . and yes,’ Adam replied. He wanted a cup of tea desperately,
but didn’t feel he could just order Tinker to make him one. He settled
on staring at a teapot lying on the mud floor.
‘Cuppa?’ Tinker asked, after following Adam’s gaze.
Adam watched Tinker’s neat, economical movements as he placed
a battered saucepan on the wood-fired stove that provided the dwell-
ing’s sole source of heating, and retrieved the teapot from the floor.
Charge: Publication and Distribution of Unlawful Literature. Verdict:
Guility. Sentence: 20 Years To Life. That was a brief summary of
Tinker’s contact with The Ministry of Justice, and it saddened Adam
to watch this gentle man move under the weight of such unjust treat-
ment. As far as Adam was concerned, Tinker deserved to be pub-
licly funded for the warmth he emanated, not criminalised and ban-
ished. Sadly, for every villain deserving of incarceration on the Isle
of Wight, there was someone there like Tinker, innocent of anything
6
apart from arousing the anger of an oppressive and treacherous State.
Adam accepted his tea gratefully when Tinker handed him a mug.
‘So they mentioned antibiotics as something they’re after?’ the man
asked as he settled onto his stool.
‘Yep,’ Adam replied. ‘I don’t have anything of value on me today,
but funnily enough I did find some antibiotics last week.’
‘Found?’
Adam took a big sip of his tea. It tasted smokey. ‘I came across
a corpse near The Lustings last week and did what we all do. Four
packs of Zethromax and a compass.’
‘Good haul.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Did the guy look like he’d died from infection?’
‘You just made an understandable but erroneous assumption,’
Adam came back with. ‘Wasn’t a guy, but a gal. And no, I couldn’t see
any signs of infection. I could see signs of a gun being put to her head
and fired, though. Fucking mess.’
‘Strange that whoever shot her didn’t rifle her pockets.’
‘Yep. Had the same thought myself. Anyway, I got the drugs, which
is good. I think Zethromax is about the only antibiotic that works
these days. I’m going to keep one pack and hand the rest over to
Mackey. I need to pay back after he sorted me out a couple of months
ago.’ Adam paused momentarily, then continued: ‘Funniest thing was
that the woman was holding a piece of lego in her left hand. I’ve got
this phobia about yellow lego.’
‘What??’
‘I know – everyone thinks I’m nuts, but it’s true.’
‘Any particular type of yellow lego, or just yellow lego generally?’
‘All of it. Though, I particularly hate the rectangular pieces with
eight bumps.’
‘That’s one of the most . . .’ Tinker’s words were interrupted by
gunshots – four in quick succession – which sounded as if they’d
been fired in close proximity. Tinker put his mug on the floor and
stood up, before moving to the door and peering through a small
hole in it.
‘Who do you reckon that could be?’ Adam asked. He remained
seated.
7
 ‘Hard to say. There’s a small camp about four hundred yards away.
Mostly good people, but there’s a couple of hot-heads amongst them
who shoot first and ask questions later. Hopefully your attackers
have just been given a second reason never to come back.’
‘You’re far too isolated here, Tinker. Would you consider moving
back with Patricia? You know Christopher’s having a tough time at
the moment. He needs to see more of his Dad. And of course, you’d
be safer as well, with friends around you. We could play more chess
and Smash together if we were neighbours . . .’
‘I like my own company,’ Tinker replied, walking back to his stool.
‘Of course, I like the company of others as well, but living here I get
to choose when I’m with other people.’
Adam looked at the older man, with his grey curls, watery eyes
and lips that looked like they’d been plumped up cosmetically. Music
teacher at a top boarding school. That’s what Tinker looked like, he
decided, knowing as he did so that he was totally wrong – that music
teachers didn’t have a ‘look’, and if they did plump lips and watery
eyes probably wasn’t part of it. He must have had a music teacher
who looked like the man, Adam concluded . . . far enough back that
he no longer had a recollection of this teacher.
‘Christopher needs to see more of you, Tinker. And last time we
spoke about this there weren’t gunshots going off in close proximity
to your cabin.’ As if on cue another gun blast was heard, followed by
the sound of a muffled shriek.
‘Christopher might need to see more of me, but if I spend more
than ten minutes in the company of his mother we start to argue. I
hate to bicker in front of my son, but that woman has an argumenta-
tive soul, and it will happen whether I want it to or not.’
‘Mmm. Well I haven’t given up on persuading you, but we’ll let it
go for now. Aren’t you going to ask why I came over to see you?’
‘Oh, I just assumed you were missing me,’ Tinker replied, grinning.
‘Something else?’
‘Well, yes, actually . . . I’ve finally been given a release date.’
Tinker looked like someone had given him a slap. ‘Oh . . . well, I
know you’d been expecting it. Wow. When do you leave?’
‘The 23rd of next month.’ This was an awkward, confusing mo-
ment for the man. On balance he was happy to be going, but as
8
he’d be swapping one prison for another, unbridled joy wasn’t really
appropriate. And having to tell a man who would never get a release
date that he’d just received one was uncomfortable. Adam might not
have come over to see Tinker because he was missing him, but he
would miss the man dreadfully when he finally left. Visitors weren’t
allowed on the prison island, so it would be goodbye forever when
he returned to the mainland – unless Adam was sent back for some
reason.
‘You must be pleased to be going,’ Tinker remarked.
‘Yes and no. It’s not as if I’m going to be returning to a free and
pleasant land. There are times I envy you and your life sentence. The
fact that we’re pretty much left to our own devices here . . .’
‘Ah, come on. There might be a revolution. You might get to enjoy
England as it used to be yet . . .’
‘True. And I guess if that happens you’d be released. Front of the
queue, Tinker. If sanity ever returns.’
They fell into silence, the only sound the occasional rattle when
the wind hit a piece of Perspex that served as one of the dwelling’s
windows. Adam had had a few hours to digest the news of his immi-
nent departure, and Tinker seemed to be using this time to process
the same information. They’d been buddies since Adam’s first week
on the Island, the older man introducing him to Camp Parrot and
showing him the ropes as he adjusted to life on the penal colony.
Adam remembered reading about inmates in jails in what used to be
the United States, and how they’d often shun death row prisoners
because of the pain of seeing them die in due course. Maybe Tinker
should have adopted a similar policy, only befriending fellow lifers.
After a while Adam broke the silence with a question. ‘How did
you know that I was in need of rescuing earlier? You turned up at just
the right moment.’
‘I was looking for squirrels for the pot. You’re right. I’m not nor-
mally out with my shotgun. My ammo is meant to be kept for protec-
tion, not used to shoot rodents.’
Adam nodded. ‘Listen, Tinker, why don’t you come back to my
place for a meal tonight? My way of thanking you for saving my hide
back there, and you’ll get to see Christopher as well.’
Tinker looked at Adam uncertainly. ‘I’ll make sure Patricia behaves
9
herself,’ Adam offered. ‘Come on, let’s head off before it starts to get
dark.’
The sun’s rays were receding as they set off. They picked their way
quietly through the trees that surrounded Tinker’s home, eager to
avoid the attention of anyone else, before taking the path on which
Adam had been ambushed. The track was unnamed, the product of
countless walks that sought the quickest route between surrounding
landmarks and population clusters. The landscape was green and un-
dulating, though lacking the number of trees that would have existed
twenty years earlier. The demand for firewood was talking its toll.
After twenty minutes they picked up a tarmacked road and continued
in a south-easterly direction. The road was now rarely used by cars,
but within a few minutes they encountered their first pedestrian, an
old man pulling a simple cart that was piled with his possessions. The
man’s age and stooped posture reassured the pair that he was unlikely
to present a threat, but they didn’t fully relax until they’d passed, ac-
knowledging each other with raised hands and barely audible grunts.
A few minutes later the road took them past the rusting shell of
a crashed airliner. Much of its body had been removed by people
salvaging scrap metal, making the airline it used to fly for impossible
to determine. A black flag flew above the cockpit, indicating that the
aircraft was, or had been, occupied by the JamJars.
Twenty minutes later they were approaching Camp Parrot, the
name for the village and surrounding land that was home to Adam’s
people. As a rule, you didn’t survive on the Island without a tribe,
community, gang, or some kind of social network that could step in
to do the things people on the mainland needed the government for.
The village Camp Parrot was built around was small and comprised
largely of Victorian buildings. It didn’t have a church, but it did have
a pretty common. Something like a hundred houses, about half of
which were terraced two-up-two-downs. Nice and flat, and with great
arable land bordering it. Shacks, tents and campervans occupied a
large sweep of land surrounding the original village, which had once
been known as Little Ampton.
An orange glow from the heart of the Settlement indicated a large
bonfire was ablaze. The sun hadn’t quite set, but the nightly fire was
generally alight well before darkness fell. No-one could remember
10
quite what had been responsible for the nightly ritual of making a
communal fire, but it was a practice that only the heaviest rainfall in-
terrupted. Perhaps in the absence of street lamps winking on at dusk
it was a way of demonstrating that the convicts hadn’t totally given
up on civilised life.
They increased their pace as the thought of food, drink and com-
pany drove them forward. Adam was about to ask Tinker whether
he fancied a few beers later that evening, when he was distracted by
the appearance of a Sentinel Drone. About the size of a washing
machine, but with far less empathy, it hovered silently off to their
right, its underslung camera pod swiveling as it scooped up visual
data. Their appearance didn’t alarm Adam, but they were a regular
reminder that this was a prison island.
‘At least you won’t have to worry about them once you’ve been
released,’ Tinker commented. He shielded his mouth with his hand, a
common habit amongst those who thought the drones had lip-read-
ing abilities.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I’m sure they’ve got a version
of them operating on the mainland by now. Hell, what’s the point of
technology if it can’t be used to keep tabs on Joe Public?’
Any further discussion on the matter was interrupted by the sight
of someone running in their direction. It was Christopher, Tinker’s
son, waving excitedly as he sped towards his father. The two soon col-
lided in a scrum of hugs. ‘I can’t believe you spotted us in this light,’
Tinker commented, lifting his son so he could carry him.
‘Are you going to stay the night, Daddy?’ Christopher wanted to
know. ‘Please stay. I want to show you my new boat.’
‘Boat?’ Tinker inflected.
‘Yes, Gary made it for me.’
‘I’d love to see your boat. And yes, I’ll be staying overnight.’
Seconds later they were in the Settlement. Camp Parrot, located
in the centre of the Island, was home to approximately two hundred
people, all living in a kibbutz-like arrangement. Doctors, mechanics
and the previously unemployed were now all essentially farm labour-
ers, sharing chores and food as it was harvested. The only rule on
HMP Isle of Wight was ‘Don’t Escape’, and beyond that inmates
were free to co-operate – or fight and steal – as they saw fit. Camp
11
Parrot residents had chosen the former path, though fighting was
sometimes necessary to ward off those that would steal.
‘I’d better go and see Christopher’s mum,’ Tinker said when they
reached Adam’s home. The man rolled his eyes in a gesture of de-
spair, but his son missed this as he was still in his father’s arms.
‘Right you are,’ Adam replied. ‘Come over in an hour and I’ll cook
something up for us.’
Tinker nodded. He put Christopher down, and the pair walked off
hand-in-hand. Adam opened his front door.
Adam’s home. Inherited from a fellow prisoner who had passed
away some six months previously, it was a huge source of pleasure to
the man. Not because it was luxurious, or quaint, or rustic, or even
idiosyncratic, but because it was his – as much as anything could be
anyone’s on the Isle of Wight – and proof that despite everything,
there was still a small piece of the planet with his name on it. The pre-
vious owner had stamped his mark on the dwelling in ways that were
difficult to remove – an oar that had been washed up on the beach
was nailed to the ceiling, for example – but it felt like an appropriate
mark of respect for the man not to interfere too much with the per-
sonal touches he’d left. As a reasonably recent arrival on the Island,
and without partner or children, Adam’s place was what was often
termed ‘bachelor accommodation’ – newly and cheaply constructed
property on the periphery of the village that lay at the centre of the
Camp Parrot.
Adam kicked off my shoes and lay on the bed. The miles of walk-
ing he’d done that day – not to mention the drama of his mugging
– had left him exhausted. He wanted to nap for half an hour before
getting ready for Tinker’s return, but the sight of an unopened letter
from Sophie, sitting on an upturned wooden box that served as a
bedside table, meant he couldn’t relax. It was perplexing – he often
yearned for his liberty, and yet reminders of the life he would be re-
turning to were generally unwelcome. It probably had something to
do with the fact that communications from the outside world rarely
brought good news, he thought.
He sighed, got up and switched the light on, then returned to the
bed and picked up the letter. Opening it, Adam held it up with one
outstretched arm and began to read. Dear Adam, blah, blah, blah. Let-
12
ters really were a quaint form of communication. Prisoners and their
families had to be the only people who wrote or read them anymore.
My Social Harmony Course starts next Monday. Yawn! Sonia had to do it last
year, and said it was four days of total boredom. The government had excit-
edly embraced re-education for anyone they deemed in need of it. In
the case of Sophie, it was in all probability her link to Adam that had
seen her enrolled on this course. The light flickered. Camp Parrot res-
idents had three hours of electricity a night, care of a slowly expiring
generator, and Adam wondered if someone had forgotten to fuel the
machine. Cash is being totally phased out next year in case you haven’t heard.
In a way it’s no big deal because no-one really uses cash anymore anyway, but it
feels like an ominous, Big Brother kind of thing.
Adam put the letter down. News from those that were supposedly
free just seemed to demonstrate how they were not really free at all,
he thought. He got up and started preparing for Tinker’s arrival.
A loud banging at the door an hour later heralded Tinker’s return.
Adam opened up for him, and the older man almost fell through the
doorway. ‘Whoah!’ Adam said, propping him up. Tinker was envel-
oped in a cloud of alcoholic vapour. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Mackey. Mackey’s having a few drinks. Come on.’
‘What about food? And Christopher?’
‘I’m going to stay a couple of days. Come on . . .’ Tinker grabbed
Adam by the arm and pulled him outside. They began to meander in
the direction of Mackey’s place. ‘I haven’t had a drink in about three
months,’ Tinker announced as they walked. ‘I’ve just tasted some
wonderful moonshine.’
The sound of laughter and raucous conversation marked the men’s
arrival at Mackey’s house. It was one of the more innovative dwell-
ings at Camp Parrot; four shipping crates, two at ground level and
two placed perpendicularly on top of these, cut and welded together.
The house occupied a corner of the common, the only one to do
so. Mackey had pulled a couple of sofas out onto the grass, and was
seated on one of them, holding court with a glass in his hand.
‘Tinker!’ Mackey shouted when he saw them. ‘I didn’t think we’d
see you again after you wondered off. I see you’ve brought a chaper-
one.’
‘Tinker’s out of practice,’ Adam said, accepting a glass from some-
13
one. ‘But I’m not.’ He took a large gulp, his eyes smarting as the fire-
water got to work. ‘What’s the occasion?’
Mackey waited for one of the partygoers to stop bellowing, before
saying, ‘The occasion? The occasion is we’re all still alive, and I’ve got
booze. Never a better reason.’
‘Cheers to that!’ Adam said, raising his glass. He turned around to
survey the rest of the common. It looked roughly kite-shaped from
where he stood; lush grass with ash trees along one of its boundaries.
A couple of people were walking towards them, just about to pass
a stone statue of an acorn that stood at the centre of the grassy ex-
panse.
Mackey adjusted his belt over his large belly, before saying, ‘Did
you hear about the pair that tried to escape last night?’
‘Escape?’ Tinker shouted. He was shuffling, as if in danger of col-
lapsing if he stood still.
‘Yeah, bunch of idiots tried to launch a raft near Ryde. Palmer was
fishing nearby and saw it all happen.’
‘And what did happen?’ It was Adam asking.
‘What do you think?’ The man took a sip of his drink. ‘They got
blown up by a drone. Apparently there’s still pieces of wood floating
ashore.’
‘That wasn’t an escape attempt, that was a successful suicide at-
tempt,’ Adam commented. ‘The drones see everything, and never
miss. Idiots.’
‘I’m glad I’m a lifer,’ Mackey said. He burped indulgently. ‘Wouldn’t
go back if you paid me to.’ He looked at Adam, then said: ‘Not that
I expect you not to be glad that you’re going to be free soon. This life
isn’t for everyone.’
‘I wouldn’t say I’m overjoyed at getting a release date. Shit, I’m not
meant to say that. I’ve got a girlfriend waiting for me.’
A girl called Kate laughed. ‘She’s probably thinking Fuck, I have to get
rid of my new boyfriend.’
Adam glared at Kate. ‘She doesn’t know yet. I only found out to-
day.’
‘Tinker, sit down, mate.’ It was Mackey speaking. ‘You look like
you’re about to collapse. Come over here.’ He slapped the cushion
next to him and Tinker stumbled towards it.
14
 ‘I’ve been telling Tinker he should move back to Camp Parrot,’
Adam said. He was feeling the booze tickle his brain now. ‘Enough
with hermit act.’
‘Yeah, Tinker,’ Mackey said. ‘Enough with the hermit act.’
Tinker took another swig of his drink but didn’t reply. He looked
wasted.
‘I think I’m going to have to carry him back to mine soon,’ Adam
said. ‘Not that I’m complaining. He saved my life today.’
As Adam was relating the story of his encounter with the bandits,
Mackey began rubbing the skin under his eye patch. Adam hated it
when Mackey did this. No-one had ever seen under the patch, and
rumours were constantly circulating as to what it hid. An empty sock-
et, a scar, a birthmark, a cancerous growth – all were possibilities that
found favour with some Camp Parrot residents. Adam didn’t have a
pet theory, but he hated the finger-under-eyepatch habit.
Before Adam could finish his tale a fight broke out between a cou-
ple of men. A big guy wearing a sleeveless T-shirt quickly got the
better of a small guy wearing a regular T-shirt.
‘Hey, break it up!’ Mackey shouted. He threatened to get out of
his seat, only relaxing back into it when it became apparent that the
punch-throwing was already over. ‘Jimmy,’ Mackey said, addressing
the bigger man. ‘I think you’ve had enough to drink. Why don’t we
call it a night?’
‘I’m not drunk,’ Jimmy protested. ‘He owes me kerosene.’
Mackey bristled. ‘Look, I’m having a nice civilised drink here. Can’t
I enjoy my buzz without having to arbitrate on an issue of owings and
being owed?’ He tutted loudly.
The admonished men drifted apart.
‘It’s a good thing we’re only allowed fuel and equipment purchases
from the General,’ Adam remarked. ‘Can you imagine if there were
cigarettes and chocolate to fall out over, as well?’
‘Tell me about it,’ Mackey said. ‘Which reminds me. I’m making the
weekly trip tomorrow. Anyone want to come with?’
‘I’ll go,’ Tinker slurred.
‘No you won’t,’ Kate said. ’You’ll be sleeping off your hangover.’

15
 2

S ophie had to wait until the Internet Window opened at seven

pm before she could check her emails. Even after information
flows were resumed, it took forever for her to log on. Her password
– which she knew she was entering correctly – was rejected the first
four times she punched it in, and even after it was accepted some sort
of glitch kicked her out of her email provider’s site before she’d been
able to open a single communication. Finally, she was able to open
her in-box, and that was all it took to see that the email hadn’t arrived.
Sophie’s friend, Laura, had complained that none of her emails had
been answered when the two had bumped into each other at the gym
that morning, and as an experiment to determine whether they were
getting through had promised to send another message when she
got home. This email was neither in Sophie’s in-box nor spam folder,
proving it would seem that Laura’s test message had simply evapo-
rated. Sophie tapped her teeth with a pen, meditating on what this
discovery might mean. Email had become more important since the
banning of text messaging, but now it seemed even electronic mail
was being interfered with. Sophie wondered whether it was her sus-
pect status that meant some of her incoming emails were being inter-
cepted, or whether Laura had committed some sort of transgression
which meant her outbound emails were being interfered with. Adam,
I want you home, but home isn’t the place it used to be . . .
Sophie switched her laptop off and started getting ready to leave
the flat. It was Thursday, and since Adam’s imprisonment Thursday
evenings were spent with her parents at their home. Living on her
own didn’t always suit Sophie, and not seeing enough of their daugh-
ter didn’t suit her parents, so it was an arrangement that worked for
all.
Sophie walked to the tube station on busy pavements. The eleven
16
pm curfew meant that people crammed activities and chores into a
few hours where previously they had the whole evening to enjoy and
accomplish them. Looking up, Sophie saw a drone drift noiselessly
down the street at an altitude of around twenty metres, its underslung
camera twitching left and right as it scanned faces. The woman smiled
at the machine, aware that as the partner of a felon the spy-in-the-sky
would be registering her presence with interest. Face scanning tech-
nology was now so advanced that wearing a bag on your head didn’t
seem to guarantee anonymity. Another couple of years and they’ll be
reading our minds, Sophie thought to herself. That’s when I decide
to shoot myself.
Sophie managed to squeeze on to a tube carriage after a wait of
about ten minutes on the platform. She surveyed her fellow passen-
gers as they rattled through the tunnel. Most people seemed to be
staring at the floor, as if somewhere scrawled on it was The Meaning
Of Life. Sophie noticed for the first time that people seemed to be
favouring sombre colours as far as their clothing was concerned, and
wondered if this was fashion or a form of collective mourning for
times past. She couldn’t see a single person wearing pink, yellow or
orange.
Instead of looking at the floor, Sophie read the adverts above seats
as she travelled. Along with the proclamations in favour of a par-
ticular shampoo or life insurance company, there were several gov-
ernment ads instructing the public on how to behave. ‘Suspicious
Behaviour? Contact Your Local Public Liaison Officer’ read one.
Public Liaison Officers had come about through the expansion of
the number and role of Police Community Support Officers. Along
with fining you for dropping litter, they could now introduce you to
The Ministry Of Justice, tasked with eliminating the dissemination
of any opinion they disapproved of. Prohibited opinions included
anything anti-government or anti-Europa, not to mention approval
of any of the thousands of artists who had been deemed ‘socially
unacceptable’ by the authorities. Sophie had known that they were all
in big trouble when Shakespeare was banned, reasons cited including
‘an overly simplistic portrayal of Life’ and ‘sentiments showing a lack
of tolerance for religious, cultural, ethnic and sexual minorities’. All
The World’s A Stage, but that stage had now been largely cleared by
17
a political jackboot.
Alighting at Angel tube station station, Sophie queued briefly to
clear the exit. A couple of people flipped the barriers without having
to produce an Oyster Card, a sight that still surprised her even though
she’d been watching it happen for over a month now. The Oysterless
Ones were those who’d taken a sub-dermal implant which held a host
of information and made driving licenses, credit cards, passports –
and Oyster Cards – redundant. The government was really pushing
the implants, with benefits including a reduction in tax rates available
to those who signed up. Sophie wasn’t eligible for the implant, so
negotiated the barriers the old-fashioned way with a piece of plastic.
‘Come on in, dear,’ Sophie’s mother said as she opened the door
to her daughter ten minutes later. The pair embraced, before walking
into the living room, where Sophie’s father was seated in an armchair.
The man started to rise to greet Sophie, but the latter waved him back
into his seat. His deteriorating physical condition was evident by an
emaciated body, yellow skin and an oxygen tube that curved around
his mouth like a translucent Dali moustache.
‘How are you doing, Dad?’ Sophie asked her father. It was a ques-
tion asked out of politeness not necessity; the man had evidently lost
further weight since their meeting the previous week.
‘Not so bad,’ the man replied, his voice barely audible. ‘You?’
‘I’m fine, Dad.’ Turning to her mother, Sophie said, ‘What’s going
on with Dad’s treatment plan? Has his blood count been taken re-
cently?’
‘We’ll talk about that later, sweetheart,’ Mrs LeRoy said.
Sophie was about to demand immediate information, when she
was interrupted by the entry into the room of her brother, Boris.
‘Yo, Sis,’ Boris greeted his sister. ‘Back for a feed?’
Sophie poked her tongue at her brother. ‘You haven’t even tried
living on your own yet,’ she said. ‘Wait till you have to do your own
cooking and cleaning.’
Half an hour later the four were seated in the dining room, tucking
into a roast. Sophie had volunteered to sit beside her father, allow-
ing her to help with the chopping and spooning of his food. After
delivering a morsel to the man’s lips she said, ‘Well, some good news
everybody. Adam has a release date.’
18
 ‘That’s wonderful,’ Sophie’s mother said. ‘When does he get out?’
‘Three weeks’ time.’
Boris: ‘I wonder if he’ll be changed when he gets back. Time on
that island’s got to have an effect on a person.’
‘I hope not,’ Sophie replied. ‘I mean he isn’t a real criminal. His
letters have always sounded cheerful enough.’
Boris scooped red hair from his eyes, before saying, ‘He’ll have
kept them chipper to avoid upsetting you. I mean, that place is literally
lawless. God knows what he’s seen while he’s been there.’
‘Not exactly what I want to hear right now, Boris.’
‘I don’t mean he’s going to come back a tattooed crim. Just don’t
expect him to return unscathed. If you expect him to be exactly the
same person you kissed goodbye you might be in for a surprise.’
Sophie’s father made a sound at this point that sounded like a
whale call, prompting the other members of the family to look at
him. He was struggling to spit food from his mouth, pushing his head
forward to enable gravity to lend a hand. Sophie scraped the man’s
mouth with a spoon, before saying, ‘Are you okay, Dad?’
A hoarse noise from the man that may or may not have been an
answer in the affirmative. Sophie lifted a glass of water to her father’s
lips.
‘What’s news with you, Boris?’ Sophie asked, keen to move the
topic on from incarceration.
‘I’ve had a regular week. Arseholes at work, arseholes on the way
to and from work, arseholes when I’m free . . .’
‘Language!’ Boris’s mother said. ‘The rest of society might have
gone to Hell, but we’re trying to keep things civil in this household.’
‘Sorry, mother,’ Boris apologised sheepishly. ‘No, my week’s been
pretty average, Soph. Oh, apart from Colin from work, who seems to
have just disappeared. Probably another Google casualty.’
‘Google casualty?’ Sophie queried. ‘Getting on to the site is enough
of a challenge. How can it hurt you?’
‘S-o-p-h . . .’ Boris’ voice rose mockingly ‘Where have you been
for the last two years? Anyone would think it was you who has been
locked up, not your boyfriend. Admittedly, it hasn’t been properly
covered in the news, because there isn’t any real news anymore, but
you must have heard that loads of people are getting rounded up
19
because of past Internet activity – websites visited, search queries,
blah, blah, blah.’
‘Really?’ She paused to move a spoonful of food to her father’s
mouth, before continuing, ‘I mean, we’re all in deep shit if they’ve got
logs of everything we did on the Internet. I’ve looked up some pretty
dodgy stuff, and that’s me who’s never committed a crime in her life.
Not a pre-Change crime, anyway.’
‘Your assessment is correct,’ Boris replied. ‘We are all in deep
doggy doo-doo. I don’t know for a fact that the Internet Police got
Colin, but it’s our working theory at the moment. He likes to walk on
the wild side. Liked to walk on the wild side. Without ever actually
harming anyone.’
‘You really don’t think you’ll see him again?’ Sophie asked. Before
her brother could reply, she continued: ‘Actually, now I think about it,
I remember Adam saying he used to do bogus web searches to fool
any algorithm that might be monitoring him that he wasn’t posing an
existential threat to the status quo. He’d do searches like “the benefits
of transgenderism”.’
‘I’m just speculating,’ Boris conceded. ‘Maybe he’ll get to meet
Adam before your fella’s released. Maybe he’ll come back tattooed
and with an early curfew. Boris lowered his tone like a lumbering
truck dropping into top gear: ‘Or maybe he’s just been on an enor-
mous bender and I’ll see him tomorrow – briefly, before he’s sacked
for going awol.’
‘Those tattoos are horrid,’ Sophie’s mother declared. ‘And to put
them on the face! What’s wrong with the hand?’
The tattoos being discussed were facial tags that proclaimed a per-
son’s past crimes. A single letter, denoting the transgression commit-
ted, was inked below the left eye. The impact on a person’s job and
social prospects were as obvious as the tattoos themselves.
‘Maximum impact,’ Boris said. Looking at his sister, he noticed a
single teardrop cascading down her cheek. ‘What’s up, sis?’ he asked.
‘Adam’s going to get one of those tattoos when he’s released,’ So-
phie replied.
‘Are you sure, dear?’ Sophie’s mother asked.
Sophie nodded. ‘Yep. Adam told me.’
‘Oh, that’s awful. But at least he’ll be home . . .’
20
 ‘There’s been talk of a campaign for everyone to get a facial tattoo,’
Boris said. ‘If everyone got one, their effect would be diluted. What
do you reckon, Mum? A little blue ‘P’ under your left eye? You could
wear make-up to match it.’
‘That might have worked before they shut Twitter and half the
Internet down,’ Sophie observed. ‘Not anymore.’
Sophie’s mother sighed. ‘I really wish we could go back to the ‘60s
or ‘70s. I think we’re only now coming to realise what a Golden Age
that was. Antibiotics still worked. The family still existed. Sure, there
were problems, but nothing compared to the mess we’re in now. Oh,
on the subject of those dreadful tattoos. I saw someone on the bus
yesterday with an ‘S’ under his eye. What does that stand for? Sexual
crimes? The tattoo looked like an evil snake.’
‘S . . .’ Sophie intoned. ‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Sedition,’ Boris pronounced boldly, as if he was charging someone
with the crime.
‘What is sedition?’ asked Sophie. ‘Sounds like an Olden Days crime.’
Boris: ‘Isn’t it something similar to treason? Inciting discontent
amongst the unwashed masses with a view to overthrowing the gov-
ernment.’
‘I think the Government are doing a pretty good job of inciting
discontent amongst the unwashed masses themselves,’ the mother
said. ‘Maybe politicians should all be made to have one of those tat-
toos.’

AP Newswire, 2nd July 2039

Europa and Asiana Discuss Merger Plans

President Totenkopf of Europa and President Xi Mingze of Asiana

met in Beijing this morning at the start of their latest Peace Summit.
Tension along the two states’ border has risen sharply over the last
couple of years, with both sides accusing the other of provoking mil-
itary skirmishes and inciting social unrest. The Beijing summit was
scheduled in June, after an exchange of artillery fire along the Iran/
Afghanistan border saw hundreds of civilians killed. Recent near
21
misses by asteroids have highlighted the need to invest billions in
systems to track and destroy threats from space, money that would
be easier to allocate if Europa and Asiana were not in a perpetual
arms race.

From The Sun Online, 2nd of July 2039

Man’s Clone Bourne By Wife

Malcolm Donay, 31, of Tadcaster has confirmed that he is scheduled

to receive a head transplant from his identical brother next month.
Donay has an inoperable brain tumour, while his brother Peter has
terminal lung cancer. There has only been one head transplant per-
formed to date, but although medically successful, the recipient/do-
nor developed schizophrenia within a month of the operation. It is
hoped that Malcolm and Peter Donay will avoid a similar fate because
they are genetically identical.

Scrawled on the door of a cubicle in public toilets in London, 2nd of July 2039

I don’t wanna meet no guy for sex, but if you want someone to com-
mit suicide with ring Jez 0777 7897890.

22
 3

S omething very strange happened in the days following Adam’s re-

ceipt of his release date. You’d think he’d have been on Cloud
Nine, anticipating enjoying all of the many things he’d been deprived
of whilst on HMP Isle of Wight and planning what he wanted to
do with his life he got out. But it didn’t turn out that way. In fact,
the opposite happened, and he found himself suddenly appreciating
much of the stuff he’d previously taken for granted or even disliked
about being on the prison island. Adam was going to miss the many
friends he’d made as a convict, but it came as a surprise to the man
to realise he was also going to miss the whole set-up. You see, al-
though they weren’t free to leave the Island prior to their release date,
convicts were free to do pretty much anything else. There were no
laws governing their conduct on the Island, apart from DO NOT
ESCAPE. You could kill another human, for example, without fear
of repercussions apart from those that might come from the victim’s
friends. You could – and many people did – start a business without
worrying about taxation and red tape. You could – and some people
did – ‘marry’ two or three partners without being hauled before a
judge for bigamy. These marriages were not recognised by any formal
legal authority, but they were recognised by The Law Of The Island,
an uncodified but respected bundle of customs and precedents that
had stood the test of time. The fact was that you could have a pret-
ty good life on the Island if you were prepared to keep your head
down, forge strong friendships and work hard. This scenario was in
stark contrast to life in supposedly free society, where supermarkets
catered to all tastes and whims, but your every step was watched,
recorded and judged.
These thoughts were playing in Adam’s mind as, two days after the
party at Mackey’s place, he prepared to indulge in a spot of butterfly
23
hunting. It was a sunny morning in June, and Adam wanted to stalk
some meadowland where the previous week he’d spotted a member
of the Papillo Machaon species – common name Old World Swal-
lowtail. Machaon was one of Adam’s favourite varieties of butterfly.
Neither the largest nor the most colourful of the Swallowtails, it nev-
ertheless cast a spell on the man with its psychedelic non-Euclidean
wing patterning that made Adam think of Aubrey Beardsley and frac-
tals. U.K. sightings of this species had previously been isolated to a
small part of the Norfolk fens; Adam figured his discovery of it on
the Isle of Wight was down to global warming and the collapse of
borders that now seemed to extend not just to humans but also to
members of the insect world.
Adam reached his hunting ground at just after eleven am; a perfect
time for butterflies as it was neither too cool nor too warm. The time
of year and time of day was Rush Hour in the insect world, as winged
and non-winged arthropods flew, scrambled, crawled and careered
towards food and mates and away from creatures that might wish
to make a meal of them. Meadowland bordering woodland, with a
stream that cut through both: the perfect environment for maximum
local bio-diversity. Although the dragonflies were stunning in appear-
ance and movement, Adam paid them little attention as he focused
on his quarry: butterflies in general, but Swallowtails in particular.
As usual, the butterfly scene was dominated numerically by a
couple of the more common species. Small Ringlets flapped weak-
ly around their food plants, whilst larger Whites chased each oth-
er through the sky in their eccentric, zig-zagging manner. As Adam
trudged through knee-deep grass, most of the butterflies he passed
scattered frantically, though the occasional insect did the opposite
and buzzed him aggressively, or, in the case of one, briefly landed on
his chest. An unschooled person might have taken the action of this
latter butterfly as evidence of Adam’s affinity with winged insects, but
the man knew enough to realise that it was probably merely attract-
ed by the salt in his sweat. Adam also knew that some of the most
beautiful butterflies in the world liked nothing more than a fresh cow
turd or rotting carcass to feed on, a fact that made him grin when he
considered lepidoptera’s popularity with the female sex.
After half an hour of patient plodding, Adam still hadn’t seen a
24
species to make his heart flutter. The Coppers and Whites and Blues
were all out in abundance, but not a whiff of one of the rarer variet-
ies. Perhaps he’d been mistaken in thinking he’d seen a Swallowtail, he
considered. That, or it was a literal one-off, blown across the Channel
and now expired. With life expectancies of as little as two weeks, but-
terflies didn’t hang around for long.
Following the flightpath of an unusually large Red Admiral, Adam
spotted a flash of white on the ground and decided to investigate.
Approaching it, he saw that he was looking at a human femur bone,
protruding from the ground at a forty-five degree angle. Adam kicked
away some of the vegetation surrounding it and soon realised that
he’d found a corpse. It was partially buried, with some scraps of
clothing still clinging to bones. Adam was confident from the extent
of decomposition that the body had been lying in this spot for at least
a couple of years.
Adam stepped back from the corpse and crossed himself. This
wasn’t the first dead body the man had stumbled across on the Island;
it was a fairly common occurrence. Just like his beloved butterflies,
human beings sometimes just dropped to the ground. Adam knew
that the corpse was not necessarily evidence of murder. A lot of
people on the Island were on their own. You died on your own in a
remote spot, and you were liable to just stay there.
Adam decided to re-focus on living things. Butterflies. He turned
away from the body and began walking. Twenty minutes later he was
on the point of giving up for the day, when he saw a streak of purple
out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he discovered he’d been gifted
with the sight of a Purple Emperor; it was on the ground at the base
of a large oak tree, pumping its wings sedately. Way too early in the
season, Adam thought as he tightened his grip on the handle of his
net and began to stalk. The insect took to the air briefly, before land-
ing at the edge of a puddle, approximately three metres from where
he stood. The man knew that butterflies had a finely tuned sense of
how near they should allow a human to approach them before taking
to the skies. Adam was convinced they were smart enough to ad-
just this distance depending on whether the human had a net or not.
Based on past experience, he guessed he had about three more small
steps before he’d have to swoop on the insect. He got as close as he
25
dared, tensed up, then sprang at the butterfly. The first sweep of the
net missed his target, but the butterfly failed to gain altitude quickly
enough, allowing Adam to scoop it up with an upwards lunge. He
twisted the top of the net to prevent the insect from escaping, before
preparing to retrieve his prize.
The butterfly flew frantically against the side of the net as Adam
reached in to pick it up, but he managed to grab it, holding its body
gently between thumb and forefinger. Adam had never killed and
pinned his beloved butterflies, as some lepidopterists do, but he liked
to handle before releasing any insects he netted. It provided him with
the satisfaction of capture, even if he was unwilling to euthanise
them, and allowed him to examine them at close quarters. The but-
terfly settled down as Adam marveled at its beauty, as if aware that
it wasn’t in any danger. He took in the splash of purple that gave the
insect its name, convinced as he had been the last time he held a Pur-
ple Emperor that the particular shade of colour it displayed was not
seen anywhere else in nature. When Adam had been a student he had
been in the habit of getting totally stoned and going and looking at
the butterflies on display at the Natural History Museum, a practice
he’d never been able to admit to anyone else.
Adam was just about ready to release the butterfly, when he no-
ticed strange markings on its forewings. Looking more closely, he saw
that the band of white that customarily broke the purple patch was it-
self adorned with what looked like small equal-armed crosses in dark
brown. What struck Adam as peculiar was that this symbol seemed
to be repeated in exactly the same way and in the same place on each
wing. Adam was well aware of the widespread prevalence of small ge-
netic abnormalities amongst all living creatures, but this was strange.
Birthmarks on a human face are not that uncommon, but an identical
birthmark on each cheek of a person would be highly unusual.
Adam took a last look at the creature, then opened his fingers and
allowed the insect to flap away. As he walked on he was reminded that
he, too, would soon be displaying an unusual marking, in the form of
a facial tattoo.

Adam was scheduled to help out in the Settlement’s greenhouses that

afternoon, and was to be partnered with Ashley, fellow resident and
26
convicted arsonist. When he reached the largest of the hothouses
after a quick lunch Adam found that the woman was already there,
busy plucking tomatoes.
‘Hey, Ashley,’ Adam greeted his co-worker. ‘You’re always here be-
fore me.’
Sophie was a stunner, and the only woman he’d been even slightly
tempted by during his stay on the Island. She had lips that looked like
they’d been designed by a committee of fellatio fanatics, and a body
that was all curves and no bumps.
‘Look who it is,’ Ashley replied gaily. ‘Mr Brown Fingers. I’m sur-
prised you’ve been allowed back.’
Ashley was referring to the last time they’d worked together in
the greenhouses, when Adam had ruined a cucumber crop with an
over-application of anti-fungal spray.
‘These plants are getting nothing but water today,’ Adam replied.
He began to fill a watering can with a hose. ‘I didn’t see you at Mack-
ey’s party the other night. Unlike you not to turn out for drinks.’
‘Oh, I’d had a big one the night before. Didn’t feel like making it
two in a row . . .’
‘Yeah . . .’ Adam snorted a laugh. ‘It would have been two in a row.
I wasn’t a well bunny the next morning.’
The two busied themselves with their respective tasks for a few
minutes, before Ashley, bending to drop tomatoes into a basket, said,
‘I hear you’re going to be leaving us soon. How does it feel?’
‘Strange,’ Adam replied, stepping closer to Ashley. ‘I thought I’d
be really ecstatic, but I’m not. I actually think I’m going to miss this
fucking place.’
‘That’s what a lot of people find. Me, I’m not going to leave the
Island. I’m going to hide on my release date. See if I can stay.’
‘I get that,’ Adam said. He’d put his watering can down, and was
giving Ashley his full attention. ‘And you’d probably get away with it.
Tinker knows someone who’s an overstayer. I thought the guy must
be insane when Tinker told me about him soon after I got here. But
you know what . . . I’d probably consider doing the same thing myself,
if it wasn’t for people. People back home who I want to see.’
‘I don’t have those kind of people. But even if I did . . . well, there
are people here, too.’
27
 An hour later Mackey entered the greenhouse, accompanied by his
pet Labrador, Sinker. ‘Volunteers for an airport run,’ he stated simply.
‘We’re a couple of heads short, and will be even shorter when Adam
leaves.’
‘I’ll go,’ Adam said.
‘Me too,’ Ashley responded. ‘We’re almost done here, anyway.’
‘Good stuff. Meet me at my place in ten. Come on, boy.’ Mackey
followed Sinker out of the hothouse.
Not long after, the trio was in the Settlement Jeep, bouncing down
a road that had lost last large portions of its asphalt. Adam and Ash-
ley were in the back seat, while Sinker rode with his master in the
front.
‘The normal drill,’ Mackey shouted, compensating for the sound
of the engine and open canopy. ‘We’ll play it safe by targeting women,
but check their papers before offering them a home. No murderers,
please.’
As they neared the airport, they began to encounter the occasional
vehicle; most, like theirs, beat-up four-wheel drives. Then the airport
came into sight, comprising a large terminal building with a single
runway beside it, the whole facility surrounded by two huge fences.
Mackey parked in a field about a hundred metres from the imposing
gate that was the sole entrance to the airfield. Another vehicle occu-
pied the field, a yellow VW Campervan that had been tagged with
the symbol of one of the gangs that existed on the Island. The gang
was known as The Daggers, and their sigil, unsurprisingly, a dagger
enclosed in a circle.
Half an hour after their arrival, the plane carrying a new group of
prisoners touched down. Its landing run took the aircraft to the end
of the runway farthest from the terminal, necessitating a 180 degree
turn. As the plane pivoted the sound of its engines increased dramat-
ically, before returning to its earlier level. Adam recognised the jet as
an elderly 737 as it moved down the runway. It was painted white,
with no markings apart from a large ‘EJ’ on its tail. These letters
stood for ‘Europa Justice’.
In due course the plane came to a halt by the terminal building, and
a mobile stairway was towed to meet it. After a further five minutes
the first of the plane’s passengers began to disembark, armed guards
28
forming a reception committee on the tarmac. The plane had to have
been pretty full judging by the time it took to empty.
‘It normally takes about half an hour until you’re let out the front
gates,’ Mackey commented. ‘God, I felt bad when I came in on my
flight.’
Adam and Ashley murmured their agreement.
By now several other vehicles had joined them on the makeshift
parking lot, as well as a number of people on foot. Some had come
to greet people they knew were arriving; some, like Mackey’s group,
were looking for manpower (or slaves); others were merely curious,
or didn’t have anything better to do. Prisoners scheduled for release
would have arrived at the facility earlier that day, and would be filing
onto the now empty jet in due course.
After what seemed more like twenty minutes, the first of the new
prisoners began to leave the airport. Each carried the standard arrival
issue parcel, comprising tent, sleeping bag, basic cooking and eating
implements, along with a small amount of food. All they got, and all
they would ever get . . . and what made it worthwhile intercepting new
arrivals as they took their first steps on the Island.
Some of those who had assembled to wait for this influx of fresh
blood now began to move forward. Two people hugged each other
enthusiastically in what was obviously a reunion of some sort. An
attractive women in her twenties looked around in alarm as a group
of men surrounded her.
‘Let’s wait until the hullaballoo is over,’ Mackey said. ‘We’re after
the sort of people the others aren’t.’
Half an hour later all the new prisoners had left the airport, and
many of them had hooked up with those offering work or protection.
The Daggers’ vehicle had just roared off, their transport so packed
one man was riding on its roof. Several of the new arrivals had won-
dered off alone, some with a destination in mind, most without one.
‘How about him?’ Adam said, pointing at a man in his fifties who
was sitting by the road on his own, reading a book.
‘The reading a book bit is good,’ Mackey replied. ‘We know he can
read, and is capable of sitting still. Come on then, Ashley. Let’s go
and have a chat.’
‘What about me?’ Adam wanted to know.
29
 ‘Ashley’s prettier than you. And we don’t want to crowd him.’
The pair got out of the jeep and approached the man. ‘Howdy,’
Mackey said as they neared their target. The man looked up from his
book, revealing a kindly face. He had blue eyes and had a small scar
on his forehead. ‘This your first time?’ Mackey continued.
‘Yes, it is,’ the man replied, in a West Country accent. ‘I’m just
waiting for the crowd to disperse, before heading off. Prefer to travel
solo.’
‘Good thinking,’ Ashley said. ‘You’ve got to be careful who you
trust in this place.’
Mackey picked up the baton: ‘We’re from a small community that
make a living by farming and running an auto shop. Peace-loving
people, we’re looking for an extra hand due to some imminent depar-
tures. Would joining us interest you?’
The man had already closed his book, and now he placed it beside
him on the ground. ‘I might be. Not that I know much about farming
. . . or fixing cars.’
‘What we do can be taught. It’s not difficult. We’re more interested
in getting people with the right . . . personalities. Can I ask what the
crime was that got you sent here?’
The man looked taken aback at this question. ‘My crime?’ he said.
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Ashley asked. Sinker had now joined the trio,
and his flank was wedged against Ashley’s leg. ‘We need to be careful
about who joins our group for security reasons.’
‘I guess,’ the man conceded. ‘Drink driving was my crime. A pas-
senger in my car was hurt, otherwise I guess they’d just have sent me
on a re-education programme.’
‘Do you mind if we see your paperwork?’ Mackey asked. ‘I don’t
mean to be funny, but if you were in my position . . .’
‘Paperwork?’ the man looked at Mackey quizzically.
‘Everyone who arrives here is issued with a Statement of Crime. I
got one. Ashley got one. Sinker here didn’t get one, but his crime was
just chasing cats.’
‘Nope,’ the man said. ‘I got my camping gear and stuff, but that
was it.’
Mackey and Ashley exchanged a glance, before Mackey said. ‘I
30
don’t believe you, buddy. We’ll have to withdraw our offer. Good
luck, anyway.’
The man flushed, and for a second it looked like he was going to
get up to confront the pair. ‘I’m telling you. I didn’t get any paper-
work. Maybe the procedures have changed.’
‘Sorry, mate,’ Mackey said, turning to leave. ‘Come on Sinker.
Come on boy.’
After Mackey and Ashley had taken a few steps the man shouted
after them. ‘Murder! That’s what I’m here for. I’ll be looking out for
you cunts! No laws here to stop me killing again!’
‘That was a close one,’ Ashley said after they’d rejoined Adam.
She filled the latter in on what had happened. Adam looked over to
where the man had been sitting. He’d now moved off, walking in the
direction of another new arrival.
‘I think we’ve drawn a blank today,’ Mackey said. ‘Let’s head back.’

On the way home they stopped at one of the Information Points that
dotted the Island. Like huge gravestones, their dark shapes loomed
over surrounding trees, making them unmissable to anyone within
half a mile. Consoles ran along each side of the structures at ground
level, allowing prisoners to check a local intranet for official commu-
nications on release dates, shop opening changes and the like. Large
screens mounted at their top and on either side displayed time and
temperature, along with the occasional newsflash.
Mackey pulled the jeep alongside Information Point 37 and killed
the engine, before the trio disembarked. The structure had just one
other visitor, a disheveled man who was leaning against the edifice,
throwing up violently. Drunk or sick person? Adam didn’t know, and
wasn’t interested in finding out.
Mackey got straight down to checking his messages. ‘About fuck-
ing time,’ he said after reading the first one. ‘I’ve had tools on order
for two months, and they’re finally going to be delivered. We might
– .’ He didn’t get to finish his sentence, as just then the man who had
been throwing up staggered over and tried to grasp Mackey by the
collar. Mackey intercepted his hand just in time, twisting it behind his
back and pulling upwards. The man started to scream like a girl. ‘What
the fuck’s wrong with you?’ Mackey shouted, steadily increasing the
31
pressure. The man screamed louder, and Mackey finally relented, re-
leasing him. ‘Now fuck off you junkie, before I really ruin your day.’
The man stumbled away from the trio, mumbling under his breath.
‘Dickhead,’ Ashley muttered. Adam began to check his messages.
It didn’t take long for the group to finish up reading their emails
and leave. A few miles from Camp Parrot they crossed a wooden
bridge over a stream that had been reduced to a trickle.
‘Tinker Bridge,’ Adam said.
‘What?’ Ashley supplied the word.
‘This is the bridge where I first met Tinker. Or to be more precise,
where Tinker first met me. I was so ill the only verbs that I was capa-
ble of wearing were “collapsing” and “fading”.’
Mackey: ‘That was your first contact with someone from the Set-
tlement, wasn’t it?’
Adam grabbed the seat in front of him as they hit a pothole. ‘Yep.
I’d wandered off from the airport after my arrival, having scorned an
offer of accommodation and work by some freaks. Thought I could
fend for myself for a bit before deciding where to settle. And I might
have managed to, had I not decided to cook and eat some roadkill – a
badger would you believe. My attempts to cook it over an open fire
were obviously not successful at killing whatever bacteria it was play-
ing host to, and I got really ill.’
‘You muppet,’ Ashley said.
‘I spent two days under a lean-to, vomiting my guts out, but with-
out fresh water any progress I was making at fighting the belly rot was
being offset by dehydration. Eventually, I had to force myself to walk
in the hope of finding something to drink.’
‘You should have seen this guy when Tinker hauled him into Camp
Parrot,’ Mackey contributed. He had one hand on the steering wheel
and was adjusting his eye-patch with the other. ‘Talk about the walk-
ing dead. He was sicker than the parrot Camp Parrot was named after.
‘I know,’ Adam agreed. ‘Tinker found me passed out under that
bridge, where I’d managed to scoop some water into my mouth. I
don’t actually remember the walk to the Settlement.’
Ashley: ‘No wonder you two are so tight. So Tinker was living
in Camp Parrot back then? I thought he’d always been a peripheral
member.’
32
 ‘Nah.’ It was Mackey’s turn. ‘Mackey moved out to his shack after
things went pear-shaped with Patricia. Talking of whom . . . there she
is now.’
They had reached Camp Parrot.

33
 4

‘H ow the hell do you break a sink?’ It was Adam asking the ques-
tion, in response to a statement by Tinker. The pair was sitting
in Adam’s shack.
‘It was a ceramic sink. I made the mistake of trying to lift a mo-
torcycle engine into it – to clean it, you understand – and I sort of
dropped it.’
Adam laughed. ‘You were going to wash it up with your pots and
pans and leave it to dry?’
‘No, of course not. I wanted to get some rust and excess oil off it.
To see if I could get it working. The sink was a good height to work
at. My arthritis makes bending over for prolonged periods a bit un-
comfortable. Anyway, how it happened is beside the point. I need a
new sink, and Mackey says you guys need sinks, taps and a bunch of
other plumbing gear. So will you come with me? Mackey doesn’t trust
me to drive the jeep, but seems to think you’re capable of driving it
without us ending up in a ditch.’
‘You want to go to Ryde?’ Adam was cleaning his fingernails with
a pocket knife. ‘I’ll go, but only if Mackey lends us a gun as well as
a jeep. And we’d better go now. We need to be out of that place by
nightfall.’
‘No need to borrow a gun from Mackey. I’ve got my shotgun with
me.’ The man nodded at a hold-all that lay beside his chair. ‘I’ve got
the gun, plus wrenches and spanners.’
‘Okay, let’s do it,’ Adam said, rising. ‘If we get killed I’m going to
give you a clip around the ear in whichever afterlife we end up in.’
An hour later they were approaching Ryde. Although a small town
by mainland standards, it was the biggest on the Island, and had
enough mass to give it a ‘Big Smoke’ feel when compared to the ham-
lets and settlements that housed most of the prison population. De-
34
spite its size, very few people lived in Ryde. From the second year of
the Isle of Wight’s conversion to a penal colony, the town had been
fought over by rival gangs, and members of these mobs were pretty
much its only occupants. Many of Ryde’s buildings had been looted
and some burned, but it was still a source of metal, bricks, timber . . .
and plumbing ware for anyone able to wield a spanner.
As they passed a sign proclaiming their arrival in Ryde – one that
had been used extensively for target practice – Adam said, ‘Keep your
eyes peeled. Let’s check out houses on the outskirts. I don’t want to
venture any further into this place than I need to.’
‘Agreed,’ Tinker replied. ‘Fucking hell, look over there!’ The man
pointed at a partially demolished Victorian pub. The wooden pole
from which the pub’s sign would once have hung now seemed to have
been put to use as a gallows, and from it hung a male corpse. Judging
by its condition it had been hanging for some time; a piece of orange
cloth had been tied to one of the body’s arms.
‘I’m beginning to regret this trip already,’ was Adam’s response.
He swerved to avoid a pot-hole, before continuing: ‘In and out in one
hour. That’s some gang shit that bit of cloth.’
Adam turned off the main road as soon as an opportunity to do
so presented itself. They found themselves on a road of Victorian
terraced houses, in states of disrepair ranging from total ruin to a
single broken window. A mangy dog darted out in front of the jeep,
making both Adam and Tinker start, but they had yet to see a solitary
living human being.
‘We have a choice,’ Tinker said. ‘Go for a house that’s totally
wrecked on the basis that it’s unlikely to be occupied, or try one that’s
in reasonable shape in the hope it’ll have stuff worth salvaging inside.’
‘What about one that’s somewhere in between? Like this one.’ The
man pulled the jeep over to the kerb, parking behind a burnt-out
Mercedes.
Tinker removed the shotgun from his hold-all, before breaking it
to check that it was loaded. The pair jumped out of the vehicle and
began to cautiously approach the house.
‘What do you reckon?’ Adams said. ‘We both check out the house
to make sure it’s empty, then I watch the jeep while you get on with
your salvaging? The vehicle would be a real prize for any ferals in this
35
area . . .’
‘Sounds good. Though you’ll have to help me lift any of the heavi-
er stuff out to the car.’
They now stood before the house’s front door. Adam gave it a
push, and was simultaneously pleased and annoyed to find that it
didn’t yield. ‘Stand back,’ he said, before kicking the door with all his
strength. After three powerful blows it gave way with the sound of
splintering wood.
Tinker led the way, swinging his shotgun from side to side as he
made his way into the hallway. There was a considerable amount of
rubbish on the carpet and some paint daubings on the wallpapered
walls, but from their first few steps it didn’t look like the property had
been totally trashed. They took the first left, into a living room, quick-
ly establishing that it was empty. There was just a single armchair in
the room; darker patches of carpet indicated where larger items of
furniture might have been. No television, but television signals were
now blocked to the Island, so not a great loss to salvagers.
The second reception on the ground floor told a similar story:
some signs of furniture removal, but not trashing. As the pair entered
the kitchen they were hit with an overpowering smell of rotting meat,
and Adam feared they would soon discover a corpse. This didn’t hap-
pen, however, the source of the pong soon being traced to a refriger-
ator whose door was partially open. There was a note attached to the
fridge door by a magnet, and Adam couldn’t help reading it:

Shoot dog.
Shipping company pick-up 0900hrs Thursday
Board vessel 1130hrs Friday

‘A note from the last legal occupant,’ Adam said, tapping the fridge.
Tinker leaned in to look at the note, and nodded his agreement.
‘Could mean we’re going to find everything intact,’ the man noted.
‘And the kitchen appears to bear that out,’ Adam said, walking fur-
ther into the room. ‘You can start dismantling this baby,’ he contin-
ued, rapping the stainless steel of the sink’s drainer. Adam opened a
drawer. ‘Knives and forks,’ the man commented. ‘Let’s fill our boots.’
After a quick tour of the upper floor, which confirmed that the
36
house was empty and had sanitary ware worth plundering, Adam went
and sat in the jeep while Tinker began to unbolt and unscrew. During
the twenty minutes it took before Tinker came to ask for assistance
in carrying the first of his prizes, Adam heard the distant sound of a
vehicle, and sometime later and a gunshot, but saw no-one.
They removed two sinks, a toilet and a considerable amount of
cooking utensils from the property, leading Adam to say: ‘I’m won-
dering how much more stuff we’ll fit in the jeep.’
‘One more property, I reckon,’ Tinker said.
Adam looked at his watch. ‘Okay, but let’s be quick. It’s too quiet
for my liking.’
As they drove off the sun exploded in a final burst of intensity as a
magnificent sunset reached its climax, displaying colours that seemed
to have been invented for just this occasion.
‘Funny to see something so beautiful in such an ugly place,’ Tinker
commented.
‘Ah, this place has a beauty all of its own,’ Adam replied. ‘Which
isn’t to say I won’t be happy when we’re getting the Hell out of here.
But it’s got a beauty. The Law Of The Wild rules here – it’s eat or be
eaten. And with all the reminders of what life used to be like, it makes
what this place has become that much starker, more vital. We’ll always
revert to ancient savageries, given half a chance, but at least there’s an
honesty in that savagery.’
‘Elegantly put.’
The street they were now cruising didn’t look very promising. They
took a right, but half way down this road their progress was halted
by a makeshift roadblock: a burnt out car positioned sideways, with a
large metal bin at one end and a green armchair at the other. The road
was narrow, making a three-point turn difficult, so Adam put the jeep
in reverse and began to back down the road.
Adam caught a flash of brightness, before there was a smashing
and whooshing sound, as a Molotov Cocktail exploded just in front
of the jeep. There followed the sound of loud jeering, and then a
barrage of missiles fell on them; mostly large rocks, but also, incon-
gruously, an electric kettle. Adam increased his speed, but when a
large stone caught him on the shoulder he lost his grip on the steering
wheel and they collided with a rusty Saab. Adam managed to regain
37
his composure, quickly moving forward before resuming his retreat.
‘You’re almost there,’ Tinker said, looking behind them. ‘Fucking
hell . . .’
‘I think they just want us gone, not dead or captured. At least that’s
what I’m hoping . . .’
Seconds later, Adam reached the end of the road, and quickly re-
versed onto the street that ran at right angles to it. He braked, then
floored the accelerator and sped off.
‘I think we’ll forget about a second house,’ Adam said.
‘Agreed. Get us out of here.’

It was the following morning, and most members of Camp Parrot

were gathered on the common by Mackey’s house. The group had
congregated to hear the trial of one of their members, a John Whit-
tington, who was accused of sexually molesting a two-year old girl.
The alleged victim and her mother were two of the few Settlement
members that were not present. Mackey, as de facto head of the
community, was presiding over proceedings, and it was he that would
determine guilt and impose any sentence on the accused. Although
Camp Parrot’s aims were to provide a safe and economically viable
home for its residents, it faced the challenge of being populated by
convicted criminals. Some had been convicted of merely political and
ideological crimes, or lesser crimes such as drink-driving – but there
remained a significant proportion of Settlement members who would
be classed as potentially dangerous offenders by even the most liber-
al-minded. In recent years steps had been taken to restrict member-
ship of the community to those who presented less of a danger, but
that had not been the policy from the outset.
‘So thankyou for gathering folks,’ Mackey said when he had the
crowd’s attention. He was sitting in a folding chair, with the accused
sitting beside him in a matching chair, the audience variously sitting,
standing or lying in a rough semi-circle before him. ‘It’s thankfully
very rare that we have to gather in this way, but rules is rules, and
though we may all be convicts, we’ve learned that the only way this
settlement stays together is if they’re obeyed. The purpose of today is
to hear evidence of the accused’s guilt. After that he’ll get the oppor-
tunity to put forward a defence. He can call on up to two witnesses if
38
he wishes. After that’s happened there’ll be a break for an hour, after
which we all re-assemble here. I’ll then deliver my verdict. All clear?’
There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd, after which
Mackey cleared his throat and said: ‘So it is alleged by Emma Perkins,
that last Thursday evening she caught the accused, John Whittington,
in the process of sexually assaulting her daughter, Martha Perkins,
who is two years of age. This event was co-witnessed by Jenna LaSal-
le, who is a friend of Emma Perkins. So, John Whittington,’ Mackey
turned in the direction of the accused, ‘how do you respond to this
allegation? Did you abuse Martha Perkins?’
John Whittington, a thin, nervous man, who was wearing a sleeve-
less body warmer, replied immediately in a strained voice: ‘No, I
didn’t do anything of the sort. I’d agreed to look after her kid for the
evening – Emma wanted to go to your bash – but I didn’t interfere
with no-one in a bad way. Emma and Jenna were blind drunk when
they got back. They barely knew their own names, let alone what was
going on around them.’
‘Yeah, bullshit!’ a man in the crowd responded, prompting Mackey
to raise a hand in rebuke.
‘Okay,’ Mackey said. ‘So you’re saying Emma and Jenna were too
drunk to know what was going on. What about Samantha Trellis’
testimony? She’s Martha’s teacher, and was told by Martha that you
touched her on the privates.’
‘That bitch!’ Whittington flushed crimson. ‘She’s hated me from
the day I got here. She’d say anything to get me into trouble!’
‘The point is,’ Mackey said, ‘that three different people have
bourne witness to your alleged molesting activities. Would you care
to tell those gathered here what the crime was that got you sent to
the Island?’
‘None of their business!’ Whitworth exclaimed. ‘Everyone knows
the legal system is bullshit, anyway. Half the people here didn’t com-
mit the crime they were sent here for. What about you?’ Whittington
glared at Mackey. ‘What were you sent here for?’
‘Today isn’t about me,’ Mackey said calmly. ‘Now, can you tell us all
what you did to get sent here?’
‘No. That isn’t the way trials are meant to work. You decide my
guilt based on evidence, not on what happened in the past. And the
39
only evidence against me is the testimony of liars.’
Mackey remained silent for a few moments as he contemplated
how best to proceed. Finally: ‘Okay, well for the benefit of those who
don’t know, Whittington is a convicted pedophile. The accused may
not think that is relevant, but I do.’
Those gathered muttered amongst themselves at this revelation.
‘You’re toast, mate!’ a woman shouted.
‘I’m going to call a witness,’ Mackey continued, ‘after which, Whit-
tington, you’ll have a few minutes to expand your defence. Miles Rob-
inson, where are you?’
A man in his sixties, wearing flip-flops, shorts and a T-shirt stepped
forward. ‘Here,’ he said, raising a hand.
‘Thanks, Miles,’ Mackey said. ‘Can you tell those gathered what you
did for a living, before being sent to the Island?’
‘I was a doctor,’ Miles replied.
‘What sort of doctor?’
‘I was a G.P.. Had my own practice.’
‘So you’ve had plenty of experience dealing with children?’
‘As much experience as most G.P.s – which is a fair bit.’
‘And you examined Martha after the accusations made by her
mother? Is that correct?’
‘That is indeed correct.’ Robinson nodded sternly.
‘So,’ Mackey said, then paused for so long some wondered if he’d
forgotten what to say next. Finally: ‘So, what in your professional
opinion did your examination show? Did you find evidence that Mar-
tha had been abused?’
‘Yes, it was unequivocal. Martha had been sexually abused.’
‘How can you be sure you were seeing signs of abuse? Could what-
ever you saw have been caused by the actions of Martha herself ?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘And what do you base your certainty on?’
‘The absolute certainty that Martha is incapable of producing se-
men.’
There were gasps from the crowd on hearing this, and a man tried
to break from the audience and approach Whittington, being dragged
back by one of his neighbours.
‘Thankyou, Miles,’ Mackey said when he again had the Settlement’s
40
attention. ‘You can sit down now.’
It was at this point that Adam made an appearance. He’d wanted
to miss the entire trial, so distasteful and perplexing did he find the
subject of child abuse, but he had decided he should show his face to
avoid accusations of ambivalence.
Mackey, who by now was flexing his hands as if in anticipation of
an imminent lynching, continued: ‘Okay, Whittington. What do you
have to say about that? You’ve got a couple of minutes to present
your defence, and from what I’ve heard so far it’d better be a bloody
good one.’
‘I . . . I . . . this is all r - r - ubbish,’ Whittington stammered. ‘Semen?
Show me the semen! This is just a stitch-up.’
‘So your defence is that everyone is lying apart from you?’ Mackey
asked. ‘And the fact that you’re a convicted sex offender should just
be ignored as well?’
At that point a goat plodded onto the grass, beginning to munch on
green shoots. Someone threw a plastic bowl at it. The item bounced
off one of the animal’s horns as it grazed, but the goat either didn’t
notice or chose to ignore it, continuing to feed.
‘I see your lawyer has decided to turn up,’ Mackey remarked, elicit-
ing several sniggers. ‘Unfortunately he doesn’t seem to have much to
add to the proceedings. Take the prisoner away. I’ll deliver my verdict
in one hour.’
Two large men walked towards the accused. Whittington shouted
and swore as he was led away.
An hour and ten minutes later more-or-less the same group of
people were gathered again on the common. ‘Where’s Whittington?’
Mackey asked, looking at the empty chair next to him. By way of an-
swer, there was a shout of indignation, and the crowd turned to see
the accused being manhandled by his minders. They were marching
a reluctant and struggling Whittington in the direction of his seat,
a hand on each of the man’s arms. Whittington’s wrists were now
bound with a zip-tie, and a large scratch on his face suggested there’d
been a scuffle between the man and his guards.
‘Fuck the lot of you!’ Whittington shouted after he’d been forced
to take his seat. ‘Fuck this place and everyone that lives in it!’ He tried
to spit at Mackey, but only managed to deposit saliva on the grass.
41
 ‘Okay, this isn’t going to take long,’ Mackey said. ‘As head of Camp
Parrot, I find you, John Whittington, guilty of sexually violating Mar-
tha Perkins. Your punishment is death, to be carried out immediately.’
‘What the . . .’ Whittington began, but before he could finish his
sentence his guards dragged him out of his seat. As soon as he was
on his feet they began to lead him away.
‘Don’t waste a bullet on him!’ a woman with a cleft palate shouted,
to cheers of agreement from the crowd.
It was at this point that Adam decided to return to his shack. As
much as he detested the crime committed, he didn’t agree with exe-
cuting people. Just after opening his front door he heard three gun-
shots in quick succession.

42