Prologue:

 

"And so I put it to the House that the proposal to evacuate the Isle of Wight of all residents and treat it as a prison makes sense in the current economic climate. There will be no need to staff the prison already there, or to make provision for the convicts. Our liability for the welfare of each individual will end when the ferry deposits them on the island and will begin again when their term of imprisonment is finalised and they are allowed back onto the mainland. If this scheme works, it is hoped that other islands will be converted to prisons, too, which will take an immense pressure from the government's finances.

"Buildings will be retained but all services will be disconnected and discontinued. Convicts will have to find shelter and scavenge for food themselves should they not have sufficient given to them once a week. The reasoning is that by being constantly aware of the need for food and water and the activity needed to gain both items, there will be little time to become involved in nefarious activities such as they had engaged in before arriving on the island. It will go toward their rehabilitation.

"There will be emergency contingencies for anyone who becomes seriously ill; the rest of the time they will be left to their own devices. This removes the need for constant medical attention, policing and the consequent drain on the Treasury. The convicts will be free to police themselves.

"It is suggested, if the scheme is passed, that the work of evacuation begins in three months' time. The Island's population has become sufficiently small that local authorities should not find it difficult to re-house those who need to be evacuated. The first convicts could be freed from prisons and others delivered from the mainland in January 2280. It is suggested that prisoners in both Southampton and Portsmouth be relocated to the Isle of Wight."

 

Statement made to the House in July 2275 by the Minister for Justice, James Evenan-Sharpe, M.P. for Portsmouth.

 

Chapter 1

 

The opening of the story comes from some of the diabolical crossings I've made to the island. I've managed to miss the ones when the ferry hasn't been able to dock, has turned round and sailed back to the mainland. I've managed to avoid the ferry journeys from Lymington to Yarmouth when the wind and tide were against one another... but there have been the bad times when I did hear things clanking, when water was beating against the windows and you could believe you were on a ferry about to sink in freezing cold Solent waters... and so -

Carla has been hustled onto the convict ferry, alone, afraid and lost. She's the object of every man's attention, being prettier and younger than the other women. It's not difficult to work out what they want... Then the authoritative male speaks to her surreptitiously and puts strength back into her trembling limbs. Slavery is the farthest thing from her mind at this point...

 

***

 

To distract her thoughts from the horrendous past, the almost unbearable present and the unforgiving future, along with the sickness the thoughts were bringing, Carla studied some of her fellow passengers from beneath lowered eyelids. It wouldn't do to let them know she was even remotely interested; the first rule of a convict's life, she had been told, was 'keep yourself to yourself.' As far as she knew, the second was, 'don't let the bastards grind you down' but it wasn't as easy as people made it seem.

Even without looking round, she knew the midday ferry was packed. There were so many people -convicts, she corrected herself - standing, clinging to whatever they could, tables, chairs, railings, some sitting on the floor in the way, getting kicked. She was lucky to get a seat.

The ferry rolled on the fast running tide, setting chains clanking. One of the ever-vigilant guards swung his gun in a wide arc.

"Don't worry," he said loudly, around a sadistic grin. "If the ferry starts sinking, we'll shoot the lot of you. You won't drown!"

Carla shuddered, setting her long raven black hair rippling. The callousness of authority was one aspect of her new life she found hard to accept, the indifference to human beings, no matter what their crime.

"Don't let them get to you," an authoritative male voice whispered in her ear. She knew better than to turn and look. That invited rejection, scorn or dismissal, not something Carla could stand, not now when everything was so terrifying.

"Thank you," she muttered, hoping whoever it was could hear the whisper. It wasn't against the rules to talk, as far as she knew, but she was aware no one had uttered a word since they'd been herded onto the ferry what felt like hours earlier but was in reality only about thirty minutes.

"Ross." The voice was so low she wondered if she'd heard. The ferry rocked again as a large wave smashed against the window.

"Carla," she responded under cover of the noise.

"Stay close, Carla. We could help each other."

A guard was looking at them with deep suspicion. Carla pasted on an indifferent smile and he turned away to watch the gang of four rough looking men chained together by the stairway. They seemed about to start an argument, if not an actual fight. Once his interest was elsewhere, Carla risked a glance at the stranger.

Ross was young, self-assured, blond and very good-looking. He seemed at ease in the strange environment of the prison ferry, as if chains and manacles were normal wear and the guards were friends. For a moment she envied his self-possession but then her chains clunked against the seat as she moved, bringing the cold shaft of sheer terror again. It was a feeling she had lived with since her arrest two weeks' earlier, had stayed with her throughout the rapid court process and escorted her onto the ferry taking her to the Isle of Wight and her future as a prisoner of the regime which ruled under the innocuous name of the Coalition. Had she known that picking up a banner and protesting at a hunt would bring her to this - well, the juvenile had a chance to escape; she didn't.

The wind howled around the ferry, smashing waves against the sides, adding to her fear. She was afraid of everything, throwing up for a start. Something metallic rolled and clanged but the engines droned on, pushing the ungainly vessel through the choppy Solent waters. She looked out of the window, seeing nothing but moisture streaming down the reinforced glass. Surely the island was not that far away, was it? What if they did sink? Was a swift end by bullet preferable to drowning and was that in turn preferable to the unknown terrifying future that faced her anyway?

Carla shivered. It wasn't a question she could answer. What she did know - absolutely - was that the next six months would be hell. Just how bad that hell would be she couldn't begin to imagine but she knew stark, raw fear above all else.

She didn't know whether fear was contagious or whether Ross was tuned into her feelings but he surreptitiously gripped her hand. For a wonder, the chains didn't clank against each other. Carla managed a half smile. Maybe with a protector she could actually make it through the days, weeks and months ahead. Perhaps.

A fleeting thought, too fast to pin down, asked: what was in it for him? But it fled as her immediate future swamped her emotions. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and cry herself to sleep. Again.

The ferry stopped rolling and the deck began to stay level for a few minutes at a time. The engine sound changed, dropping in tone as it wound down. There was an increase in deck activity, men rushing about, throwing ropes, doing all manner of things that said the journey was finally over.

"Out! Out! Move!" The guards were all efficiency, motioning with their guns and even their boots if people didn't move fast enough. Everyone began to make their way toward the stairs, struggling with the chains they'd been wearing from the start of their journey.

"Stay calm." Ross's voice reached her below the shouts of the guards, the clanging of the chains and the sound of the ferry knocking against the wooden piers at the dock. It had been relatively warm in the cabin, outside was cold with a fine drizzle more like mist coating everything in moisture and depression, driven by the sharp cutting wind. Carla felt chilled; the prison issue jacket was nowhere near thick enough for the time of year.

The prisoners shuffled down the ramp and onto the broken tarmac road leading away from the ferry terminal. All wore the same badly made clothes: trousers, shirt, jacket, canvas shoes. No one spoke. It seemed impossible that so many people could be so silent. A big dose of reality can do that, Carla thought. It was like walking into a huge black cloud of depression.

She noticed some of them stop and look around at the empty houses, now reinforced with purloined wood to keep others out and at the winter bare trees and tired grasses, before shuffling on, accompanied by the clanging sound. Was no one going to take off their chains? Were they sentenced to wear those as well as being marooned on a prison island?

She lifted her wrists and, as if reading her thoughts, a man in some kind of official uniform stood by the roadside shouted, "Guy in Newport takes them off, if you can get there, that is!"

"Newport's five miles away, give or take a bit," Ross said quietly as he walked alongside her. "

Carla looked at him. "How did you know that?"

"What? How far Newport is? Before I go anywhere, I find out all I can. The prison library was very useful."

She cursed silently at not being that far-sighted and then forgave herself. Being arrested, convicted, held in a prison with criminals and 'law-breakers', as defined by the Coalition government, had destroyed all rational thoughts.

"We need to get shelter before night comes." Ross betrayed a sense of urgency for the first time. "All the decent places would have been taken already but if we're lucky, we can find somewhere." Carla would have felt happier if he'd said it with a little more conviction. There was almost a quiver in his voice which worried her. But she was cheered by the 'we'. She looked around as they walked. There was nothing much to see, just the houses decorated with sheets of plastic, edging on desolate areas where nothing seemed to grow, an emptiness that echoed her emotions. It might be the middle of the day but it was cold, grey and heading toward dark already. Typical November. All the decent places have been taken already. Whilst Carla didn't, under any circumstances, want to find fault with her saviour, that struck her as particularly foolish. She knew the island had been a prison for some years; of course there would be nothing left. But, being kind to herself, she accepted knowing is one thing, seeing it in real life was another. There were other things she needed to know. Hesitantly she turned to Ross, hoping to find answers.

"What do we do about food and stuff?"

"Look after ourselves, of course! We get dumped here and left to get on with it."

"But..."

"But nothing, Carla. That's why I spoke to you. A lone woman on this island's fair game for anyone who wants a slave. You would've been snatched by now if I hadn't walked with you. I've seen a few heads turn, eyeing you up. There're more men than women here, you know. That makes you desirable."

Something Carla hadn't thought about. The future looked remarkably bleak, even with Ross' protection. She was very glad she wasn't alone. Life looked empty, almost unbearably so. She realised how innocent she had been. This was a huge wakeup call.

"Thank you." The words seemed totally inadequate. She put her hand on his arm, chains trailing across the space between them. "I mean that."

He smiled. "Carla, you'll have many chances to let me know how grateful you are, believe me."

What did that mean? Work with him, perhaps? Help him find food and supplies, whatever? Be a companion? Carla wasn't blessed with far-seeing ability, she should have thought about the consequences of being on a prison island, a young woman alone, but she hadn't. Again she told herself that being arrested, sentenced and incarcerated in record time had destroyed all sensible thinking. She knew it was an excuse but it was the only one she had.

But seriously, what else could I expect from a prison island? Of course women are fair game, what other use would they have? The thought sat ill with her; it wouldn't settle in her befuddled mind. Her vague suspicions about Ross wouldn't settle either, one moment she thought of him as her saviour, the next as someone looking to take advantage of her. Who was he? What was his story?

Carla wasn't a virgin but had experienced so few encounters with men they were a total mystery. Circumstances had swept her into this living hell and she had to wait and see how circumstances would take her out of it, dead or alive.

It seemed like a long walk to the end of the road, to the T junction with rusting traffic lights and illegible signs pointing in either direction, a walk they'd shared with every other convict thrown off the ferry. Why 'thrown?' They'd walked off, hadn't they? Under ever present guns, the other side of her mind argued. She desperately wanted to talk, to break the tense silence, to ease some of her fears but couldn't think of anything sensible to say, other than 'how do I get these damn chains off me?'

The fine drizzle became heavier, more like rain. The wind had dropped but the clouds were oppressive, making everything look miserable and dark. Carla was in despair. Ross was unknown, a stranger who might be worse than the other convicts for all she knew. She had no way of standing on her own feet on a prison island; Ross had shown her that with the few comments about things she should have realised. I'm not made for thinking, she told herself. I'm made to serve - and wondered where that thought had come from.

"Look at this lot," Ross muttered. "Good job there's only one convict ferry a week."

"Does it take anyone off the island?" she asked tentatively. Her other questions, the ones tip-tumbling around her scattered thoughts, sounded so inane, so obvious, she was worried about asking this 'ordinary' question but he didn't seem to mind.

"If they've survived and their sentence is done, they can go when their names are posted at the dock gate. No one's got a watch or calendar and days go by fast. Sometimes. It's up to each prisoner to check their names. Would the average person on the mainland care if they didn't come back?"

It occurred to her, briefly, to ask how he knew, but decided not to go there. If he wanted to tell her, he would. She wondered for a moment if her parents would care - but that was another road she didn't want to walk, not right now.

The junction was jammed with people holding up their chains as best they could; milling around aimlessly whilst they worked out where to go next. Newport was the favoured destination, it would seem, the capital of the island, someone said, the place where the man would remove their chains, but if everyone headed in that direction -

"Let's try Ryde," Ross suggested quietly. "I bet you anything you have to bet with there's someone there who'll take them off. They like to send everyone to Newport because it's further away and gives people the most problems, not to mention the chance of being taken for all they might possess along the way."

"Their idea of a sick joke?"

"Precisely. I don't know for sure, though. We're taking a chance on Ryde. Carla, will you go with me on this?"

"I don't have any alternative," she said - and meant it. She'd be lost and in danger on her own. If Ross decided to walk to the farthest point of the island she'd go with him. Willingly, she was surprised to realise. There were still doubts but they were fast being crushed by the need for everything else, including a release of her bladder.

They walked down the almost empty road, carrying their chains in one hand. The surface had crumbled and in some places the whole road had subsided; twice they detoured around large potholes with small corpses at the bottom. This, coupled with houses which clearly had not been maintained by anyone for a good many years, added to the overwhelming sense of dereliction and decay.

Carla risked a fleeting glance behind her and noticed a large group walking down the road, heads down, slumped shoulders, no life at all. They probably were in despair, she thought, if they felt the way she did. Sudden weariness swept over her, what was she doing, what was the point of all this?

"What chance do we have of surviving?" she asked on impulse. Ross looked at her and gave a thin smile.

"As good as the next one. First, let's get to Ryde. I did hear some people there 'employ' others, pay them with food and supplies for work done, those who don't want to do anything themselves but who've already taken control of food sources. We might be fortunate enough to get positions, or find something we can offer for our survival. It's really down to that, Carla, survival of the fittest and that means those who can beg, steal or borrow what they need to do just that."

"I don't have anything to offer," she said miserably.

"Oh, but you do."

"What?"

"A body."

"Oh."

I'm more stupid than I thought! Carla sensed growing anger and began blushing furiously. Why didn't I see what he wanted? Or what any other man will want? No wonder Ross had claimed her before they'd even set foot on the island!

Oh well, she rolled wet shoulders and flicked moisture from her hair. If it has to be, it has to be. It could have been worse; he could have been old, uncouth and unpleasant.

Provided it was only Ross. Not someone old, disgusting, unclean, all the things she hated.

She wondered how she could so casually dismiss such a big thing, then shrugged. Shock can do strange things and there was always the chance life would take her in a different direction anyway.

Carla, she reproved herself, this is nonsensical thinking! Concentrate! This is life changing!

When Ross detoured behind the bushes without a word, she took the chance to hurry off the road and relieve herself. Without that pressure she could walk easier.

They tramped on, suffering the misery of the rain, depressed by their journey through an area of burned out cars and boarded up buildings where people stood defensively in front of shelters they'd managed to create. Nothing was said as they passed, but Carla noted they weren't wearing chains.

Then they were heading down a long slope toward a small stone bridge barricaded with tree trunks, branches and sheets of corrugated iron painted with

RYDE KINGDOM- GO NO FURTHER!