The Prisoner (1979)

by Stine, Hank

  The whole into souffle dish and into the oven.

  ‘Our differences of opinion need only be set aside to achieve mankind’s dream: Community. There need be nothing to mar our brotherhood. And in this golden isle, all will shine more brightly.’

  An hour of calisthenics and a fifteen-minute jog.

  Then breakfast.

  ‘I want to see you here, in my office, at four o’clock. Do you understand? Number Six, answer me! Four o’clock. Not a minute later. I can have you brought, you know. I don’t have to be polite. You’ve been allowed more than enough freedom in the past. It’s a privilege you’ve abused. If you can’t accept its responsibilities—Was that the door? Did you—’

  The voice cut from speaker to speaker in the grey morning fog.

  ‘I can see you, Number Six. I know what you’re doing, where you’re going. There are no secrets in this Village, no private existence. There is no need for privacy when all men are as one. Why not join us, give us a chance. We stand ready to help you. You have only to ask.’

  The tall, candy-striped poles with their square metal hoods and glittering camera eyes waited at each corner, speakers crackling with cool electric life.

  ‘We are simply not going to accommodate ourselves to you. Get that thought out of your head. You’re not that important. You have a certain value to us, yes. But nothing so great as you think. You are no more than a cog in our machine, and you must be made to work smoothly. You will be made to work smoothly. There is room only for harmony. And we will have harmony.’

  Number 105’s house was shuttered and dark. The roses bright with dew.

  ‘Think about that: harmony and beauty. A village living in peace and contentment, a model for the world to follow. Oh, if you’d only let yourself go, you’d find us the best of fellows. There’s so much to do, you could really be quite comfortable here. It’s only your attitude that can’t be tolerated. We love the real you.’

  Ting-a-ling-ling.

  Chop. Number 87’s cleaver cut through the beef. Chop. Chop. Chop. Steady, even slices, the silver wedge of the blade striking down against the wooden cutting board. Chop. Chop. Chop.

  ‘Good morning, Number Eighty-seven.’

  A mean, resentful look from tiny eyes set deep over quivering, sullen jowls. ‘Number Six.’

  ‘And how are you this morning?’

  ‘Well enough, thank you. Your order?’ He produced pad and pen.

  ‘Chopped liver.’

  ‘Off today.’

  ‘In that case…Kippers, definitely kippers.’

  ‘Off today.’

  ‘What would you recommend?’

  ‘Couldn’t say.’

  ‘One of those steaks…No. Not the fat one. That one there.’

  ‘Some people…know-it-alls…’ he muttered. ‘Disparaging a man’s…’

  ‘What was that, Eighty-seven?’

  His hands moved deftly, folding the meat tightly into paper. ‘Here. That’ll be point eight five credit units.’

  ‘Charge—’

  ‘All right.’ He frowned down at the register. ‘Getting quite a balance, you are.’

  ‘Bill me at the end of the month, as always, and have this deliver—’

  ‘No deliveries today.’

  ‘No?

  ‘No. Number Twenty-four quit. Taken up a new career. Film-making it is. Just like these lads today: no sense of values. This profession was good enough for me father and it is good enough for me. Don’t see why they have to go off and get themselves involved in that foolishness.’ He picked up the cleaver and made an abrupt downward motion. Chop.

  ‘Be seeing you.’

  Chop. Chop. Chop.

  Ting-a-ling-ling.

  ‘—in the Cultural Centre at two o’clock…And the Women’s League for Better Government will hold a benefit showing of Gone With the Wind in the Little Theatre this evening at half past seven. I repeat: There will be a display of the sculpture of our own Number Three Thirty-six this afternoon at two in the Cultural Centre. And this evening at half past seven the Women’s League for Better Government will hold a benefit showing of Gone With the Wind It’s for a good cause; please come and help promote mutuality in our Village. It is forty-two degrees centigrade and the wind is two point three miles an hour from the north-northeast. This is your Hostess, Number Two Fifteen, turning you over to the music of Mantovani with his arrangement of Yesterday.’

  The day was grey, heavily overcast, the underbellies of the clouds moving in dark, ragged streamers. The wind chill, a faint foretaste of rain in the air. Gravel popped underfoot and the white gingerbread houses stood out sharp and vivid, grey-gabled roofs like battlements raised against the sky.

  Ting-a-ling-ling.

  The man sitting behind the counter, bent over a rolling machine, was large and beefy, a thin reddish beard covering his cheeks. The shop was pungent with the aroma of tobacco.

  ‘Yes. May I help you?’

  ‘Where is One Fifty-seven?’

  ‘He is no longer here.’ The man did not look up from his work.

  ‘What do you mean, “no longer here”?’

  ‘He left.’

  ‘For where?’

  ‘I wasn’t told.’

  ‘People do not just leave this Village.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was no longer wanted. He was not mutual.’ The man lifted his massive head, eyes fierce and black. ‘Why? Was he a particular friend of yours?’

  ‘No. I merely came to inquire about my order.’

  He pulled a ledger towards him. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Number Six.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he nodded. ‘I might have known.’ He pushed the ledger away. ‘I’m afraid your order hasn’t gone through yet.’

  ‘What do you mean, “not gone through”?’

  ‘All orders have to be initialled by Number Two, you know.’

  ‘And he hasn’t initialled it?’

  ‘He could be busy. You know how these things are. I’m sure he’ll get to it soon.’

  ‘In the meanwhile, do you have any left?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘Might I have them.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  He brought out a box. ‘There’s one more. Do you want it now?’

  ‘Will you hold it?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘You’re a polite one, you are.’

  ‘Be seeing you.’

  Ting-a-ling-ling.

  On the opposite side of the green the young film makers were grouped around their camera, one of them panning it slowly across the Village. A woman stood next to the blond leader. She raised a hand in greeting. ‘Yoohoo, Number Six. Come here a moment, won’t you?’

  ‘Good day, Number Thirty-two. How are you this morning?’

  She regarded him thoughtfully, brow dimpled faintly in a frown. ‘There’s something I want you to hear, Number Six.’ She turned to her companion. ‘Tell him about it, Five Sixty-nine.’

  ‘Uh…’ He scowled and fingered a calibrated lens hanging from his neck. ‘It’s like this.’ He looked around warily. ‘My mates say you’re O.K. Thirty-two, well, she says you’re a regular bloke, too. So I guess I should tell you. I hear you’re in trouble, in dutch with the authorities, see. They wanta get you, you know?’

  ‘Get me? How?’

  ‘Oh, well.’ He looked at the ground and then up towards the sky. ‘I don’t exactly know. I just hear it, that’s all.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Oh, come on, man. Don’t push me. That’s all I know. Period.’ He walked off towards the camera.

  ‘Number Six?’ Her eyes were troubled, worried.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why do you persist? You can’t defy them forever. My husband—poor Harry—he tried it, and look what it got him. Ah, don’t you see,’ her voice fell to a whisper. ‘You could at least pretend to give in, like the rest of us.’

&n
bsp; ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

  ‘Hello, Number Six.’ A boy with a large nose greeted him.

  ‘Hello, Number Twenty-four.’

  The boy looked worried, nervous.

  The beach was cold, rank with a stench of ocean and seaweed.

  ‘There will be a class in “The Village—Its Charter and Government”, seven p.m., Tuesday the nineteenth, in the Civic Centre Meeting Hall. You’re all urged to attend. Citizenship is your right and privilege. Exercise it. Become more mutual today.’

  ‘Ah, lad,’ the Admiral waved from his umbrella, ‘a bit brisk today.’

  ‘If you’d rather—’

  ‘No. No. That’s all right. A drop of wine to take the chill off and I’ll be fine.’

  A pawn was offered and rejected.

  The new woman, Number Seven, came past them down the beach.

  She was young, in her early twenties, with dark hair and a slender figure. She had a wistful expression, compounded of bitterness, disappointment and hope. And she looked at everything with a quick, uncertain glance, as if hoping in it she might find something of value, but knowing she would not.

  Their eyes met for a moment, then she moved on, not quite smiling.

  It was raining. He could hear the drumming of it against the roof. And, as simply as that, he was conscious.

  He lay quietly for a while and listened to the rain. It was a good sound, clean and substantial: above suspicion. The weather was (save himself) the only thing he could trust.

  He drew in a deep lungful of the sweet morning air and sat up, flesh contracting at the chill. He got out of bed, went into the grim, intestinal pink bathroom, rinsed his teeth and emptied his bladder. Then he stepped into the shower aned the hot water handle all the way around.

  The water smashed against him, icy cold, shrivelling his scrotum and sending a hot flush up spine and neck into his face. He picked up the soap and began to lather.

  The shower turned warm, then searing.

  ‘Good morning.’ The tinny shout of the television was louder even than the steaming crash of the water. ‘A cheery good morning. It’s seven-thirty here in the Village. Time for us all to be out of bed and about our business. We’ve all got to do our bit, you know, A job for everyone and everyone at his job.

  ‘Cloudy today, with a strong chance of showers, clearing late tonight or tomorrow. Be sure to wear your rubbers and carry your umbrellas. It will be wet.’

  He turned off the water and got out, towelling himself dry and combing his hair.

  Two eggs on to poach, a muffin in the toaster, and ham set sizzling. He melted a little butter, beat in a tablespoon of flour, a pinch of salt, some nutmeg and a dash of pepper. Then he mixed it with a third cup of cream and stirred till it was thick. A capful of white wine and a palmful of Swiss cheese finished the sauce.

  He buttered the muffins, set ham on each, an egg on the ham, poured the sauce over the egg, added green pepper and chives, and sat down to breakfast.

  There was a blistered, discoloured spot on the moulding by his feet. Must be a leak somewhere. He glanced up—the enamel was unblemished. Either water was trickling in down a beam or there was faulty plumbing behind the wall. This wasn’t a reasonable place for plumbing, though, and he’d gone over the rooftiles quite carefully this summer.

  He dressed warmly in underwear, trousers, sweater and jacket, then laid his topcoat on the bed and turned to the mirror. He parted his hair high on the right side, sweeping it back straight at the temples.

  His reflection stared back: brooding, enigmatic brow, straight nose, severe mouth, determined chin, fair Saxon complexion and wheat-straw hair looking stubborn and defiant.

  Finished, he draped the overcoat across his arm and went into the living-room. He took the polished mahogany lid from his humidor and selected a handful of cigars, fitting them into a silver case and pocketing the case. There were less than a dozen left; he would have to see about his order. It might well have been filled by now. They had always gone out of their way to supply his individual brand before. Had, in fact, placed them here in anticipation of his arrival.

  He had not (on that first day) been surprised to find them. Thoroughness (he had already surmised and was later to accept) was one of their characteristics and, however difficult the obtaining of these cigars must have been, they had not stinted, nor had he suspected any motive beyond thoroughness.

  But now (replacing the lid) he wondered: Had so trivial an annoyance been prepared even then? Was everything, from the colour of the bathroom (so hideous he almost could not resist painting it) to the leak behind the wall (which he would, here at the beginning of winter with no chance of escape in sight, have to repair) a part of their plan? Did they hope, ultimately, to diminish him with minutiae, one grain at a time?

  Quite deliberately he stilled his thoughts and gave himself up to the savouring of a cigar.

  He opened the door and went out.

  The rain had stopped and a cool golden light shone on the whitewashed buildings. Drops clung like crystal to tree limbs, sparkling in the sun. And in the fragile, translucent air even the distant, gabled skyline was clear and sharp.

  Then a cloud rolled before the sun, plunging the Village into shadow.

  Something scraped, struck metallically behind him. He turned. The long bony fingers of a branch stirred against his window. It would have to be pruned, of course, otherwise it might shatter the pane during a storm.

  He moved down the moist, gravelled lane towards the green.

  Number 105 was already out, stooping over the roses in a far corner of her lawn. A drab brown coat hung round her shoulders and flapped in the wind.

  ‘Guten Morgen,’ he said.

  She did not turn or seem to hear.

  The sea wind touched him, acrid and strong. He slipped his topcoat on and cinched it tightly, thrusting his hands in the pockets for warmth.

  Number 237 emerged from a house, rod and reel in hand.

  ‘Good morning, Number Two Thirty-seven.’

  The man looked up, a frown wrinkling his brow, sun striking flame from the fish hooks in his hat. ‘Oh, it’s you, Number Six.’

  ‘Going fishing?’

  He grimaced, speaking slowly, reluctantly. ‘Yes, with Number Eighty-seven. On the boats. Sort of a holiday. Been planning it a long time. Damn rain. Special permission from Number Two himself. Not going to let the weather stop us. Must run, you know.’ He set off down the road, not looking back.

  Ting-a-ling-ling.

  The new proprietor put down a pipe and stood up. ‘Yes? It’s Number…’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Six. Yes, of course. Come about your order I imagine.’

  ‘Has it come?’

  ‘Part of it. Humm. Yes, part of it.’

  That’s never happened before.’

  ‘No. I dare say it hasn’t. Rather unusual I should think.’

  ‘How many have come in?’

  ‘Six dozen. Six dozen all together.’

  ‘Have you reordered?’

  ‘Yes; expect I’ll hear something most any day now.’

  ‘Could you send a dozen round my way this afternoon?’

  ‘Can’t say, Number Six. Really can’t say. My assistant’s quit. Gone into film-making.’

  ‘Yours too?’

  ‘Yes. I heard tell Number Eighty-seven’s quit yesterday.’

  ‘Curious. I’ll come back myself. About a quarter to five.’

  ‘Very good. Be seeing you.’

  ‘Be seeing you.’

  Ting-a-ling-ling.

  It had grown darker, greyer outside, and a chill mist fell, descending on neck and brows. He turned up the collar of his coat and moved quickly across the green, soggy turf.

  ‘Hey, lad, wait up.’

  He turned. The Admiral hurried towards him, brandishing his cane for emphasis.

  ‘I had—’

  ‘Expected to find me home, no doubt.’ The old man stopped and caught his breath. ‘Would have
been too, but my charwoman didn’t come. Had to go out myself. Weather like this is no good for a man my age. It’s mortal cold, Number Six. And the cold hurts. My bones ache and I feel a touch of fever. Still up to a game of chess though. Nothing better. A warm fire, a drop of wine, and an afternoon with a pleasant companion. That’s the ticket. Come on.’

  ‘My place or yours? Mine is closer.’

  ‘Mine. Mine, of course. Expecting a visitor.’

  ‘Who?’

  They started across the green and the mist condensed, became rain.

  ‘Eh, lad? What’s the matter? You’re looking thoughtful again. Dangerous sign. I’ve marked it before. Bound to get you into trouble.’

  His hand indicated the Village. ‘What more trouble could there be?’

  Don’t say that lad.’ The Admiral shuddered. ‘Don’t say it. You’re bound to find out if you ask. I always have and I’ve never liked the answer.’

  They let themselves into a small, brick cottage set towards the southern edge of the Village. A great fire roared in the hearth and he was warm almost before they had entered. Papers, glasses and ashtrays were scattered around tables, desk and floor.

  ‘Damn woman always comes Thursday. Why didn’t she come today?’

  ‘Didn’t you call her?’

  ‘No answer.’

  Then he remembered. ‘Isn’t Number One Hundred five your charwoman?’

  ‘Eh? Yes, yes she is. Why, lad? Have ye seen her?’

  ‘This morning, pruning her roses. I called to her, but she didn’t answer.’

  ‘Maybe she’s heard.’

  ‘Heard what?’

  The Admiral settled back and narrowed his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me, you really don’t know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘You’re persona non grata these days. There’s a new Number Two and he’s put it out that you are no longer to receive special treatment. I think he let it be known that he didn’t consider you exactly kosher, not mutual, you know. That anyone seen with you might be suspect too.’