The Prisoner (1979) Read Free Page A

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.’
    ‘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.

I t 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