The Prisoner (1979) (8 page)

W
hat it means,’ the Field Marshal said, leaning forward on the frame and panting heavily, ‘is fitness. We have to keep fit.’

His haunches lifted and his legs pumped furiously, as if this were indeed a bicycle and not a wheelless frame bolted to the floor. The steel bars on which he was mounted rattled with the pumping, and even the floor seemed to shake slightly.

‘We have a duty, as a people and a nation, to keep fit. We cannot afford to be soft at a time when our enemies so completely surround us. It would be a flagrant invitation to conquest.’ He stopped, panting heavily, and looked up. ‘What newspaper did you say you were from?’

He got off the bicycle, took a few deep breaths, then lay down on the floor, pressing his hands flat by his chest and straightening his legs, rising on his toes. He began doing pushups, talking in measured breaths. ‘Our enemies are ready. They will attack at the first sign of weakness. We must offer them the only thing they will understand: a solid, determined front. We must be strong, alert or they will destroy us.’

He stood and seized two handles set in the wall. There were weights connected to them. He shoved his right hand forward and a weight rose, ‘What some people fail to realise is that, while freedom’s the ideal goal, you can’t have freedom without discipline.’

He let his right hand draw back to the wall and extended the left. ‘I’m all for freedom, of course, but it does have its limits. Take a soldier at war: if he’s allowed the freedom to talk out of turn, he may give his unit away and they’ll be killed. Bet you don’t think he should have it.’ He let his left hand go back and began to raise the weights, one at a time: a hard, dynamic rhythm—arms extending, then returning. ‘And what about a clerk who knows a state secret—how much freedom should he have?’

He changed rhythm and shoved both handles forward simultaneously. His face became red and sweaty. ‘It’s the same with a civilian. Country’s full of them. If they’re soft, the country’s soft. If it’s soft the enemy will attack. A certain discipline must be maintained.’ He let go the weights. ‘What newspaper did you say you were from?’

He took a rope down from a peg. ‘Now I say: If the army can maintain discipline, the civilians can maintain discipline. After all, it’s them we’re fighting for.’ He began to skip with an easy, loping stride. ‘Now some people say the military’s getting too big for its breeches. Well, that’s a lot of loose talk. But a country is only as safe as it is strong. Any nation that thinks it can conquer it, will. Without strength, a country’s lost.’

He coiled the rope and hung it back on the wall. ‘In here.’ He led the way into a smaller, padded room. There was a trampoline in the centre. ‘You have to be able to defend yourself, or they won’t leave you alone.’ He climbed on to the trampoline and began to turn smooth, quick somersaults. ‘Of course the enemy wants to undermine you any way he can. He’ll try to get you with chemicals. And with slogans. And with fear. He’ll pollute your water and corrupt your youth. If he’s not stopped, he’ll subvert the whole population. And do you know how he’ll do that?’

‘No, I don’t.’

He got down off the trampoline and they went back in the gym. He worked his shoulders, flexing the heavy, slabbed muscles. ‘What they’ll do: They’ll get people to be soft in the name of humanity. They’ll lead people to believe that mankind is more important than survival. But a country has to be realistic.’

He scurried up the horizontal wooden slats lining walls and ceiling then grabbed hold of the overhead bars and crawled directly above.

‘Sometimes, to save a country, a few of its citizens must be sacrificed. It would be foolish to risk national security because of one man.’

The Field Marshal bent his head, looking downward. ‘Or don’t you agree, Mr Drake?’ then let go, falling, crashing down against him.

An elbow cracked his head and the room rang with darkness. He was slammed into the wall and air rushed from his lungs. Something sharp and wicked jammed into his back.

He was down on the ground with the other’s body across his waist. The Field Marshal struck at his head. He dodged the fist and seized the arm, thrusting it sharply up behind the shoulder. There was concussion and he was asprawl the man’s back, chin against spine, shoving up the hammerlock with all his strength.

They were rolling across the floor. He could almost see the face above him: it was hot and contorted, flesh bulging, whites of the eyes glistening.

Then he was on top, fingers deep in the other’s throat.

He lay on the floor and a fist smashed into his face, splitting lip and cheek. He reached up and toppled the Field Marshal sideways, slamming his knee into the other’s groin.

They were up against the pulleys. He was being held firmly back against the wall (fist clenched in his collar) and something hammered his face.

‘Thought I didn’t know who you were, eh?’ The fist struck him. ‘Thought you had me fooled, huh?’ And again. ‘Knew who you were the minute I set eyes on you.’ His right eye was dark. ‘Heard about it the minute you escaped.’ His lip seemed raw and burning. ‘We all did. Even that old fool Wilkinson.’ Again and again. ‘It’s not so easy as you thought, eh?’ Again and again. The blows were powerful and stunning, almost painless, and in a moment he would be able to think.

‘Been in condition every day of my life.’ Again. (It was only a blur of motion and a distant sense of concussion like the foundations of reality being struck.) Again. ‘Knew what you were out for. The girl talked.’
AAGGAAIINN!!
‘No need to call the guards. I’ll take care of you myself.’ AGAIN! ‘Learn your lesson once and for all.’ There was a dim, shattering red like the pounding of some cosmic pulse and a terrifying force tore through him. ‘You’re nothing special, after all.’

The mute appendage of his fingers clenched on a surface round and cool. His hand jerked upward against weight and there was a crack like a rifle shot.

The Field Marshal’s head went sideways in a gout of blood. The drops flew out, gelatinous and warm.

His hand fell against the wall and closed on a slat. His muscles clenched and the chest was dragged upward. He came to his feet with the weight of the room at his back, skull empty and sore.

The Field Marshal had been knocked across the room and had risen to his knees, knuckles braced against the floor. ‘Very clever. But hardly sufficient.’ Blood ran down his cheek and his right eye was a raw, oozing mess.

He shook his head and threw himself at his opponent. They jammed against the bicycle frame and rolled into the room. He kicked free and sat up, bringing his hands together and clenching them into a fist. He turned quickly and smashed the other man in the neck. The impact jarred up the bone of his wrists and came together in his chest.

The Field Marshal fell back and kicked under the ribs, the pain like an axe blow to his heart. His lungs caught and he felt death in his throat.

The Field Marshal crawled over and drove shoulder into breastbone. His bones seared and turned to chalk. His left arm was grasped, and driven between metal sprockets.

He saw the Field Marshal’s hand close on a pedal and shove forward. The chain bit into his palm and clamped down, the sprockets crushing through his hand.

Agony arced down his nerves and he heaved up, a single convulsive movement that knocked the old man loose and tore flesh from hand. He threw himself forward and caught the loops of the jump rope, jerking it down and over the man’s head. He braced feet against body and drew sideways on the ropes. They tightened and gripped.

G
ood evening, Sir Charles.’

‘Good Lord, Zed M Seventy-three, your face!’

He took a seat opposite the desk, and settled back, gun aimed at the older man’s breast.

Sir Charles looked surprised, even concerned. ‘What happened, man?’

‘I had a fall,’

‘Can I do anything?’

‘Answer some questions.’

‘I hope you realise the position you’re in.’ Sir Charles paused, allowing silence to underscore the words. ‘There’s no way in which you can escape. Security has been notified of your arrival and there are men outside every door. You were mad to come here.’

‘I think not.’

‘Surely’—Sir Charles’s voice was incurious—’you don’t think I’ll let you kill me?’

‘I’ll kill you if I choose.’

‘Would you care,’ Sir Charles said, ‘to tell me why you resigned?’

‘I’m sorry, Sir Charles,’ he answered. ‘That will not be possible,’

‘A pity. It’s a decision you may someday come to regret.’

‘Sir Charles’—there was really no other way to begin—‘why this charade?’

‘Zed M Seventy-three, I wish I could tell you.’ Their eyes met, locked. ‘But I’m afraid that, as you are reluctant to confide in us, we are reluctant to confide in you.’

‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you.’

There was the sound of a door opening behind him and a rush of footsteps.

Sir Charles leaped to his feet, kicking his chair out of the way.

Men closed in and one of them grabbed for the gun. He twisted sideways and fired. The bullet shattered Sir Charles’s head and blew the skull against the wall.

‘Jesus Christ, the bastard’s killed him,’ someone cried.

A fist slammed in against his already battered flesh, obliterating all consciousness. But as he was given up into darkness, he retained the memory of that shattered skull: the gleaming copper wires within the flesh.

W
elcome back, Number Six.’

He stepped out of the helicopter and brushed off his jacket. ‘Thank you, Number Five Sixty—’ He noticed the badge. ‘Sorry, Number
Two.’

The youth grinned, half-pleasure, half-embarrassment, delight in his eyes. ‘How do you like the promotion?’

‘I thought the black leather jacket looked better unadorned.’

They went down the lane towards his house.

‘You don’t approve?’

‘What difference does it make?’

‘Well’—he scratched a leg—‘I think a lot of you, of your opinion.’

‘I don’t like it then.’

‘Why? I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘Pleased?’

‘Sure; you know.’ He paused to wave at Number 87. The grocer waved back. ‘I can do a lot in this position. It was me helped you escape.’

‘Really?’

‘Say, don’t you believe me?’

‘Aren’t you telling the truth?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then I believe you,’

‘I just wouldn’t want you to get me wrong, Number Six. I like you. You got class. They offered to make me Number Two if I’d call off the demonstration. There were no strings attached. I can run things pretty much as I like. Of course I gotta go slow with the changes, cause there are these three old men gotta approve them, but I’m in charge. I had the alarms switched off the night you escaped. That proves I’m boss, don’t it?’

They came up to the house.

‘I had ’em in a corner, sir. We outnumbered them.’

‘Well then, Number Two—’ He turned at the door. ‘What do you plan to do with me?’

The youth’s brows creased in puzzlement. ‘Do? I don’t understand.’

‘What am I to do?’

‘About what?’

‘Do I have to make myself clearer? Why have I been brought back here? If you’re in charge, am I free to go?’

‘Free to go, sir? Of course you’re free to go.’ The wave of his hand took in all the Village, suggested nothing more. ‘Anywhere you like.’

‘Outside the Village?’

‘Why would you want to go there? Everything’s all right here, now.’

S
ometimes it was:

Someone knocked at the door.

‘Good afternoon, Admiral.’

‘Damme, lad, I’m glad you’re back.’

They shook hands.

‘Well.’ He settled himself on the couch. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. Only, I thought you might not be coming back at all.’ He shot a look. ‘You get me?’

‘I’ve enjoyed our games.’

‘Eh?’ He brightened. ‘So have I. So have I.’ The old man paused and searched in his coat pocket. ‘A mortal drop in honour of our friendship. What do you say?’ He produced a slender greenish bottle.

‘I’ll find the glasses.’

The doorbell rang.

‘How convenient. Come in, Number Seven.’

She leaned curiously forward and looked over his shoulder. ‘Oh, it’s the Admiral. Hello, Admiral. I’m coming in.’

He stepped inside and went in after her.

‘Join us in a drop of wine, lass?’

‘Thank you, Admiral.’

He got down three glasses.

‘To Number Six.’

‘To Number Seven,’ he returned. And then: ‘Your health, Admiral.’

‘You know Number Twenty-four got married?’ she said when they had all been seated.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘He got someone pregnant.’

‘Would you care for tea?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Admiral?’

‘No thankee, lad I’ll have a bit more wine.’

‘Here, let me.’

He went into the kitchen and drew water into a pot. Number 7 came in behind.

‘Number Six?’

‘Yes.’ He turned to face her.

‘What happened?’

‘In London?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Not much.’

‘I’m not mad, you know. About being left behind. There was no real reason for you to trust me. I know what this place does.’ She watched him.

‘Not much happened,’ he said.

‘Did you kill those men?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why are you back here?’

‘There could be two explanations.’ He put the leaves in the water.

‘Which are?’

‘One: Momentum. The order to return me was executed before they realised their leaders were dead. Two: It was a senseless attempt to confuse me.’

‘Is that all you have to say?’

He poured through a strainer. ‘What else is there?’

‘There ought to be something more. You can’t go out and do something like that and have it mean so little. What’s the point, otherwise?’

‘It did, though.’ He handed her a cup. ‘You’ll have to accept that.’

‘But I don’t understand.’ She followed him out.

‘Neither do I.’

‘Eh? What’s this? Secrets? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. There’s too blessed many in this place now.’

‘Then we shan’t bother you.’

And they let it go at that.