The Prisoner Novelisation

Nightmare. Phone call. Dutton’s voice.

“The Committee wants a breakdown.”

“On what?”

On all we know — you, me, Arthur, the Colonel, everybody.”

“Why?

“Suspected security leak, apparently. We’ll need to go over all the files you’ve seen, the projects you know about. Just headings, not details.”

“First thing tomorrow.”

“You can tell me now. This phone is scrambled, and I’ve got a recorder.”

“Not protocol. Secure location …”

“We don’t have time. We’ve got another Burgess on our hands. Just tell me what you know …”

“You... You must not... ask me... that.”

“I’m not. It’s the Committee that’s asking.

“What Committee? Who … Who is that?”

The dream fades with morning. Not sure it was a dream. Never can be.

The radio turns itself on. And starts chirping like an irritating bird in his ear.

“Good morning! It’s another lovely day, so rise and shine! Life’s for living!”

He rises, but doesn’t shine.

Shrouded in sweaty pajamas. Before the Village, he slept in the nude. Not anymore. The walls have ears. And eyes as well.

He puts on his bathrobe and enters the living room.

The TV turns itself on as well. A face appears in the cathode ray tube. The new Number Two. A woman. The second one here, if his memory hasn’t been edited. She smiles at him like a friendly zookeeper.

“How did I sleep?”

“Sound as a bell. Have a nice day! Feel free...”

To ask me anything. To share what’s on your heart. To make a deal.

He doesn’t let her finish the sentence.

He turns his back, and walks away from the video pickup. Opens, shuts the pocket door to the bathroom. Probably spying on him here as well, but at least no conversation. Starts shaving. Camera in the medicine cabinet? Why not? Camera in the toilet, probably. Their fault if they don’t like the show. His modesty only extends so far.

Shaved and showered, he returns to the living room. The front door opens automatically. A woman pops in carrying a tea tray. She’s wearing an elaborate Tudor gown. Green. Her hair’s dyed green as well. A fashion from the past. Perhaps the future.

“Good morning!”

“Don’t say time travel’s in it as well?”

“A woman’s always impatient to wear a new dress.”

She spins around, curtseys.

“How do I look?”

“Different from the last one. The maids come and they go.”

“We’ll get along.”

“I’m sure you get along with everybody.”

“I’ve got a good mind to report you.”

“I’m new here.”

She giggles.

“’New here.’ You always say that!”

“What?’’

“Be seeing you.”

The new Maid heads for the door, and automatically lets her out. Before it can shut, an old gent rolls up in a Penny Farthing bicycle. Postman, apparently, based on the ridiculous cap on his head. He extends a clipboard.

“Sign here, please. Special delivery for Number Six.”

I am not a number! But he’s tired of saying it. Just signs the damn thing. The Postman hands him a card. An invitation.

The Village Request No. 6 to Attend the Carnival and Dance.

He shuts the door by hand and puts the card on the mantelpiece. Paces like an animal. Goes outside to the balcony.

More enforced jollity in the Village Square. Brass band and a parade going around in circles. Town Crier clanging a bell. Irritating man. Nasal voice. Thinks he’s important.

A black cat walks along the balustrade. It stops right in front of him, asking to be petted. He pets it. Number Two’s voice.

“I see you’ve made a friend.”

“Apparently.”

“You’ve got your invitation to the carnival tomorrow?”

He nods.

“It’s one of our little traditions. Each year, there’s a fancy dress, and a ball in the evening. We’re promised a cabaret this year. You’ll come?”

“I have a choice?”

“You do as you want.”

“As long as it’s what you want.”

“As long as it’s what the majority wants. We’re democratic... In some ways.”

He walks away from her, or tries. She stays at his side.

They cross the Village Square. An improbable couple on a stroll.

Near the band shell. Three young women sitting at a table. Blondes in their mid-20s, similar height, build, and facial features. Not triplets, possibly sisters. Identical costumes too. Like airline stewardesses. Assembled for his benefit, presumably. His type.

Number Two smiles at the trio.

“Good morning, my dears.”

They nod with servile deference. Yes, your majesty. He scowls. Number Two notices.

“I’m not your enemy, Number Six. I admire you in many ways.”

He laughs.

“I’m quite sincere. I admire your persistence, your principles. I admire your sense of strategy, as well. Might I suggest a new strategy?”

“Feel free.”

“Give up. No game is worth playing if you can’t win. That’s not very English, I know...”

“Are you — English?”

Number Two ignores the question.

“I say this for your own good.”

“Defined as …”

She rolls her eyes.

“Oh please, shut up. For the sake of everyone’s sanity, stop fighting. Relax. Accept. Enjoy yourself. Find a young lady for carnival — but you won’t, will you? No. You’re too ‘independent!’”

“Meaning what?”

“Unmutual, anti-social and unreliable.”

“The Oxford English Dictionary would disagree.”

She laughs.

“Rubbish! Around here, I am the dictionary. Words mean what I want them to mean.”

“Like Humpty Dumpty?”

Struck a nerve. Stop quoting old books, you sneering intellectual snob. I know Lewis Carroll backwards and forwards. University professor in another life. He’s willing to bet on it.

She points to the trio.

“Seize the day, Number Six. Seize one of them … It’s what they’re for. Now they’re pretty and unattached.”

Another young woman sits at the edge of the bandshell. Alone at a table in the shadows. Watching him. Not very subtle about it.

He nods in her direction.

“What about her?”

“Quite unsuitable.”

“I’m independent, don’t forget.”

He turns his back on Number Two, and walks up to the woman.

She stands up when he gets too close.

“Don’t go.”

“I must.”

“That’s true. And I know the reason.”

She blinks with confusion.

“Reason? What …”

“The reason is obvious. You have to go. Because Number Two wants you to go.”

Blinking innocent eyes.

“Or does she? Am I playing her game, or yours?”

“Not mine.”

Blushing. Resents being lumped in with the Village authority figures. A pawn of power. Or playing that role.

“Why did They bring you here?”

She shakes her head like a wet dog. Recites a passage from the Village catechism.

“Questions are a burden to others ...”

“... and answers a prison for oneself.”

“I must go.”

“So you’ve said. Mind if I go with you?”

“Yes.”

He follows her anyway. All the way to Town Hall. She enters the wrought-iron gates. Rover appears before he can join her. Blocking his path like an angry dog trying to herd him in the opposite direction. Angry, but not a killing mood — as far as he can tell. Decides to take a risk. He feints left, then sprints around the angry orb, and makes it to the gates – but an invisible electric charge forces him back.

A gardener looks at him with concern. Muttonchop sideburns like an 18th-century rustic.

“Are you all right?”

He nods, spots dancing in his eyes.

“You tried to go in? By mistake?”

“On purpose.”

“Risky business, that. Rover’s fussy about who it lets in."

"The building is too, apparently."

"Well, of course sir! This Town Hall, in't it?"

The gardener laughs. A self-evident proposition, in't it?

"I think you want to go home, sir."

"I think you're right. But the cottage will have to do."

He enters his cottage. The Siamese cat got there first. She meows at the sight of him. In cat language that means, "I want a bit of ice cream." He opens the fridge, and obliges the feline with a scoop of vanilla from a carton with a generic label.

“Have a good walk?”

The Maid. She's also waiting for him.

She smiles. Then spots the cat. Stops smiling.

“Where did you find it?”

“I didn’t. She found me.”

“You’re not allowed animals — it’s a rule.”

“In what rulebook?”

“The one we all obey, of course.”

“Not all. I’m the exception to the rule.”

She scoffs. Bends down to pick up the cat. Or tries to.

“I’ll take it with me.”

“You might get scratched...”

She reaches. But the cat stays out of her grasp. More interested in the dollop of ice cream he'd plopped on a plate for her. Successfully eludes the Maid, still manages to lap. Clever cat.

He walks up to the Maid. Nods to the cat.

“Where did she come from? How did she get here? No ... Forget the cat.”

The Maid rolls her eyes.

“Here we go again …”

“What about the milk? The ice cream? The potatoes and the aspirins! Who brings it?”

The Maid looks at him. And actually bites her tongue. Clever retort she's holding back. Eyes glinting wickedly. Actually amused at him.

He starts shouting at her.

“When do they bring it? At night, when everyone’s asleep?”

The Maid's gone. He was yelling at a closed door.

“I’ve never seen a night. I just sleep.”

They heard that self-pitying soliloquy, of course. In the Village, you always have an audience. The walls have ears. The TV has eyes.

He picks up a pillow and pushes it against the TV screen.

The TV screeches in protest. A transistorized animal in pain.

Outside, a gardener hoists a flower box up to the window. He barks at the man.

“Supposing I don’t want flowers?”

“Everybody has flowers for carnival tomorrow. Be seeing you.”

"Not anymore."

He closes the curtains, sits. For the next few hours, he works out chess problems and arranges furniture in his palaces of memory.

Around 9:15 p.m., an elderly Maid appears with a steaming China cup.

“Drink it while it’s hot. It’s good for you.”

“Not my cup of tea.”

She sighs and leaves.

Around 9:30 p.m., They turn off the lights. Not too subtle.

He walks through the darkened cottage up to the front door. It doesn't open. He tries the latch. Locked.

He complains to the hidden microphones.

“I’ve not seen a night yet. I just … sleep.”

He lies down on the living room couch. The modernist lamp above his head starts throbbing, gently. The rhythm of a low, steady heartbeat. Then a soporific voice begins an incantation.

“Sleep... Sleep...That’s it. Sleep softly until tomorrow. Lovely, gentle sleep. A gentle sleep tonight means a lovely day tomorrow. Sleep.”

Sounds like a good idea. But he refuses to sleep.

He walks out to the balcony and leaps to the ground. Then runs like hell.

Full moon, Rover’s twin in the sky. Village deserted. He runs through the Village Square, across the human chessboard, then down the steps by the bell tower. Doesn’t stop. He makes it to the beach. Keeps running north.

Nobody stops him. His sprint continues. North, north. But it's just a matter of time before ...

Rover pops out of the sea like a giant blanc mange. Just a few meters away. It syncs up with his movements, runs parallel for a kilometer or so. Then suddenly shifts, rolls up on the beach, now heading south — on a collision course. He sensibly runs the other way.

Rover stays on his heels, just a few meters behind him. He almost reaches the Village. But Rover rolls up on the beach again, cuts him off, and starts herding him the other way. North, south. Back and forth, back and forth. And so it goes, for several hours. Sheepdogs do this, harry the wayward sheep until they’re exhausted. Now it’s my turn. They’ve made up their minds I’m going to sleep, one way or another. He finally does.

Dawn. Red glow in his eyes. Squawks and splashes in his ears. Tide moving in, a wavelet touches his hand. He wakes up, face pressed down in the wet sand. Opens his eyes.

The first thing he sees is another hand. Right next to his hand. He stands up instantly. The hand belongs to a young man dressed in a holiday shirt and jeans. Not moving of his own volition. Rolling helplessly in the tide. Probably dead. But he rolls the body over to be sure. No pulse, no breath. Absolutely dead.

He goes through the dead man’s pockets. Finds a pipe, a soggy tobacco pouch, a wallet with a photo of the dead man and a pretty girl. Further digging reveals a few pounds, more soggy papers, a condom, nothing more. He’s about to shove the body back to sea, when he spots a bulge in the hip pocket. The source of the bulge? A transistor radio in a plastic sandwich bag.

He turns it on. It still works.

Expensive thing. Multiple bands. FM, AM, Shortwave.

“There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done. There’s …”

Distant stations. No time to listen.

Clicks radio off.

Then hoists the corpse over his shoulder and carries him to a cave. Suspicious activity. But with any luck, he’s outside the range of Their cameras. Storm came through last week, they’re still cleaning it up.

He walks back to the Village with the radio in his pocket.

Nothing has changed. The hellish imitation of heaven has continued quite well without him. People are smiling. The irritating Town Crier is walking about the Square. Clanging his irritating bell. And crying out…

“Hear ye! Hear ye! A proclamation! All citizens take note that carnival is decreed for tonight. Turn back the clock! There will be music, dancing, happiness. All at the carnival. By order!”

The crowd in the Village Square cheers. A brass band plays carnival music. Do these imbeciles ever tire of this stuff? Apparently not …

He enters the cottage. The Maid is waiting for him — stripped of Tudor finery. She looks at him reproachfully.

“You didn’t sleep here last night.”

“Where’s your fancy costume?”

She dimples.

“They’ve given me a new dress — something special for tonight.”

“And the cat?”

“Gone. I didn’t make it.”

“Everyone’s, er... having a good time outside.”

“Wait until tonight!”

“We’re allowed out late?”

She snorts.

“Anyone’d think you were locked in!”

She aims her duster at a package on his bed.

“Oh, your costume came.”

“Yes... Don’t I get a choice?”

“Other people choose — it’s a game!”

He opens the package. Pulls out the tuxedo from his former life. Not a wrinkle to be seen.

“I expected something exotic.”

“What is it?”

“My own suit — specially delivered for the occasion.”

“What does that mean?”

“That I’m still ... myself.”

“Lucky you!”

The pretty Maid leaves him alone. Of course he’s not alone. Imbeciles still bustling about in the Village Square. If he stays in the cottage, They’ll see if he pulls out the radio. Bell tower? Chance worth taking.

He makes it up to the bell tower. Strictly speaking, the watchtower at its base. A giant rook beside a giant bishop.

FM and AM bands, dead. Crackling static, no commercial stations — and no clue where this Village might be. Turns to the shortwave band. Finds a voice.

“Nowhere has more beauty than here. Tonight, the whole world will turn to silver. Do you understand? It is important that you do. I have a message for you — listen. The appointment cannot be made — other things must be done tonight. If our torment is to end, if liberty is to be restored, we …”

Cryptic message, oddly masochistic. Very much like the BBC’s coded broadcasts during the war. This time around, he doesn’t know the code. To make matters worse, the message is breaking up.

“….suffering ….duty … blood … shirk our …”

The radio crackles. He holds it up to his ear. The voice comes through again.

“… must grasp the nettle, even though it makes our hand bleed. Only through pain can tomorrow be assured.

Voice and footsteps. Number Two’s voice and footsteps. Coming up the stairs.

“You were right, I’m too old for these stairs.”

Number Two emerges from the stairway, shortly followed by his Observer. She immediately spies the radio in his hand.

“A radio?”

“Electric shaver.”

Pretends to shave. His Observer giggles. Number Two is not amused.

“Where did you get it? Does it work?”

He turns it on. Sets it down on the parapet.

Different program now. A woman’s voice …

“That practice dictation was at sixty words a minute. Now here is a passage from the wartime memoirs of …”

Number Two turns it off.

“Hardly useful.”

She looks out to sea.

“The view’s lovely from here. I’m sad, Number Six. I thought you were beginning to...”

“Give in?

“Be happy. All you want is here.”

“It’s elsewhere.”

“Don’t force me to take steps. We indulge any member of our community for a time. After that …”

“Yes, I know. I’ve been to the hospital. I’ve seen.”

“You’ve seen only a fraction.”

He looks at his Observer. Who’s hanging back, staying out of the conversation. Actually seems to be trying to hiding behind a flagpole.

“I know where you stand, don’t I?”

Number Two smiles with pride.

“She’s one of our best Observers.”

“We have one each?”

“Only our more fractious children.”

Number Two stands up. He doesn’t.

“Shall we go down?”

He turns his back on her for the third time in two days. Looks out at the choppy waves.

“The view’s lovely from here.”

“Suit yourself.”

Number Two takes the radio. He stands up on the parapet

“You’re not thinking of jumping?”

“Never.”

“Good.”

Number Two walks back down the stairs. His Observer is still hanging on.

He looks at her. She looks away. He made no accusation. But she starts defending herself. Guilty conscience, hard at work.

“I have my duty.”

“To whom?”

“To everyone. It’s the Rules. Of the people, by the people, for the people.”

“It takes on a new meaning here.”

“You’re a wicked man.”

“Wicked?”

“You have no values.

“Different values.

“You won’t be helped.”

“Destroyed.”

“You want to spoil things.

“I won’t be a goldfish in a bowl.”

“I must go. I may see you later?”

“Can you avoid it?”

She runs down the stairs. He follows her.

“I hope it’s all right, the radio.”

“What would you do?”

“Report on it. Ask for instructions.”

“From whom? Number One?

“Yes. No!”

Who. Tell me.”

“It’s all I know. All there is to know.”

“In the place where you work?”

“Don’t keep asking me questions!”

She walks away.

He waits a decent interval, then heads to the Stone Boat and steals a life jacket. He heads back to the cave system at the north of the beach. Not walking along the sands, that’d be too obvious. Slips into the woods where he built his exercise rig, then zigzags through the trees about a kilometer, then heads west. His sense of direction is keen. It’s almost the perfect spot.

He ducks into the cave, puts the life jacket on the young man’s corpse. Then slips a plea for help into his wallet.

“To whoever may find this ... Someone’s trying to kill me. If you find my corpse at sea, you’ll know he’s succeeded. I must know my killer will be brought to justice. I’ve been hiding in the woods beside a seaside village. The killer lives in that village, and that’s where you’ll find him. I don’t know its longitude or latitude, but I’ve sketched a rough map of the general coastline. (Please see other side.) I’ve also attached a photograph so you’ll know what to look for.”

Bit wordy but no time to polish it.

He returns the wallet (again in a plastic bag) to its proper pocket. Then drags the corpse to a rocky outcropping, and drops it into the waves. The rip tide pulls it out, as he’d expected. Returns to the cave to remove any evidence.

A man is standing at the entrance to the cave. He slowly approaches the figure. And recognizes him. Roland Walter Dutton. A former colleague from MI-6. Nice fellow, low level.

Roland Walter Dutton recognizes him.

“You! Of all people! You’re here? I’d never have believed it!”

“You think I’m with Them?”

“No. I think They got you.”

Dutton points to the corpse bobbing in the current.

“Who was he?”

“Gerald Formsby, according to his driver’s license. His body was washed up on the shore. I found him.”

“One of their tricks?”

“That’s always a possibility — but I don’t think so. Not this time. How long have you been here, Roland?”

“You don’t know?”

“Would I ask if I didn’t?”

“No, of course not. Sorry. But … it’s difficult to say. A couple of months... And you?

“About the same — if my memory is to be trusted. I don’t. I think They play with it. There are gaps … lost time.”

“I know how you feel, old friend. How’s London?”

“About the same.”

“Yes. Places don’t change. Only people.”

“Some people.”

“Listen ... I need to tell you something.”

He hears Village Band playing. "The Children's Parade." Trick of the wind. Sound like they're right on the beach.

“Not here, Roland. Let’s go inside.”

The duck back in the cave. Light turns to darkness.

Like his Observer, Dutton also has a guilty conscience. He denies the accusation before he can make it.

“I told them.”

“What?”

“Everything I know.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. You never had access to the vital stuff.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. They don’t believe me.”

“They think you’re holding back?”

“Yes. At the hospital… they keep pushing. Doing new things to my mind … With their dirty bag of tricks. When they finally see I’m telling the truth, it’ll be too late.”

“How long do you think you have?”

“I know exactly how long. They gave me an ultimatum, you see. They’ve released me for 72 hours so that I can 'reconsider my defiance in the peaceful atmosphere of The Village.’”

“There’s still hope.”

“No, my friend. Not for me. Such noble thoughts are long dead. Soon, Roland Walter Dutton will cease to exist.”

“Nonsense. I’m heading back. Have to pick up my ridiculous tuxedo for that ridiculous carnival.”

“Oh the carnival. I forgot …”

“Wait 15 minutes, then follow. I’ll meet you at the beach by the bell tower. Then I’ll stay with you for the rest of the night— and as long as it takes. They won’t try to grab you then. Spoil the party, right?”

“Right.”

He returns to his cottage, puts on his tuxedo, then walks to the beach by the bell tower. Looks north, south, east and west. Dutton isn’t there. But Number Two is. Dressed as Peter Pan, arms akimbo, backlit by the full moon behind her. Odd sense of déjà vu …

“You’re waiting for someone, Mr. Tuxedo? Or expecting someone?”

“Mr. Peter Pan?”

“So it seems.”

“With his shadow?”

“You’re being hostile again. What were you looking at?”

“A light.”

“A star?”

“A boat.”

“An insect.”

“A plane.”

“A flying fish.”

“Somebody who belongs to my world.”

“This is your world. I am your world. If you insist on living a dream, you may be taken for mad.”

“I like my dream.”

“Then you are mad. Let’s go inside, shall we?”

“Where?”

“The Town Hall.”

“I can enter?”

“Tonight you can. It’s carnival!”

He shrugs. Might as well.

Follows Number Two up to the Town Hall. She walks through the wrought-iron gates to the outer courtyard. He does too, without getting zapped. Force field is down, or whatever it is.

He enters the building itself. Realizes he’s alone. Number Two has flown away.

Signs direct him to the MAIN AUDITORIUM. Another sign says …

ENTER HERE FOR CARNIVAL!!

He enters the carnival. Dismal affair, more like a funeral. The costumes are happy, the people are not. A few Villagers shuffle about or chat listlessly. Most stand still, like puppets without a puppet master. They all go silent when they see him walk in. And stop breathing when Number Two enters from the other side of the room in her Peter Pan costume. She seems disappointed.

“What, no dancing? Tonight’s for dancing!” Significant looks. “Amongst other things...

Number Two strides up to a nervous chamber music ensemble in powdered wigs.

Claps her hands.

“Music! Come along, you’ve been practicing long enough.”

They start playing. Number Two turns to the Villagers. Claps her hands again.

“And dance, enjoy yourselves, be happy — it’s carnival!”

The Villagers do as told. The lifeless scene is suddenly animated. But it's an imitation of life. The dance of the dead.

A bewigged waiter passes with a tray. Number Two grabs two drinks, hands one to him. He takes it.

“I rarely drink.”

“Then you’ll enjoy it all the more. Self-denial’s a great sweetener of pleasure.”

He sniffs the drink.

“Undoctored,” she says. Raises a toast. “To carnival!”

She drinks. He doesn’t.

“Your administration is effective, though you have no opposition.”

“An irritation we’ve dispensed with, Number Six. Even its best friends agree democracy is remarkably inefficient.”

He sniffs the glass again. Still doesn’t put it to his lips.

“This a ‘53?”

“How impressive. From here on, of course, we degenerate to a ‘55 and a ‘57, and if people really misbehave themselves, to a quite extraordinary ‘58.”

“Why haven’t I a costume?”

“Perhaps because you don’t exist.”

His Observer walks by. Dressed as a shepherdess. Number Two grabs her by the wrist, pulls her closer.

“Quite enchanting!”

“I’m Little Bo-Peep,” she says.

“Who knows where to find her sheep?”

“Oh, you must cheer him up my dear. Dance! It’s a special night.”

“We hope so. Dance.”

They dance, mechanically. No joy in it.

“Mind a few questions?”

“Very much so.”

“Splendid. How many of these have you been to?”

Bo-Peep ignores him.

“This is my first carnival ... and last.”

“Don’t be silly!”

“Who’s saying that, you or the computer?”

“Me!”

His Observer reminds him of someone. Inga? Olga? Inga? A woman. Wife of a man in East Germany. Unpleasant assignment. Unpleasant man. Karl Dorfmann. Corporal in the Stasi. She agreed with everything he said, laughed at all of his stupid jokes. He was ineluctably certain Karl beat her. The woman lived in fear. He knew it. Did nothing about it. Wasn’t part of the job. Karl killed her a year later. Not with his own hands. Pushed Olga or Inga into the no-man’s land at the edge of the Berlin Wall. Machine gun fire tore her apart. 61 bullets, according to the autopsy.

His Observer lives in similar fear. Easy to read in her face if you know the language. Who knows what she’s seen, what they’ve threatened her with?

If he had a heart he’d stop interrogating her, stop blaming her. His conscience tells him to show her some grace. But he pushes her anyway.

“Are you paid by the hour or given a lump sum? For services rendered.”

“Oh, shut up and dance! You think I’m a computer? You’re the one who ...”

Bo-Peep looks like she’s trying not to cry. Then apologizes for it.

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Did I hurt your feelings?”

“Yes.”

“You actually have feelings?”

“Of course I have feelings!”

“Try not to. That’s very unprofessional … in your line of work. Don’t behave like a human being. You might just confuse people.”

“I think you’re confused, but not for long. There are treatments for people like you.”

He points towards Number Two.

“Your employer — she must get instructions, eh? Who gives them? Is he here tonight? The man behind the big door?”

“How do you know it’s a man?”

“I don’t. Do you?”

“There’s no need to know. Our Village is in good hands. And that’s all we need to know.”

“In good hands? For how long?”

“A long time.”

“Since the war? Before the war? Which war?”

“A long time.”

She stops dancing. Then jabs her staff down on his right foot. And whispers in his ear.

“Since Eniac, you shit.”

Bo-Peep runs off and the music stops. The dancers take a second to react, then applaud. Number Two holds court, says some rot about community and living in harmony. They applaud even louder. A convenient distraction. He doesn't waste it.

He escapes to the Town Hall's maze of corridors. Edwardian at the periphery. A modernist, steel rat maze as you approach the center. Clever rat that he is, he's starting to know his way around.

He blunders into a back room. Soporific music playing on the Muzak system. He spots a lab coat, grabs it, puts it on. Pair of glasses in the inside pocket. To complete the professorial effect, he puts them on. Low on his nose, so he can see above them. Another door leads to more doors — all steel at this point. Each is locked. There’s also a door in the floor, but he doesn’t have time to test it.

A harried woman in a lab coat bustles up to him.

“Have you seen her?”

“Her?”

“Number Two? Isn’t she at the party?”

“She was ten minutes ago. I assume she still is. I told her I’d be right back …”

“Well.” Holding up an envelope. “Number Two must see this urgently.”

“Why?”

“It’s a termination order.”

“Might I give it to her for you?”

“Would you? I’d be most obliged.”

She thrusts the envelope into his hands and bustles away.

“Don’t forget, it’s urgent.”

“Oh, right away.”

He enters another corridor, rips open the envelope, removes the termination order. Black cardstock, florid white lettering. 18 letters. A dead man’s name.

ROLAND WALTER DUTTON.

He stuffs the death notice in his labcoat pocket, and moves along the corridor. Sees a door half open to darkness. Approaches warily. The door opens soundlessly with a touch of his hand. He enters the room on the other side. Lights come on automatically. A trap? He stands against a wall. Nothing happens. He moves carefully.

At first glance, it appears to be a room full of filing cabinets. But they’re far too big. Not filing cabinets. The drawers are designed for bodies, not documents. A morgue.

To test this hypothesis, he methodically starts opening the drawers. His third attempt reveals the dead man he’d found on the beach.

Number Two walks in with the Siamese cat. She spies him scowling.

“You make the most of your opportunities — we do the same.”

The cat pads up to him, rubs up against his legs, arches, purrs.

“Ah, she’s taken to you — I’m jealous.”

Number Two snaps her fingers. The cat instantly runs up to her.

“Oh, she’s mine, Number Six. She works here, too. Very efficient. Almost ruthless.”

“Never trust a woman — even the four-legged variety.”

“Oh, such charming misogyny! I read it in your file, but I didn’t believe it …”

“Believe what you like. Which drawer is reserved for me?”

Number Two laughs.

“Please relax, Number Six. Please trust me.”

“You think I can?”

“Oh, you can trust everyone. And will, in time.”

At the moment, I don’t trust myself. He thinks it, but doesn’t say it. The less they know about his inner self, the better. Why give them ammunition?

“Let’s go back — the cabaret’s about to start.”

He points to the dead man’s drawer.

“Is the wallet still in his pocket?”

“Yes. Amended slightly — we’ll amend him slightly, too.”

Plastic surgery, she means. Number Two smiles. She knows he's figured it out.

“Yes, Number Six. It’s you who’s died in an accident at sea.”

“So, to the outside world ...”

“Which you only dream about.”

“ … I’ll be dead?”

“A small confirmation of a known fact.”

“A small confirmation of a big lie.”

“Oh, don’t blame me — it’s simply ‘waste not, want not.’ Shall we?”

He gives her a look of hate. About to —

"Please don't turn your back on me, Number Six. You're done that several times, don't think I haven't noticed. It's rude and disrespectful, and that upsets me. Your friend from London upset me in a similar fashion. I advise you not to follow his example."

Number Two turns her back on him this time. She walks away. He follows her out of the room. No conversational sparring, no talk at all. They just walk through the maze. After several twists and turns, they finally return to the dance hall.

Nobody’s dancing. No music is playing.

“I thought there’d be a cabaret.”

“There is... You’re it.”

Number Two walks up to a throne at the far end. Wasn’t here before, or was it?

The throne faces a dais with three empty chairs on top. Two other chairs flank the throne. Seems familiar …

Number Two addresses the non-dancing dancers.

“In the matter of the people versus this person, the court is now in session.”

Number Two sits. He shouts.

“What is my crime?”

“We’ll come to that, Number Six. Perhaps, I should explain. Our legal system is unique.”

“No jury?”

“No. Three judges decide here.”

Three judges. Three chairs. Of course …

“As in the French Revolution...?

“They got through the deadwood, didn’t they?”

“How efficient. Guilty until proven innocent, I presume. Verdict first, trial after?”

“Not at all. Your trial will be supremely fair, I assure you. The court has appointed you a quite capable defender. The most brilliantly logical mind in the Village, I dare say."

"Who is this person?"

“I am that person.” Points to his unhappy Observer. “This lady will prosecute. The judges have already been chosen.”

She claps her hands. Three judges approach. The Maid (Queen Elizabeth) the Doctor (an oddly tall Napoleon) and the Town Crier (a purple-toga’ed Caesar) walk up and sit down in the three empty chairs.

“Proceed,” says Number Two.

The Town Crier (now rendered as Caesar) unfurls a scroll and reads pompously.

“Number Six, you are hereby charged with having on your person and using for unlawful purposes, and against the interest of the community, an object, the possession and use of which breaks our Rules. A radio set!”

“Don’t you ask how I plead?”

“No!” Caesar addresses Bo-Peep. “Proceed, prosecutor. What is the nature of the charge against this citizen?”

The audience gasps. Shocked or entertained, he’s not sure which. Bo-Peep stands up.

“From somewhere — Number Six has not yet been subjected to interrogation — the accused acquired a radio.”

The Maid asks, “How do you know he had this radio?”

“I am his Observer,” she says. “I observed it.”

“Where?”

“I saw him with it in his room and later on top of the bell tower.”

He points at her and shouts like an actor in an American legal drama.

“Objection! This woman is biased, and shouldn’t be here.”

His objection is ignored. Caesar continues.

“Did anyone else see this radio?”

“I did,” says Number Two. “I accompanied her to the Bell Tower. In the process, I also witnessed the defender in possession of this device.”

Cleopatra undulates up and gets a word in.

“I can ... I can collaborate this testimony. I saw him with it in his room. The radio, that is. Is that all right?”

Caesar leers lustfully, adjusts his laurels.

“Thank you, your Majesty.”

Cleopatra sidles off. Caesar directs his next question to Bo-Peep.

“What was the defender doing with the radio?”

“He was listening to a program.”

Caesar seems puzzled.

“What sort of program?”

“I don’t know. It’s improper to listen.”

“Quite right.” To Number Two. “Did you listen, madam?”

“No, my lord, but it did work.”

“Objection! How can my defender also be a prosecution witness?”

This objection is also ignored.

Holding out her crooked staff, his prosecutor sums up his vicious crime. And what’s so vicious about it.

“It is our duty of all of us to care for each other and to see that Rules are obeyed. Without their discipline, we should exist in a state of anarchy.”

“Hear, hear,” he shouts.

Napoleon frowns

“You do yourself no good, Prisoner.”

Bo Peep proceeds.

"Let us speak of the nature of this citizen's offense. I shall. The answer is ... a radio. A radio? Yes. Some might say that is a trivial thing. Some might say it is quite harmless. How could a radio hurt us? It is a small device and our Village is great. Some might say that. I'd say that's true. In fact, I do say it. But the radio is not the issue. No. The issue is ... It is what ... What the radio represents. Erm. Not the radio as such. What I mean to say is ... What possessing this radio represents. That's it. Yes. The principle of the thing. Number Six has violated a Rule! The Rule may be silly. But he violated it. That is the issue. Now let us consider the ..."

A badly memorized speech. Not from the heart. She's forcing herself to say it.

She clears her throat.

“At any rate ... This citizen's crime is indisputable and without excuse. There’s no radio he could have borrowed — so in acquiring one, Number Six made a positive effort against the community. This malicious breaking of the Rules was no mere lapse but a premeditated act. Intentional, conspiratorial, and deliberate! The court’s duty... is to pass the severest possible sentence.”

Bo-Peeps sits. Number Two applauds. He claps, too.

Caesar leans to the other judges.

“You wish to question the prosecutor?”

They don’t.

“We shall now hear the defender.”

Number Two stands, striving to look dignified in her Peter Pan costume. He’s surprised she doesn’t fly away. Grab a few more Lost Boys and Girls before the night is through.

His defender defends him.

“I would beg the court to remember, that beneath its panoply of splendor, beneath the awful majesty of the Rules, there beat human hearts."

Overdone oratory. She lays it on thick, but he can tell she's had acting training. Pauses in the right place, always looks at the audience. He imagines her younger self in college theatricals. Cambridge Footlights or something. Our elfin rising star doesn't merely play Lady Macbeth. She is Lady Macbeth.

"We must not forget that Number Six a human being — with all the weaknesses and failings of his kind. That he had a radio and has broken Rule after Rule cannot be denied …”

“Has anyone ever seen these Rules?”

She smiles at him.

"Yes, Number Six. Every good citizen has."

"Where?"

"They are written in our hearts, of course."

Twisted Bible quote. He grinds his teeth at this blasphemy. As she cleverly knew he would.

She resumes her speech. And doesn't miss her stride.

“I plead your lordships for clemency. Number Six is guilty of folly, no more. We can treat folly with kindness. The day will come when his wild spirit will quieten, and he will become a model citizen.”

“That day you will never see.”

Caesar barks at him. More like Nero, at this point.

“The Prisoner will be silent! This is a serious matter.”

Peter Pan agrees.

“Very serious.”

The Unholy Roman Emperor smirks. Decides to wrap things up.

“Both officers have presented their pleas with creditable simplicity. We will now consider …”

He rudely interrupts the fat, fake emperor.

“I want to call a witness.”

“Witness? We are the only possible witnesses!”

The Maid sticks up for him.

“Number Six has his rights. What manner of witness?”

“A character witness. I want the court to call … Roland Walter Dutton!”

Caeser/Nero turns crimson.

“No names here! Who is this … this person?”

“He’s a man I think I knew — a man who is scheduled to die, and therefore better fitted than I to say what needs to be said. Produce him if you can.”

“I’d be happy to,” says Number Two.

Napoleon and Peter Pan exchange glances. Number Two strolls up to a gaggle of dancers. They part like the Red Sea. She makes her way to a man in the corner, takes him by the hand, leads him back. He’s holding a balloon on a stick and dressed as a court jester. The bells make happy jingles as he walks. But his face is downcast. Peter Pan gently lifts it up.
It's Roland Walter Dutton. Or what's left of him. Blank face, blank eyes. No mind behind those eyes.

“Well, Number Six. Any questions for your character witness?”

He glares at her.

“Very well,” she says. "Sit."

She sits Roland down on a chair like a doll. Then gives the trial her full attention.

“The court will resume its deliberations.”

Peter Pan, Bo-Peep and Caesar nod their heads together. The judges confer while Roland drools and bounces his balloon. White, he suddenly notices. Like Rover.

Caesar shouts, “It is decided! The judges will please rise.”

Napoleon and Bo-Beep stand up.

“We find the Prisoner guilty of breach of the Rules — a crime which his folly and inexperience cannot excuse. We pass sentence in accordance with the Rules.”

Caesar stands. In imperial Roman tradition, he puts a black kerchief on his bald pate. He sneers and turns his thumb down.

“The sentence... is death.”

His Observer breaks down. A good shepherd when all is said and done.

“No, stop it!”

“Shhh,” says Number Two. “Rules are rules, my dear.”

Napoleon gets the last word.

“We sentence in the name of the people. The people will carry it out in the name of justice.”

That’s it then. But he’s not dead yet.

He walks calmly through the crowd. This move seems to surprise them. They stand still for a second or two. Then it occurs to them. He’s getting away. Then they all start screaming and run after him.

He stays ahead, and runs through the maze of corridors. Makes his way to the steel room and enters the trap door he’d noticed before.

Some sort of sanctuary. Edwardian décor again. A quiet place.

A teletype machine clatters to life. Starts spitting out words like machine gun fire. He rips out its guts and shuts it up.

The hunt is on outside. He can hear his hunters.

“Over there!”

Then he looks up and sees them.

On the other side of a mirror.

Number Two enters. Peter Pan, with Bo-Peep by her side.

“It’s a one-way mirror, Number Six. You can see them. They can’t see you. They never have seen in here, and never will. They lack your initiative. There’s nothing to fear.”

She nods to Bo-Peep.

“Deal with them.”

She nods, pulls up her dress. Runs off to pacify the flock of killer sheep.

“Why are they trying to kill me?”

“They don’t know you’re already dead, locked up in a long box in that little room.”

He spots Bo-Peep on the other side of the mirror. She’s humoring the hunters.

“Who wants to play a game? I know a lovely game!”

“What about her?”

“She’s no longer your Observer. Or anyone’s. I'm afraid she's just not suited for the position.”

“Why not?”

“Lack of objectivity. To see life clearly, one must remain outside of it. I know it's hard to believe ... but she actually cared about you, Number Six. We have no place for Observers who care.”

Bo-Peep's outside the mirror again. Tossing balloons in the air. The Villagers are laughing and chasing them. Their hunt for human prey is forgotten.

“Oh, don’t look so worried. She’s losing her job, not her head. We'll find her the right position. The nursery, perhaps. I’m sure she’d be good with children. We’re all good at something. What are you good at, Number Six?”

“You’ll never win.”

“Then how very uncomfortable for you, old chap.”

Number Two laughs. He doesn’t see the joke.

The dead teletype starts chattering again.

She laughs even harder. Hands on hips, legs akimbo. The very image of Peter Pan. The mocking ruler of Neverland.

The Prisoner Novelisation

Thursday, July 30, 2020

The Prisoner • Debriefing Session

The Prisoner • The Last Days

Friday, July 17, 2020

The Prisoner • Dance of the Dead