Six

Patrick McGoohan as Number 6. Image: Wikipeida

I'm using my blog site for a totally different purpose this time. Instead of another amusing,
thought-provoking article (settle down please) this time I'm presenting you with the first few pages of a potential novel.

The storyline is unashamedly inspired and driven by the cult British TV series The Prisoner from the late 1960s, starring Patrick McGoohan as an ex-intelligence officer who is captured and confined to 'The Village.' 

His wardens want to know why he resigned, and any other information he can give them. 

He resists, in every way possible. He will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed or numbered. He is, he insists, a free man. Those behind the scenes of his incarceration would beg to differ. This is their story.

Six

The Prisoner: Same time, Same Story, Different Angle

  © Mike Bodnar 2021

1967

Central London

The thunderclap came out of nowhere. It shook windows in office buildings; shoppers and tourists stopped in their tracks and looked to the sky. It was bright and hazy. Confusing, no sign of rain. A second equally-loud thunderclap shook the air, rolling on for a moment, which then – for those in Westminster – morphed into the thunderous roar of a small sports car speeding through the streets.

The car's driver didn't react to the thunder, didn't slow down, actually didn't care about the weather. He had more urgent things on his mind. He swung round a corner, chopped from second to third and put his foot down.

                                                                * * * *

Virgil Street, London

Charles wound down the last of the windows of the gleaming black vehicle half way, and began the almost-ceremonial wiping of the tops of each door glass with his chamois cloth. Not many people know to do this final thing after washing a motor car, he thought. It's the attention to detail that counts. Anyone sees these windows down won't see any dried droplets along the top, or streaks. It's what sets a professional driver apart, he smiled to himself.

'There Tommy,' he said to his mechanic who was at the workbench. 'That's how to properly clean a motor car. Spick and span, ready for inspection.'

Tommy turned and shook his head. He'd heard this many times before.

The phone at the back of the garage rang, and Charles wrung his chamois out as he headed for the office door. 'I'll get it,' he said.

It was the red phone, Charles noted. His heart rate increased, and he cleared his throat, picked up the receiver.

'Yes?'

'I understand you can supply a dozen red roses on the 27th,' a woman's voice said clearly, then paused.

'Two dozen for members of the family,' Charles replied.

'Right. Charles, job for you, priority one.' The caller, satisfied that the counter-response was correct, now talked hurriedly.

'No problem ma’am, where and when?'

'Now actually – we might already be too late. One male. He'll be leaving Abingdon Street any moment. Green and yellow Lotus sports car, Kilo Alpha Romeo 120 Charlie. He'll likely head home, One, Buckingham Place, SW1. Head there if you lose him. If he doesn't turn up immediately, wait. He'll arrive eventually. Be careful. He's angry, so make sure the subject is compliant before entry. You know where to take him.'

'Of course ma’am. Leave it to me.'

The anonymous caller cut the connection and Charles put the phone down.

'Tom! We're on!' he called. Tom wiped his hands on a cloth and pressed the control that opened the garage door, then climbed out of his overalls and grabbed his black suit coat. Charles peeled off his own overalls to reveal his formal clothing underneath. He grabbed his own black coat and two spotless top hats off the shelf and ran to the hearse, donning the coat as he went.

Tommy climbed in the passenger seat and the gleaming Austin Princess eased out into the street, the garage door closing automatically behind.

Charles picked up the radio handset from under the dashboard. 'Mobile Black, Mobile Black to Mobile Control, receiving, over?'

The radio speaker crackled and a male voice answered immediately. 'Mobile Control, Mobile Black, receiving. You have your instructions?'

'Yes sir, en route now. Traffic is good, ETA five minutes.'

'Make it three. Out.'

'What's the job?' asked Tommy, checking his tie in the vanity mirror on the sun shade. He combed his hair with his fingers.

'Extraction,' said Charles. 'Just the one. Male. We'll use the knockout gas, through the keyhole.'

'Then what?' asked Tommy.

'Then I drop you back at the garage and you go about your business, as usual. I'll take care of the funeral.'

* * * *

Century House, 100 Westminster Bridge Road, London

McKeown put the telephone handset back in the cradle and blew his cheeks out.

'What?' asked Symes, turning from the window and breaking his gaze from the river which he'd been watching between the office buildings and the hospital.

'He's resigned. As we expected. Seems he was very angry.'

'Oh Christ. What reason did he give? Do we know?'

McKeown picked up the phone again, pressed one of the buttons on the console, covered the mouthpiece and replied, 'No. He thumped his resignation letter on G's desk but there was nothing in the envelope but a blank piece of paper. Hello? Get me Alison, quickly,' he said into the phone.

Symes sat at his own desk and gripped the arms of his chair. 'And this was just now?'

'Just now, in the last ten min... ah, Alison? Have you heard? Yes resigned. Mmm, our top man, as you say.... I know... and, no clear explanation. He's furious apparently. Should we... you know.. take action? Really? The undertakers are on the job already? I say, that was quick. Yes I suppose so.'

Symes noted McKeown ran a finger under his collar as he listened. 'Of course. Of course Alison, top secret, state secret. See you there shortly.'

McKeown stood and grabbed his jacket from the coat stand. Symes rose too, the colour draining from his face. 'The funeral director's involved? So this is it?'

'Yes, this is it. Not a drill, not a rehearsal. Call the undertakers and keep tabs on the extraction. They're mobile now and tailing him, to his place we think. Keep me informed. I'll be in a meeting in Sub-3 for a while, but brief me when you can. Control's alerting the facility.'

He blew his cheeks out again and rubbed his face. 'I'm not sure this is a good idea. Not at all.'

* * * *

Sub-basement 3, Century House, London

The lift doors opened and McKeown stepped out, almost colliding with Alison Hedley.

'Ah, Alison.'

He fell in step with her and they headed quickly down the quiet dimly-lit corridor.

'McKeown.' Alison acknowledged him, with a nod, but kept walking purposefully.

'You know we haven't had anyone of his calibre in the facility before.'

'And your point is?'

'Well, he's our number one operative. And he is our number one because he's so very damn good at what he does.'

Alison Hedley suddenly stopped. 'Exactly. Which is why we absolutely cannot let him out of our sight. He's far too valuable to be on the loose, especially the mood he's in.' She set off, and McKeown hurried to keep up.

'Yes, I suppose you're right. But...'

'But nothing. Think about the knowledge he's got in his head.'

They reached the black door at the end of the corridor. Alison punched the access code into the buttons on the lock and the door swung open automatically with a hum. They entered a dark space, almost black, except for a large structure in the centre, raised about three feet off the floor. It was a windowless room, isolated from its surroundings and lit from beneath. It seemed to almost float in mid-air. Access steps led to a steel door in the front of the structure, with another punch-code lock beside it.

McKeown and Hedley stepped inside. Those already there, seated around a large oval table, turned to face them.

'Ah, Hedley, McKeown, please, take a seat,' said the balding man with glasses at the head of the table. He had a voice like syrup.

'I think you know everyone here,' said the man, known to everyone in the organisation as 'G'.

Hedley and McKeown took the only remaining seats and sat down, nodding to those present. The table was bare save for some water jugs and glasses. Nobody had any notebooks or jotters, or even pencils. No record-taking was ever allowed within this secure room.

G looked at each person in turn, as though summing up their qualifications to be present. He seemed satisfied.

'Right. Let's begin. The only person in this meeting you're not likely to know is Miss Wilson here.' G gesticulated to an unsmiling woman with a severe haircut to his right. 'Olivia, perhaps you'd like to introduce yourself.'

Olivia Wilson pushed her chair back and stood up with her legs slightly apart and her hands behind her back. She raised her chin before speaking. Most in the room immediately recognised that she came from a military background.

'Thank you sir. I am Olivia Wilson,' she said to the group. 'I'm a qualified psychiatrist as well as having qualifications and extensive experience in psychology. My skills are used in this organisation in the field of psychological strategy planning and operations, which, as you know, involves manipulating the thought processes, emotions and beliefs of a subject or subjects to our advantage.'

She sat down again, and G resumed. 'Thank you.' He turned to the group. 'Any questions?'

A man to G's left, older, in a pin-striped suit which probably first saw a hanger in 1950, cleared his throat. 'Er, excuse my asking, but what is Miss Wilson's clearance?'

G stared at him for a moment before replying. 'Adequate' he snapped. 'Or she wouldn't be here.'

He turned to the rest of the group. 'Now, I've asked Olivia to join us today because, although we find ourselves in an expected situation, we didn't anticipate the timing of it. And it's a situation which, from today on, will demand all our initiative, intelligence and indeed cunning. We are dealing with what could be an unhinged mind.' G glanced briefly at Wilson. 'Not just any mind either. The mind of this man...'

G turned towards the wall behind him and pressed a remote control on the arm of his chair. The image of a good-looking man in his late 30s or early 40s appeared on the wall screen.

G turned back. 'As you can see, he has a half-smile on his face. He appears confident, at ease. As indeed he was when this photograph was taken just a year ago. Then he was at the top of his game, operating effectively in the field, and doing our bidding wherever we sent him, which was far and wide.

'He became, as you know, the best operative we have. Or at least had, until today. Now we need to ask, whose side is he on?' He turned once again to Olivia Wilson.

* * * *

Virgil Street Garage, London

Tommy watched the hearse drive regally down the short road and turn the corner, Charles using his indicator even though no vehicles were behind him. Perfectionist, he thought. Always the perfectionist. And then he recited the numbers to himself out loud: 'Four, two, seven, nine, six.' He repeated them, committing them to memory: 'Four, two, seven, nine, six.'

A train rumbled past over the bridge behind him as he unlocked the garage access door. He stepped inside, turned the lights on, headed for the office and stopped in the doorway. He removed his top hat and placed it on the shelf where it lived, then filled the kettle from the small sink in the corner and put it on the gas burner. He loosened his tie, thought about putting his overalls back on, but instead sat behind Charles's Desk.

He called it Charles's Desk (with a capital 'D') because he wasn't allowed to sit behind it. As with the rest of the garage, it was spotless, immaculate. Topped in green leather, it would have looked better in a gentleman's study than a garage office, but then Tommy didn't know much about Charles's background, nor was he supposed to.

The man carried himself with military bearing, always ramrod straight in his walk, thumbs to the front as his arms swung as though on parade. He was tall and lean, despite the cream buns Tommy had seen him devour for morning tea. He wondered how he stayed so slim, so... lanky.

The whistling kettle brought him out of his reverie and he made himself a mug of tea. His was the tin mug; Charles of course had a bone china one. Of course, thought Tommy. He would.

Not that he envied him in any way, well, not much. Charles was a good boss – not many blokes of my age have such interesting jobs, he thought. But then again, just what is my job, he wondered?

Tommy had not done well at school. Yes he was bright, always getting excellent marks for most subjects, but he was never a team player. His reports frequently said that, 'Tommy is a loner', 'Tommy doesn't seem to mix well with others,' and so forth, yet his English teacher – who doubled as the school's drama coach – adored him. 'Tommy could play Hamlet!' she wrote once. He was also good with his hands and did well in woodwork and especially metalwork.

He never did play the Prince of Denmark, though he'd joined an amateur repertory group and had some good roles. But his day job had been as an apprentice mechanic. He'd joined a large engineering firm and, after going through all the usual initiations – he was too clever to fall for the 'Go and ask stores for a long weight' ruse – worked hard and diligently. Until he was accused of stealing.

It still riled him of course. He hadn't stolen a thing, it was fit-up, that's what it was. He slurped his tea, and put his mug on the desk, then thought better of it and got a saucer to put it on in case the hot mug marked the leather. Before he swung his feet up onto the desk he placed a cloth on it to avoid scratching. He didn't want to lose this job, because now he worked for 'the government', even though he wasn't quite sure which part of it. Charles was his boss, and the only person he answered to.

He thought about this morning's job. It had gone smoothly. They'd arrived at the underground car park just in time, then trailed the subject to his flat. He hadn't once looked back to check if they were there, which made it easy. Very easy. Inside, knockout gas cylinder and hose ready, into the keyhole, then after a few minutes bring in the casket and off we go. But where, he wondered? Where do they go, the departed?

Thomas Alex Deighton finished his tea, lifted his legs off the desk and wiped it to make sure Charles wouldn't know he'd sat there. He washed and dried his mug and turned to leave the office but then stopped and took his top hat off the shelf and placed it on his head. He looked in the mirror on the wall beside the door, tilted the hat to a jaunty angle and tapped it on top to ensure it stayed in place.

I work for the government, he thought. As 'an undertaker's assistant.' Sure. Of course that's what I am. But at least my so-called criminal record has been wiped. Now all I've got to do is keep my nose clean and deal with the 'funerals.' His reflection smiled a lop-sided smile back at him and he started singing softly to himself.

'Dem bones, dem bones, dem... dry bones, dem bones, dem bones, dem... dry bones...'

To be continued...

I am looking for feedback on these first few pages, but more on the concept in general, so please feel 'free' to contribute a comment, file, brief, index or number (score out of ten). Thanks for reading. 

Be seeing you :-)