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 :-)
Note: Unity was released in April 2023
and is now onto its second edition
