The Prisoner • Day One • Arrival

He was, in the words of a tiresome American pop song, a secret agent man. MI-6, field agent. His name? Not important. He had scores of them. A specialist in fake identities. Fluent in French, Russian and a smattering of everything. He was good at maths, good at dialects, good at getting into other people’s heads, and had something close to a photographic memory. He excelled at keeping his own secrets and extracting the secrets of others. That was the job, after all.

His conscience didn’t trouble him when those secrets belonged to an East German thug or a chemist from the Irish Republican army. All warfare is based on deception. Spycraft, in other words. And all is fair in love and Cold War. 

That ethos did not apply to the secrets of a band of earnest peaceniks with their leaflets and archaic "Ban the Bomb" placards. Infiltrate their group, pretend to be one of them, find out if they’re a Red front. Officially, that was his mission. But he knew it was a lie, a cover story. These people were naive, well-intentioned, and utterly harmless. The home office bloody well knew they weren't working for the KGB. Infiltrate the group, earn trust, and frame them for a charge of treason. That was the real mission. His conscience drew the line at that. He declined the mission. And resigned on principle. Simple as that. 

And with that simple decision, his career as a spy was in the past tense. Now?

He has a moment of satisfaction leaving his resignation on the head man's desk, pounding it with his fist, and breaking his beloved Royal Doulton china teacup.

Returns to the brute concrete parking garage. Gets into his Lotus 6. Then drives home, and packs his suitcases for a very long vacation. Glossy brochures promise paradise. But the hell of Heathrow Airport first. Morning flight. He has only.

Bad dreams. Something about filing cabinets. His identity card, spit out in a typewriter that marks his face with an X. But it was all just a dream of course.

Awake now. Couch in the living room, not the bed. His bed?

Something off. That jet lag feeling. Wrong time zone. Dazed. Possibly drugged.

His eyes say it's his room. His blood tells him it isn’t.

Open the blinds and see.

He raises the blinds. And instantly sees that he’s been abducted. London's tower blocks are gone. Instead, a courtyard, a pretty floral lawn and quaint Baroque buildings. Neat as a pin, like some idiotic holiday camp. Where the hell am I?

He’s fully awake now.

Runs outside. On the inside, his home is the same. On the outside, his row house flat resembles a cottage. Quaint as your mother’s knickers.

He looks up on instinct. Bell tower. Man inside, looking back at him. He runs to the tower, climbs the stairs, reaches the top. Nobody there. Just the sound of the wind.

Far away. Lovely seaside view. An estuary. Tidal flats. Wet sands the length of two football fields. Pretty picture postcard, but lacking an address.

Up close. The place looks deserted. Then a waitress appears on the terrace of a café to put up parasols at the tables. Above his head, the bell chimes out. 

He hurries down to the café. Runs up to the waitress.

“We'll be open in a minute,” she chirps.

"What's the name of this place?"

“You're new here, aren't you?”

“Where's here?”

The waitress shrugs and turns away. She’s preoccupied, busy setting up chairs. He follows her around the tables. Behind them, a man in overalls starts hosing down the check-tiled floor. Carefully. Like it’s his mission in life. The waitress looks at him again.

“Do you want breakfast?”

“Where is this?”

“This?”

He gestures. Stretches out his arms to east and west.

"Oh … The Village?"

"Yes."

“I'll see if coffee's ready.”

She tries to escape. He grabs her arm.

“Where's the police station?”

“There isn't one.”

“Can I use your phone?”

“We haven't got one.”

“Where can I make a call?”

“ Well there's a phone box round the corner.”

“Thank you.”

He sprints to the phone box. It bears the emblem of a canopied penny-farthing bicycle. A sign says: "For information lift and press." He picks up a strange L-shaped cordless phone. He hears a dial tone, then a beep followed by a woman's voice.

“Number please.”

“What exchange is this?”

“Number please.”

“I want to make a call to---”

“Local calls only. What is your number, sir?

"Haven't got a number.”

“No number, no call.”

She hangs up on him. Dial tone again. He walks away, wanders around, and comes to a large Plexiglas map labeled "Your Village." A sign promises "Free information." Dozens of numbered buttons. #4 = Medical Attention. #5 = Sporting Gear. #9 = Taxi. He pushes that one. A little canopied taxi instantly pulls up. The driver is a woman in a striped rugby shirt. Dark hair. Age, approximately 24. Japanese, definitely. Okinawan, probably. She smiles at him professionally.

“Where to, sir? Où désirez-vous aller?”

“Take me to the nearest town.”

“Oh, we're only the local service.”

“Take me as far as you can.”

They drive off. She keeps that big happy smile plastered on her face. Behind that smile? Perhaps an hint of fear. 

“Why did you speak to me in French?”

“French is international.”

“I suppose it's a waste of time asking the name of this place.”

“As a matter of fact I thought you might be Polish, perhaps a Czech.”

"What would Poles or Czechs be doing here?"

“It's very cosmopolitan. You never know who you'll meet next.”

She’s drives another 50 meters, then stops the taxi.

"I did tell you we are only local. The charge is two units."

"Units?"

"Credit units. Oh well, pay me next time. Be seeing you."

As she says this, she brings one hand up to her eye. Then forms a ring with her thumb and forefinger. Like an American doing the OK sign. Then she moves the OK from her eye to his eye. Then smile and drives away,

And leaves him standing outside a small shop labelled "General Stores" in the ubiquitous Village typeface. He enters. The shopkeeper, a plump man in an apron and straw boater, is speaking in strange tongues to a lady customer. Latinate language, oddly artificial. Esperanto, possibly. Then he sees his new customer, and breaks off abruptly. Starts speaking the King's English. But still speaking to the woman.

“Would you help yourself to a pineapple, madam?”

She nods and fetches one. He puts it in a bag for her.

"Thank you. Good day. Be seeing you."

He repeats the taxi-driver's gesture; she leaves. The shopkeeper gives him his full attention.

"Good morning, sir. And what can I do for you then?"

"I'd like a map of this area."

The question seems to puzzle him.

“Map? Color or black and white?”

“Just a map."

“Map...”

The shopkeeper pauses to remember where he would keep such a thing.

"Ah. Black and white..."

He produces a map from a cupboard.

“There we are, sir. I think you'll find that shows everything."

The shopkeeper hands him the map. He takes it, and opens it up. The title at the top says "Map of Your Village.” It’s a small village. The stylized diagram shows a few quaint streets and courtyards, with circles and squares indicating buildings. At the boundaries? This Village is apparently surrounded by "The Mountains" on the top, and “The Sea” at the bottom. No external geographical names. No context. No reference frame.

“I... I meant a larger map."

"Only in color, sir. Much more expensive."

"That's fine."

With some effort, the shopkeeper fetches him a color map. It’s larger. He takes it and unfolds it. Yet again, the title says “Your Village.” Same quaint streets and courtyards. As before, these are surrounded by “The Mountains,” “The Sea,” and "The Beach.” It’s as useless as the last. The shopkeeper smiles, still in jovial character. He’s eager to please, hopes not to disappoint. A transparent farce. He surely knows what I want. The man is either stupid. Or very good at playing stupid. But he gives it one last try.

“Er, that's not what I meant. I meant a... a larger area."

"No, we only have local maps, sir. There's no demand for any others. You're new here, aren't you?

"Where can I get a hire car? Self-drive."

"No self-drive. Only taxis."

"I've tried those."

The door goes ding. Another customer enters.

“Well, I look forward to the pleasure of your custom, sir. Be seeing you."

Again the gesture. Imbecile.

The shopkeeper turns to his new customer.

"Yes, sir?"

He leaves the shop. Outside, a loudspeaker immediately blasts a jingle into his ears. It's covered in a colored canopy like everything else in The Village. 

A cheerful woman's voice starts babbling.

"Good morning, all. It's another beautiful day."

Syrupy muzak pours forth.

He spots a maid shaking a duster out of a window of his cottage and runs back. He pauses only slightly at the sight of a canopied sign outside his new home; it says "6, Private" and wasn't there before. The door opens and shuts for him with an automatic hum; through the window he glimpses the maid walking away.

He scans his ersatz home for changes. Sees one.

They’ve put a cute little doll on his desk. The card in its tiny hands reads: "Welcome to your home from home." As he snatches the card, the phone starts beeping noisily. It now has a large numeral 6 at the center of its dial. Another change. The phone keeps beeping. He finally picks it up. A woman's voice. 

“Operator here.”

“Where’s here?”

“Is your number six?”

“Yes."

“Just one moment, I have a call for you."

"From whom?"

"From Number Two himself, sir! I'll put him on."

Now a man's voice

“Good morning to you.”

Voice of authority. Received pronunciation. Unctuous, but threatening. Headmaster has a cane.

“I hope you slept well. Come and join me for breakfast at the Green Dome. Be sure to bring your ..."

He hangs up violently and goes outside.

This "Village." More like a home for village idiots. Silly music playing everywhere. It reminds him of nursery rhymes. 

He strides past smiling, happy Villagers like a boxer entering a ring. He didn't take that Map of Your Village. But his destination is obvious. The Green Dome rising up at the heart of it all. 

He passes a gardener snipping at a bush, and reaches Number 2's door. He pulls the bell cord and a ludicrously deep gong chimes out. The door opens automatically. He steps into a lavishly furnished foyer done up in overstuffed Edwardian relics and a bad painting of a sailing ship. A diminutive butler bows to him, then leads the way to a pair of elegant white double doors. He approaches, and the doors open. Revealing ...

An anticlimax. It's only an antechamber, totally dark. Ah. But there's another set of great metal doors on the other side.

These doors slide open automatically, revealing the main attraction. No more antiques. Inside, it's as modern as a spaceship. A huge circular room, empty except for a circular desk in the center with an old-fashioned high-wheeled bicycle behind it. What did they call those things? Penny-farthing?

A black sphere rises from the floor in front of the desk. It rotates, revealing itself to be an egg-like chair containing Number 2, presumably. Male, caucasian. He's wearing a dark scarf with yellow and white stripes. Medium build, sandy hair parted to the left. Blue eyes, bushy eyebrows. Prominent nose. Executioner's smile.

“At last! Delighted to see you.”

The feeling isn't mutual. But there's no point in saying it.

He walks down the shallow ramp. The metal doors slide shut behind him.

"Come in, come in."

He enters the circular room. It resembles a Carnaby Street discotheque, complete with light show. Weird colors dance and spin on an enormous wall screen, reflecting on Number 2's smiling face.

"Do sit down."

His host reaches out with his shooting-stick (which is also a furled umbrella) and presses one of many switches on his desk. A circle opens up in the floor right beside him. Another chair rises out of it. Number 2 chuckles.

"I'm sorry, I can never resist that. I hope you don't mind a working breakfast."

He prods another switch with his shooting-stick, and a small circular table pops up. Simultaneously, the metal doors open and the butler wheels in a breakfast trolley. The doors shut begins immediately. Number Two smiles and begins a series of breakfast-related questions.

“Tea or coffee?”

"Tea."

The butler has just placed a pot of tea on the table.

"Indian or Chinese?"

"Either. With lemon."

As he speaks, the butler plops a slice of lemon into the tea.

"One or two eggs with your bacon?"

"Two?"

The butler unveils them in a dish.

"That will be all," says Number 2.

The butler wheels the trolley away.

"Help yourself to toast."

He walks to the table, lifts the lid off the last remaining dish.  And finds slices of toast inside.

"I suppose you're wondering what you're doing here."

“It had crossed my mind.”

He clangs the lid back.

“What's it all about?”

A whirr. The chair rises out of the floor again.

"Sit down and I'll tell you. It's a question of your resignation."

He doesn’t "sit down." A headmaster’s way of establishing control. He always hated his headmasters. Every last one.

Instead of sitting, he walks behind the ridiculous penny-farthing. He keeps walking around the perimeter of the circular room. This forces Number 2 to swivel around in his egg chair to maintain eye contact. 

"Go on."

“The information in your head is priceless."

"Is it?"

"Oh yes. I don't think you realize what a valuable property you've become. A man like you is worth a great deal on the open market.”

"Presumably someone's paid. That's why I'm here, isn't it?"

"Please stop shouting. I'm on your side."

"Which side is that? Did you bring me here to protect the information in my head? Or buy me on the open market to extract it?"

"It's not that ..."

“Who brought me here?"

"I know how you feel, believe me. And They have taken quite a liberty."

"Who are 'They'?"

"A lot of people are curious about what lies behind your resignation. You had a brilliant career. Your record is impeccable. They want to know why you suddenly left."

"What 'people'?"

"Now personally I believe your story. I do think it was a matter of principle. But, er, what I think doesn't really count, does it? One has to be sure about these things."

He completes his circuit around the room. Now he's back where he started. Face to face with Number 2.

"You want to be sure?"

"We have your best interests at heart. And the interests of the global community as well."

"And that gives you the right to poke your nose into my private business?"

"Now please. It's my job to check your motives."

"I've been checked!"

Anger makes him pace again. 

"Of course, but when a man knows as much as you do, a double check does no harm. A few details may have been missed."

“I don't know who you are, or who you work for... and I don't care: I'm leaving."

He walks up the ramp to the metal doors. They open, as if to let him out. With perfect comic timing, they shut in his face at the last possible second. Number 2's spherical chair descends slightly, allowing him to stand up. He places his shooting-stick on his desk. A gesture of peace. As if he's putting down a loaded weapon.

"Have you not yet realized there's no way out? Now look, I have something that will interest you..."

Number 2 lifts a manilla folder from his desk and opens it. Bursting with words and pictures. Rather like a big thick book.

"A bedtime story?"

"Your files, of course. Let's begin at the beginning, shall we?"

The light show changes on the massive wall screen. Dancing colors give way to a slide show. Family photographs of his infancy. Presumably lost in the Blitz but somehow found.

His smiling, gurgling face.

"What a happy child you were. So open. When did that change?"

He grabs the file from Number 2's hands.

"Oh, feel free!"

Number Two laughs. The slideshow resumes. 

"Now the child becomes a man. Your first communion. Your first love! Your first fight."

He flips through the file. By some unfathomable trickery, the photos in the slideshow stay precisely synchronized with what the biographical data he sees. There are shots of him at school, in the army, and...

His early days at MI-6. One specific day.

"A most important day...remember? Getting ready to meet Chambers, about to become late of the Foreign Office."

Photographs appear show him getting up one morning.

“You were hoping to, er, persuade him to change his mind before the big boys found out. You waited and waited, but he never turned up.

He's waiting in the rain. He's checking in to a hotel. He's lying on his hotel bed reading a dossier. What was he thinking? Number 2 reads his mind.

"A nice guy, Chambers. And so taut!"

He slams the file shut. Number 2 smiles.

"You see there's not much we don't know about you, but one likes to know everything. For instance, do you remember that time you arrived back from Singapore?"

More slides. Black and white. Surveillance camera. Excellent resolution.

"Change of climate, feeling a bit shaky. You were sickening for a cold — sneezed yourself out of our camera."

The slides show him holding a handkerchief to his nose.

"Deciding to take a vacation!"

Repeated iterations of his face. Various pondering expressions. He's thinking. Number 2 narrates his train of thought.

"Now where can you go? Ireland? A bit too cold that time of the year. Paris! Maybe not. What was that?"

Another montage. Three photos where he's looking straight into the hidden camera. Two where his back is turned.

"Sounded like a click. Something in the mirror? Or was it over there? Yes, over there too."

The slideshow ends. Number 2 smiles and takes the file from his hands. 

"As I said, one likes to know everything. For instance I had no idea you liked lemon tea."

"That's not in there?"

"Sadly, no."

He grabs the file again and starts leafing through it.

"The time of my birth is also missing."

"Well, there you are. Now let's bring it all up to date."

“Four thirty-one a.m., nineteenth of March 1928. I've nothing else to say. Is that clear?”

He throws the file to the floor.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Now be reasonable, old boy. It's just a matter of time. Sooner or later you'll tell me. Sooner or later you'll want to. Let's make a deal. You cooperate, tell us what we want to know, and this can be a very nice place. You may even be given a position of authority."

"I will not make any deals with you. I've resigned. I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed or numbered. My life is my own."

“Is it?"

"Yes. You won't hold me."

He sets off for the doors again, but stops.

"Won't we? Let me prove that we will."

Number Two gets up. He picks up the file with one hand and his shooting-stick with the other. An invitation to go walkies.

"Come, I'll show you the big picture. We can take this up later."

They walk out together. 

Outside the Green Dome, another taxicab is waiting.
Another driver takes them to a helipad overlooking the coast of The Sea. A helicopter awaits, rotors spinning. Shiny new Alouette II, lacking identification numbers. They both climb inside. All smiles, Number 2 hands him a headset. He puts it on. The little butler is in the pilot's seat, wearing a red cape and black bowler hat. Number 2 speaks into the mic attached to his headset. His jovial voice crackles in his ears.

"Are you receiving me?"

"Loud and clear."

They take off, and circle over The Village. Pretty, banal, improbable, ersatz. He can hear the idiotic sales brochures in his mind. "Enjoy elegant buildings in a seasidelike atmosphere. Welcome to The Village! Your permanent vacation has just begun!" Not if he can help it.

"Quite a beautiful place really, isn't it? Almost like a world on its own."

"I shall miss it when I'm gone."

"Oh, it will grow on you. We have everything here: water, electricity ..."

He points down.

"There's the council building — we have our own council, democratically elected. We also use it for public meetings, amateur theatricals..."

"Fascinating."

“Yes indeed! There's the restaurant... But did you know we have our own little newspaper?”

"You must send me a copy."

Number 2 laughs out loud.

"You'll be the death of me. We also have our own graveyard... but you'd be more interested in our, er, social club, I think."

They fly over the main square. Down below, the Villagers are happily strolling about in colorful costumes or riding equally colorful canopied bicycles. The unholy offspring of George Orwell and Walt Disney.

“Members only, but I'll see what I can do for you.”

“You're too kind.”

“Now if you have any problems, there's our Citizens' Advice Bureau. They do a marvelous job. Everybody's very nice. You might even meet people you know."

He acknowledges this last remark with a simple smile. The helicopter touches down on the grass again and he gets out, with Number 2 chuffing behind him.

They walk across the lawn of the Old People's Home, where brightly dressed pensioners are being waited on at parasoled tables. They come to a stone boat moored at the water's edge. It is decked out with colored flags and rigging. Old age pensioners are clambering all over it. Enjoying their permanent vacation.

Number 2 points his stick at the permanently landlocked craft.

"You'll probably see the funny side of that. I'm told some people even get seasick on it.”

"What are they here for? St Vitus' dance?"

"I'm glad you've still got your sense of humor. They're our senior citizens. Of course they have every comfort."

They walk back over the lawn to the main road.

"You see you're looked after here — as long as you live. Brilliant background: you see that old gentleman there? Ex-admiral. Excellent chess player."

He knows the man. Supposedly murdered in a terrorist bombing. But doesn't say anything.

"Hope he finds a partner."

"Taxi!"

A canopied taxi magically appears. (Helpfully labeled "Taxi" to avoid confusion.) The driver speeds off through the winding streets of The Village, musical horn blaring loudly. When the taxi stops, Number 2 gets out and starts walking. He waits a second, gets out, and walks off in the opposite direction. He wanders back to the main square, arriving at the same time as a colorful brass band starts playing the Radetski March. It's all quite idyllic. Bubbling fountain. A statue of Atlas, perched on a high plinth and bearing the weight of the world. Hasn't resigned yet, apparently. 

The ubiquitous loudspeakers rattle his eardrums again. The same chirpy voice.

"Good morning all, it's another beautiful day! Your attention please. Here are two announcements."

He spots Number 2, studying him from across the square, apparently amused. He keeps walking. The loudspeakers keep nattering.

"Ice cream is now on sale for your enjoyment. The flavor of the day is strawberry. Here is a warning."

The Villagers look alarmed. 

"There is a possibility of light intermittent showers later in the day. Thank you for your attention."

Number 2 climbs up on a bizarre, tall, pillared structure overlooking the fountain area. Now standing at the top, like Mussolini about to make a speech. At any second, he'll doubtlessly produce a megaphone.

He turns away and passes a canopied sign that says "Walk on the grass", climbs a wide flight of stone steps and reaches a paved area surrounding a long thin pond with a fountain at one end. Behind his back, Number 2 starts speaking through — yes — a megaphone.

"Come along my dear fellow, don't be shy."

He keeps walking. A penny-farthing bicycle blocks his path. An oldish gentleman in a straw boater approaches from the other side, performs the "Be seeing you" gesture and rolls the bicycle away. The little butler has also just walked past in a bowler hat and cape, holding an enormous black and white umbrella above his bald head. He takes a pace forward. An elderly couple, brightly dressed, make the "Be seeing you" sign as they pass. The band is still playing in the distance. They couple smiles and speak in unison.

"Beautiful day!"

Number 2 is still standing on that ridiculous edifice. He still has the megaphone to his mouth.

“Lovely couple, aren't they? They didn't settle for ages. Now they wouldn't leave for the world.”

He answers his jailer from across the square. He doesn't need a megaphone. 

“You mean you brought them around to your way of thinking.”

“They had a choice. Wait! Wait! Be still!"

A little white sphere suddenly appears at the top of the jet from the fountain. It bobs up and down on the bubbling spray. It seems like a happy sight. But not to the Villagers.

The band stops playing. The Villagers all freeze in their tracks. Like actors doing an exercise. The Villagers stay rooted in place. All eyes on that tiny sphere. Inexplicably, it seems to terrify them. The only moving things are Number 2 and his new inmate. But Number 2 shouts again.

"Be still!"

Who's he talking to?

Then he notices a young man who's standing in the middle of the pool in the center of the square. For some strange reason, he's not keeping still like the others. He cries out madly and flails his arms. Stiff movements, ungainly. Something wrong with him. Autistic, perhaps.

Number 2 bellows at him.

"I said be still!"

The tiny sphere suddenly inflates to enormous proportions and emits a low rumbling whine. Then bounces away from the fountain like a living thing. Or a predator giving chase.

"Stop!"

The young man runs from the pond, spinning round, arms outstretched.

"Turn back!"

But the young man keeps running. The sphere runs after him like a monstrous white blood cell. It quickly catches him. Absorbs him. He can see the topography of the kid's face, pressing against the membrane of this thing. He's inside that thing. He's screaming, but the sound is muffled. Then the kid disappears. And the screaming stops.

Number 2 watches all of this with a hint of a smile. Sadist, with good manners. After digesting its victim, the spheroid rolls up to them. He stands his ground, but finally steps out of its way. It undulates past them, then bounces away across the neat grass.

The band starts playing again. The Villagers spring back to life. Live nothing had happened. Or perhaps like it happens all the time.

The young man is gone. The spheroid absorbed him. No trace, no blood. Just a button lying on the ground. Number 23.

“What was that thing?”

“That would be telling.”

Number 2 smiles like this is all quite funny.

“You murdered him.”

“No, I didn’t. You saw it! I warned him to stop. Number 23 didn’t stop—is that my responsibility? Actions have consequences, sometimes fatal. Poor lad.”

“Hurt you more than it hurt him?”

“Yes, it did! I tried to make him see, I really did. But I could never break through his thick skull. I tried and tried, but … Number 23 was always so …”

“Independent? Individual? Human?”

“All that and more.”

“You taught him a lesson, then? Taught them all a lesson. Obey or die.”

“Well, it’s an important lesson, isn’t it? This wasn’t his first offense, I assure you. Number 23 always had a problem with authority. That can be quite dangerous around here.”

"I can see that. Was the lesson meant for me?"

"No, old boy. I wouldn't presume to insult your intelligence."

That horrible smile again.