The Prisoner • Day One • Walkabout

He turns and walks away. No more lessons today. No more threats from Number 2. He's had his fill of the Headmaster's bloody guided tour.

Number 2 calls out behind him. Disappointed.

“Where are you going, old boy?”

“West, if the sun in the sky is to be believed.”

“Well, I’ll go with you then.”

“Please don’t.”

“But there’s so much more to see!”

"I prefer to see for myself."

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Have it your way, then. Be seeing you.”

“Not if I can help it.”

West. Cobblestone path, steps, and he’s back at the Stone Boat. No more devolved senior citizens. Nobody at all, in fact. Seaside shops and cafes all deserted. Beach at low tide, long stretch of sand. Equally desolate, but brightly illuminated. Past noon, but sun still high in the sky. An invitation to run. Practically begging him. Run, old chap! Run and be caught. His next great scene in their pantomime. His part in the play. But not today.

He turns back. Walking, not running.

Returns to the heartless heart of the Village. The cheerful public square, now devoid of things that kill. The band is playing, a living chess game is in progress. It all looks so bright and happy. Think. Like everything he hates. As if this whole ridiculous Village was created just to irritate him. But that’s mad, paranoiac. Bespoke delusional architecture? No. Think. What just happened? Go back to the beginning. 

What did they do to me? More importantly, what was the intended effect?

Alice down the rabbit hole. Rude awakening. Disorientation. A short sharp shock. Like a slap to the face. Can’t think, pliable. A way to soften up the new arrival.

Then?

The Headmaster calls him to up to his office for a jolly "working breakfast." What was the point of all that? 

A show of power, knowledge, and control. Omniscience and omnipresence. We see all. We see you. But not entirely. Be a good fellow and fill in the blanks. One likes to know everything. One likes to play God.

Their latest Prisoner isn't God. But he’d like to know something.

Think.

Go back to the breakfast. Be specific. The details. God is in them. Or the devil, depending on whom you ask. What exactly happened?

A slideshow, where Number 2 read my thoughts. A breakfast, where he anticipated my orders like a telepathic waiter.

The point?

Like God in His heaven, Number 2 answers my prayers before I ask. Rubbish. Cheap magic trick. Easy if you’ve got the right files. I’m a creature of habit, entirely predictable in many ways. But the random factor? 

How many eggs? I say one. It turns out to be two. Spoil the show. How could They control for that?

Easy. Dead obvious. Plant suggestions in his head. Subliminal messaging. You want toast. You want tea. Pour poison in his ear while he was sleeping. How long was he sleeping? Where? In what laboratory? What day is this?

He’s not God. But he’d like to know something.

A child is staring at him. Little girl, approximately six years old. Caucasian, blue eyes. Fair complexion, red hair, freckled. First child he’s seen all day. Evidently they spared the little ones today’s object lesson in the public square. He bends down and asks her a question.

"What day is it?"

"Dunno," she says. "But it says so on the newspaper."

She points to what looks like a roll of butcher paper mounted on a metal frame marked "The Talley Ho." Then runs to her mother who takes her hand and gives him a frown. He smiles back at the little girl.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” she says.

“What’s your name?”

“Becky.”

“Thank you, Becky.”

Her mother jerks her by the wrist, violently. Drags Becky away, crying. What have I told you? What have I told you? No names here! I’m sorry, mum. Don’t …

Obscene. His blood boils, but his training kicks in. Not the time. Not now. 

Walks up to metal frame. "The Talley Ho" is, in fact, a newspaper. It's been printed on a roll of perforated paper. The cleverly stupid apparatus is designed to let you tear off the news of the day. He rips off a sheet. Studies the date.

19 Thermidor.

He can almost hear his captors laughing.

It’s a date in the French Republican calendar. More of Their twisted sense of humor. The day of the month but no year. Utterly useless. An island of data in an ocean of ignorance. Like the map. 19 Thermidor = 19 July. Or it could = a lie. No easy way of knowing. Someone's looking at him.

Pretty woman, judgmental smile.

“Lost in thought?”

“I’m finding myself in thought.”

She sneers at the word.

Thought. A dirty habit like self-abuse.

"Be seeing you."

Be seeing you. Another sick joke with a double meaning. A hint, a reminder. We see you. And, for once, they're telling the truth.

He knows. More than the feeling of being watched. A bone-deep certainty. CCTV cameras everywhere. Probably a distraction from miniaturized cameras he can't see. That means ....

Pop!

Distraction? What was he thinking? Can’t hear himself think. Why?

The insipid Muzak is getting louder. Another nursery tune. Pop goes the weasel! 

His training saves him yet again. They can’t derail his train of thought. If a dentist’s drill failed, a popping weasel has no chance.

The monkey thought it all in fun!

Focus. Return to the key question.

Who’s running the place? 

Massive resources, obviously. Their Village is a Potemkin village. Unlike Rome, it was built in a day from a carefully considered plan. And a design scheme, at that. It’s all so cloyingly art-directed. No inconsistencies, nothing organic. A unified architectural vocabulary, like a giant outdoor film set. Borehamwood Studios, Cinecittà, or something like that. No power lines, all underground. No planes in the airspace, for that matter. Who could do that?

Easy question.

A superpower, East or West. This happy unhappy Village has the stink of Cold War thinking. It’s either Them or Us. Logical. But who? Which?

Hypothesis #1: It’s our side. 

Americans? CIA? No. Not directly. Not their style. And he’s heard few American accents in The Villagers, and none from his keepers. Just posh British accents and public school manners.

MI-6, then. Most probable answer. Possibly in cahoots with the CIA, a franchise perhaps. One of many Villages around the world. But that could all be misdirection. Put a pin on that.

Hypothesis #2. It’s the other side. The KGB.

But how would that explain the BBC pronunciations? Why would they do that? To make their primarily UK abductees drop their guard? Not likely. 

Would the KGB be so polite? Never. 

Could they resist the urge to brainwash, bruise and bludgeon? Would they make it all so clean and nice? As he knows from personal experience, the gulags have no Muzak, air-conditioning or amateur theatricals. This vapid holiday camp isn’t their style, either. But that could be another form of misdirection. Why? For what motive? You don’t need a marching band when a set of jumper cables will do.

It doesn’t suss out.

Let's say it's our side then. Return to the original hypothesis.

If MI-6 is actually running the show, why keep it a secret? Why not claim to represent the UK? Sorry we had to nab you, old boy. But we’re on the same side. Why not say that? Why put on a mask when your actual face will do?

It doesn’t suss out either.

Conclusion?

Stalemate.

If MI-6 is in charge, they’d come out and say it. Then order him to cooperate in the name of Queen, country, patriotism and national security. If the KGB is behind it, they’d employ the blunt instruments of their toolbox.

Neither hypothesis makes sense. 

His well-trained mind can think of no other plausible explanation. He's stuck. Not the faintest idea what's going on.

Stalemate.

That woman again. Number 57. She smiles brightly.

“Have you found yourself yet?”

"Seek and ye shall find."

A Bible quote. Now hear the word of the Lord! Doubtlessly impressive when Jesus said it. But it sounds lame coming out of his lips. Empty slogan, stupid nonsense. She laughs.

"Oh you haven't, then? Please let me know when you do, won't you? Be seeing you!"

She gives him that weird salute. He resists the temptation to bark something ugly at her. 

Just smiles. Returns to that ersatz cottage. His "home from home" where he awoke this morning. Fills his ears with cotton from an aspirin bottle. Then goes to bed.

In bed. But determined not to sleep. Think. Keep thinking. At some point