by Stine, Hank
‘What kind of “facts”?’
The judge smiled slightly. ‘Just that. The factual evidence: fingerprints, photographs, tape recordings, film, chemical composition, the like. No biased testimony. No prejudiced witnesses. Just the truth. And an honest objective evaluation based on the facts.’
‘But your honour,’ Number 157 spoke up again. ‘I tell you this man is innocent. He knows nothing.’
‘He is not charged with knowledge. He is charged with “habituating a residence where narcotics are kept”.’
‘But your honour,’ 157 said, ‘this is not right. He knew nothing.’
‘This law was enacted to punish participants at a narcotics party who were present but did not possess narcotics when arrested. It appears you are telling the truth. Number Two has even made an appeal in your behalf.’
‘He has?’
‘Yes, Number Six, he has. And very good of him too. But the law is specific, whatever its intentions: if marijuana was, indeed, stored in your home, however unwittingly, then you are guilty. If you are guilty, the penalty is death.’
The spray whipped back icy and sharp against him and he looked out over the bow of the boat at the building before them.
It rose up dark and square into the night, waves beating the cliff at its base. A dim phosphorescence clung to the rock, wet and gleaming.
The boat, caught between wind and ocean, tossed violently about.
He kept a firm grip on a stanchion and reached out to steady Number 157.
The little man looked up uncertainly. ‘Where are they taking us, Number Six?’
There was nothing to say.
This building had certainly not been here a month ago, and yet he was sure that walls, floors, fixtures and cement, it would be authentic to the age of the smallest stone in the paving.
They were closer now, and heard clearly the crash of wave against rock. (Great foaming breakers smashed unyieldingly against the cliff.)
They slipped in along the base and entered a harbour. A guard stood on a dock and helped them make fast to the moorings.
Lightning flickered and there was the flat concussion of thunder. Rain poured down, blotting out sound and vision. A cold, miserable ache went along his back and a dull pressure started in his head. Suddenly the cold was piercing.
They were hustled off the boat and into a guard house. The room was hot and steamy, a dozen armed men swarming about. Number 157 turned to him. ‘What is this place? I’ve never seen it before.’
‘Neither have I.’
The room opened on to a lift. They were herded in. It began to rise.
‘There are prisoners here, aren’t there?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ one of the guards replied.
‘Not by any chance an abbe?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not.’
The lift stopped and they went out on to a windswept courtyard and across to a door. There were steps in a chill corridor and they went down them carefully, one at a time.
The light seemed strange and his eyes ached.
They paused before a wooden door. Number 157 was thrown inward. The door closed, locked.
They went on. Another door opened. Hands closed on his arms. He was thrust inside.
He fell to his knees, in the deep pile of the carpet. A slender modern lamp lit the room. There was a red velvet divan at his elbow. He stood up dizzily and sneezed.
‘Well, Number Six. It sounds as if you have a cold.’ Number 2 grinned from the television.
An hour later his temperature was over a hundred and two.
Some days it was:
‘Good morning, Number Six. And how are we today?’
He looked up at the starched white length of the nurse. Her face was lean, unblemished and plain. A stiff white cap sat on her hair. Her eyes were intense, almost maniacally cheerful.
‘Did we sleep well last night?’ She thrust a thermometer in his mouth before any reply was possible.
‘We’re certainly sulky today. Why is that?’ She took his pulse. ‘And our bowels—have we moved our bowels yet this morning?’
‘Hello, mate.’ The man on the next bed waved a red, freckled arm. ‘What you here for?…Don’t feel like talking, eh? I can understand that. Makes you miserable, don’t it—the flu? I’m not really too sick, myself. But I figured, I got to do time, I might just as well do it as easy as I can. Of course, they aren’t exactly stupid, get me. It ain’t all that easy to put one over on them. But it can be done. I et soap myself. Made me sicker than a dog. I puked all over. Really something. Of course, I’m fine now, but they don’t know that. Made ’em think I’m sicker than I was.’
‘Breakfast, sir.’
Oatmeal, a poached egg, orange juice, two vitamin pills, one penicillin pill, one aspirin and two tablets he didn’t recognise.
‘Now me, I’m in for bombing a synagogue. Can you imagine that? For nothing more than trying to run those Jew bastards out of town. I say we don’t need none of them in this Village. Hell, they use Christian babies in their services, don’t they? Always lording it over everyone else, pretending to be so smart and so persecuted. I mean, they make their money off us, don’t they? They exploit the working class, don’t they? We gotta show ‘em we’re through with that, don’t we?’
His lungs were dry and his lips were cracked with thirst. A fever burned behind his eyes and his face was hard as stone. There was no strength in his chest or arms; they seemed empty and bloodless.
‘And how is the patient today?’ The doctor took his pulse, glanced at a chart. ‘Yes, yes. Very good. A touch of the flu. Nothing serious. You’ll be right as rain in a day or so.’ He looked at the chart again.
‘Well…humm…uh-huh.’ He left.
‘Hello, Number Six.’
‘Number Seven!’ He was astonished. ‘But—’
‘How did I get here?’ She grew thoughtful. ‘I don’t know. I heard you’d been arrested, and I asked them if I could see you. I didn’t know you were sick too.’
‘Yes.’
‘What—’ She looked around the sunlit infirmary. ‘What are they going to do to you?’
‘Kill me, they say.’
‘Kill you? Do they do that?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you—’ She shook her head. ‘It’s hard to know what to say. Do you think they will?’
He looked into her eyes. ‘I hope not.’
She smiled. ‘I hope not either. But—’ she shivered—‘this place seems less and less real all the time. How do you stay sane?’
He was sorry the question was suspect. Suddenly he felt weak. ‘It isn’t easy.’
‘I’m sorry. You look tired. I’d better go. Perhaps they’ll let me come again.’ She looked around at the room. ‘Has this place always been here?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Amazing,’ she said, and left.
They brought him lunch.
‘I tell you, mate, it was a hell of a night. Them Hebes come running and screaming out of the place. Some of them was on fire and the women was mad to find their babies. And them kids, them kids were the best of all. They were crying for parents and some of ’em were so terrified they ran right back into the fire. Man, it was something to see.’
‘A call for you, sir.’ An orderly stood by his side, a plug-in phone in one hand. He fitted the cord into a plug.
‘Hello? Number Six?’ The voice was cool, young, vaguely familiar. ‘It’s Number Five Sixty-nine; remember me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I called your home and they transferred me here. Where exactly are you?’
‘A prison of some sort. An island in the bay.’
‘Yeah, I seen ’em putting it up. Funny, isn’t it, them doing that? Well, we ain’t gonna stand for it. We’re all on your side.’
‘How kind.’
‘I mean, it’s an unfair deal what you got, mate. You was innocent. Number Twenty-four told me all about it. This law’s crazy, man. We
tried to talk to someone. We tried to get through to Number Two. But nobody would give us the time. They said they was too busy. So we’re gonna make your case known. We’re gonna make people aware of this. If they won’t listen to us when we ask polite, we’ll force them to listen, get me?’
‘I get you.’
‘Well, I just wanted you to know. It’s funny, in a way—them letting me talk to you.’
‘I had that feeling myself.’
‘Okay then, ’bye.’
‘Goodbye.’
The receiver clicked off.
And some days it was:
‘And then mate, we took the little vixen, well…she didn’t go back to her German momma exactly the way she came. I mean, hell, it wasn’t nothing to what the Jerries did to some of them Polack women. Why one time…’
The smoke from the man’s cigar cut his lungs with a sharp, stabbing pain. Ceiling and walls boiled with colour. There was a dull pressure in his eyes and his ears rang dully.
‘You, Number Six. We’ve come for you.’ Two guards stood at the foot of the bed. ‘Come on, get up.’
The words made a kind of dim, fevered sense. He could almost remember what they were. They had come to see him about something. Yes, they had definitely addressed him. He had heard them say, ‘Number Six’. The words had roared distantly in his ears. ‘Number Six,’ they had said. ‘We have come for you.’ Now why had they done that? Thought moved reluctantly through his mind.
‘The doctor says you’re better today. We’re moving you to a safe place.’
Moving? Today? He could not make sense of the words. His head was a blazing, flaming agony and he was only dimly aware of his body.
‘Don’t give me that. I ain’t falling for it. They’ve tried that one before.’
The two men took him by the arms and lifted him from the bed to his feet.
‘Come on. Get up. We ain’t so dumb as you think.’
They let go of him and he collapsed.
‘Ah, come on. Get up.’ One of them kicked him in the side. He felt the blow dimly.
He was lifted again and carried out of the room. He never remembered anything more.
Good afternoon, Number Six.’ The television woke him and he came slowly to consciousness, eyes burning and dry, throat parched, lips cracked, tongue stale.
A group of men appeared on the screen. Soldiers in uniform, carrying rifles and surrounding:
Number 157, head down, stumbling forward, hands chained behind his back. A priest walked at his side, reading from a book.
The soldiers led him to a post, lashed him to it.
He was crying, face swollen with fear. He closed his eyes and bowed before the priest.
The priest touched a hand to his head, made the sign of the cross.
The soldiers put a blindfold over his eyes, stepped away.
The priest followed.
‘Ready!’ He heard the call faint but clear.
‘Aim!’
There was a pause.
‘Fire!’
The after silence was loud and sharp.
But today it was:
‘FREE HIM NOW! NOW! NOW! FREE HIM NOW—’ The cry was deep and loud and threatening. ‘FREE HIM NOW! NOW! NOW—’ It had the rhythmic inevitability of a freight train roaring past in the night. ‘NOW! NOW! NOW—’ The faces of the protesters (young, long-haired, lank and angry) smouldered with resentment. ‘NOW NOW NOW—’
‘Your advocates, Number Six.’
‘Your rebels, Number Two.’
‘They are trying to save your life, after all.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘It won’t do you any good, you know.’
‘I hadn’t expected it to.’
‘You’re really a fortunate man you know. If you hadn’t caught cold when you did, you’d be dead by now. This is probably the first time in your life you’ve ever been thankful for the flu.’
‘NOW! NOW! NOW!’ They were on the steps of the Village Hall, fists raised to the blank grey windows. A line of guards stood before the doors, arms linked, faces bewildered and uncertain.
‘And why,’ an announcer’s voice crackled from the speaker, ‘are you doing this, Number Five Sixty-nine?’
‘Cause it’s unfair, man.’ His thick blond hair stirred in the wind. He looked strong and righteous. ‘Number Six didn’t do anything. He didn’t know anything about that dope. The courts proved that. It was left there by the guy who lived in the house before. Number Six is innocent. He should go free.’
‘I see.’ The newscaster was in his thirties and had close-cropped hair. ‘Well, why are you marching on the Village Hall?’
‘Because we’ve tried to talk to these people, with Number Two particularly. And they’ve refused to reconsider the case or even to speak to us.’
‘And what do you plan to do if the police block the way?’
‘Then we’ll break through.’
‘You’re willing to use violence.’
‘If they won’t listen to anything else.’
‘But isn’t it true that Number Two himself made a personal plea for—’ The sound cut off.
‘An amusing situation, really. This young man thinks he can intimidate us.’
‘What will you do?’
‘That’s right. You won’t be around to see it. Will you, Number Six? That’s too bad. I’m afraid we haven’t made a decision yet. But we will and it will be an effective one. We have our ways, as you know.’
He said nothing.
‘And yet, Number Six, you might still save yourself. You have only to co-operate and be set free.’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Don’t be too hasty. Is this secret more valuable than your life?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Then I wish you luck with it. Tomorrow is your execution.’
It seemed likely, then, that whatever they were going to try, they would try tonight.
He was standing before the window, looking out at the phosphorescent surge of the waves.
‘Number Six.’
‘Yes, Number Seven.’ He had almost been expecting her.
She hesitated in the doorway, silvered lenses catching the light. ‘You’re not surprised?’
‘To see you? No. You were too good to be true. Out of place, even here.’
Her mouth moved in a smile. ‘Well, I’m close to true, you know.’
‘Everyone always is.’
‘The Colonel sent me.’
‘The Colonel?’
‘Colonel Schjeldahl, your superior.’
‘My former superior.’
‘Whatever, Number Six. I’m here to help you.’
‘And how am I to take that?’
‘Any way you want.’ She took off the glasses and put them in the pocket of her coat. The Colonel wants you back. He has a project you may find tempting.’
‘Is that the price of freedom?’
‘Would you pay it if it were?’
‘No.’
‘He wants you to destroy the Village.’
‘He does? Why?’
‘Let him tell you.’ She reached in her coat and produced a squat little gun. ‘Here, I had to break in. There’s a helicopter waiting on the roof.’
‘From the Colonel?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about radar?’
‘It’s been taken care of. Our men are on staff tonight.’
‘Our men?’
‘Ask the Colonel, I haven’t time to explain now.’
‘Why is everyone always in a hurry just as things become most interesting?’
‘Isn’t life always the most interesting when the most is happening?’
They went slowly round a corner. He held the gun in a hand. A guard sat by a door.
The man looked up, the meaty pockets of his eyes creasing with apprehension.
‘Be seeing you.’ He squeezed the trigger. A jet of vapour hissed from
the nozzle and shot up around the guard.
The man opened his mouth, straightened, and collapsed.
‘It works.’
‘Didn’t you think it would?’
‘Should I?’
‘Think whatever you like, Number Six.’
He opened the door and they were out in the face of the wind.
The ocean was on one side, a stone wall on the other. Yellow light shone from windows above their heads and fell down against the flaggings. The night was black, and through it they saw the stationary lights of helicopter blades.
‘Your men are on duty tonight?’
‘It’s a faction. Don’t you understand, a faction. The Colonel’s group is opposed to those who maintain this village. They have tried to have it phased out for years. But the men in charge have a great deal of influence. No one knows why. Maybe they like power.’
‘What does he want me to do?’
‘There are three directors. Collectively they are Number One. If they are removed the Village can be declassified and its prisoners released.’
‘Removed?’
‘Killed.’
‘And where are we going?’
The cabin light came on and a man in a blue flight suit waved at them.
‘To that unpronounceable place you chose to retire.’
‘It’s easy to pronounce.’
‘Your car is at the hotel. We’re to get in it and drive to London.’
They were almost at the helicopter. The pilot had switched on the engine and the blades were beginning to rotate.
‘We’re on Aran Island, you’re sure of that?’
‘Positive.’
‘The north coast of Ireland?’
‘Yes.’ She brought out some keys. He took them. ‘To your car.’
‘Be seeing you,’ he said, and shot her with the gas.
Three
He stood in the foggy Welsh morning and lifted his arm to look at his watch: the hands stood frozen at six.
