L
ack of mutuality…a capital offence…well, I mean…there’s never been anything like it before.’
‘Number Two’s orders.’
‘Well…’ The desk sergeant scratched behind an ear. ‘In that eventuality…yes.’
Their eyes met. The sergeant’s lips were pursed in a faint, embarrassed smile. ‘I’m sorry, Number Six. Don’t mean to hold you up. But this is not our usual job of work. Not at all…quite different, indeed. Not like that lot over there.’ He pointed across the room.
Number 24 sat on a bench next to a belligerent old gentleman. The old man had the clean, angry look of an IRA captain: bloodless lips, glittering eyes, taut skin. Number 24 had a large neb, wounded poet’s eyes, an olive complexion, and an expression of bewildered suffering.
The old man caught the sergeant’s gesture and glared, lip curling back in a sneer. ‘Fists like matured hams,’ he whispered, ‘for beating defenceless boys like you.’
Number 24’s eyes grew wide and fearful.
‘Not like that lot at all,’ the sergeant repeated. ‘Just lurking about. More for their own good, really…’ He brought his lips together and unbuttoned his jacket pocket, extracting a ball point pen. He lay the pen on the desk next to a ledger, opened the ledger to a half-filled page and began to write.
‘Number…You are Number Six?’
‘That is not my name.’
‘My dear sir’—the sergeant assumed an expression of almost bovine patience—‘I am aware that your name is not “Number Six”. That is your
official
designation—as I’m sure you know. The question is: Are you or are you not known as “Number Six”?’
He lifted a brow at the sergeant. ‘The question is: What do
I
wish to be known as? My name is—’
‘My good man!’
‘And I am not your man.’
‘Number Six!’
‘And I am not “Number Six”.’
‘What would you have me call you?’
‘By my name.’
‘But that would be impossible. You can see that, can’t you? Surely a sensible man like yourself can see that. So many men have the same name, but there is only one Number Six.’
‘I’ve been told that before.’
‘Then, what would you have me call you?’
‘What are men in my position usually called?’
‘But’—the sergeant’s eyebrows rose in astonishment—‘that would be most unmutual.’
‘But truthful.’
‘The truth can only be an embarrassment.’
‘Not for me.’
‘You’re only making it harder on yourself, Number Six. Now—Number: Six. Charge: To be specified—’
‘When will it be specified?’
The sergeant gave a patient, forbearing sigh. ‘I am hardly the one to know.’
‘Who is?’
‘Now look here! I have my job and doubtless you have yours. Mine is to process people as speedily as possible. Nothing more. Now, may I get on with my work?’
‘As you like.’
‘Cell: Six.’ He turned to a constable: ‘Take Prisoner,The:ADayintheLife to cell six.’
‘No fingerprints?’
The sergeant produced a document. ‘See. Here: your photo.’
‘Photos can be changed.’
‘So can fingerprints.’
‘I should have known. But, tell me, how can you be certain of my identity?’
‘They know everything. If they say you are “Number Six”, you are.’
‘And who are
they?’
‘The monitors.’
‘What monitors?’
‘Number Six, I have no time for nonsense. Take him away.’
‘Be seeing you.’
He was taken to a cell. The door opened, he was let in.
Across the room (mounted above the tiny, barred window) was a television camera. Below the camera sat Number One Fifty-seven, the old tobacconist.
He lifted his head, eyes dark and reddened.
‘Bonjour,
Number Six,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I’ve gotten you into this.’
‘And just what have you gotten me into?’
The rabbity little man looked down at his hands. ‘I’ve been selling the marijuana.’
‘Selling dope?’
‘Oui.
Just so. You understand?’
‘No.’
‘I brought it with me from my home. My father had smoked it’—he gave a little smile—‘and his father before him. All our family and our town.’
‘How did you come here?’
‘On a boat.’ He made a ducking motion.
‘What brought you here?’
‘An advertisement.’
‘What kind of advertisement?’
‘For a position.’ He seemed genuinely bewildered.
‘Don’t you find this village a bit peculiar?’
‘Je ne comprend,
Number Six. These things are not of importance. It is important only that I brought these seeds’—his palms opened as if the seeds themselves lay within—‘and that I planted them and that it was wrong.’
He sighed and his shoulders slumped. His hands came back to his sides. ‘I do not understand, but it is wrong. They tell me it is wrong. All my life I have done it. It brings a man relaxation and peace. It is one of the good things in life. Why do they always take away the good things? They take away alcohol. And women. They take away tobacco and money. They even take away God. Why they do this, I do not know.’ He looked up. ‘Do you understand, Number Six?’
‘No.’
‘My father, my grandfather, even my priest. Could a thing be bad if a priest partook without harm? He was a very holy man—even the Bishop once spoke favourably of him. But they have arrested me for it. And here I am.’
‘And why—’
‘And you are here because it is believed you were one of my associates.’
‘One of your associates?’
‘So they think.’ Number 157 lowered his eyes.
‘Why do they believe that?’
He made that peculiar ducking motion again and held out his hands. ‘It is my fault.’
‘Your fault?’
‘Number Twenty-four’s also. But really it is mine.’
‘What happened?’
‘Long ago—before you came here—I lived in the house that is now yours. I built a compartment to hide it behind the shower.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I thought no one would look there. I made a mess. I am really not very good at these things. The room had to be repainted. I went to the hardware but the paint was so expensive. I have never been a rich man, you see.’ His spread fingers indicated poverty. ‘Not at all in the old country. And after we settled here, my wife became ill.’ He shrugged. ‘I bought some paint. It was the cheapest they had. A clearance, I think.’
‘Rohz?’
‘Oui, Rohz.
I painted it and then I had’—he spoke depreciatingly—’some trouble with my heart.’ His hand moved up towards his chest. ‘I was in the hospital, you see. While I was there, it was decided you should be given my cottage. I was to be moved to one larger.’
There was a crack of thunder outside.
Number 157 started, and looked about anxiously. ‘I became agitated; I asked Number Twenty-four to move my crop for me. But he neglected it until you were here, and then it was too late. When they arrested me, they searched your house too, and it was there.’
‘A very pretty story, Number One Fifty-seven—’
They turned.
On the wall above the door was a television screen. Number 2 glared down at them from it. Light gleamed on his high, bald forehead.
‘—but hardly one to charm the court. I think the two of you had better come up with a better defence than that or we shall very soon be forced to forgo the pleasure of your company.’
‘Forgo?’
‘Don’t be coy, Number Six. You understand me quite well. The penalty for frequenting a place where narcotics are kept is: Death.’
‘I am hardly surprised.’
‘I wonder if you’ll be as smug when you face the firing squad?’
He smiled without emotion.
‘But you’ll be well treated until then. You’re still a valuable commodity: no sense damaging the goods prematurely. And, since you’re deprived of the pleasures of your own kitchen, let me offer you the hospitality of mine.’
‘Is that proper?’
‘In this case.’
‘The menu?’
‘Whatever you like.’
‘Thank you.’ He had, after all, been certain.
‘You may order now.’
‘Shrimp cocktail, a green salad, welsh rarebit, red wine—not too sweet or dry—a sherbet for dessert.’
‘And you, Number One-Fifty-seven? What would you like?’
‘For me?’ He was astonished. ‘Nothing thank you. My stomach…’ His hands spread. ‘I could not eat.’
‘Perhaps later? No? You’re certain? Very well. Good afternoon, gentlemen.’
And Number 2’s image faded from the screen.
There was the sound of rain and a cool wet breeze came through the window.
He turned around.
Number 157 had sat down on a cot. ‘Oh Number Six. They are going to shoot us.’ He shook his head in distress. ‘I just know they are going to shoot us.’
D
o the defendants,’ the judge said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms, a stern figure in periwig and robes, ‘wish to make any statement in their behalf?’
‘Excusez moi,
your honour.’ Number 157 made the small ducking motion of his head.
‘Je ne comprend’—’
‘Please use English in addressing this court.’
‘Je regrette—’
He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, your honour. I can speak English, yes. I am upset. I become confused…’ He spread his hands in abjuration. ‘I speak in French.’
‘That’s quite all right. Take your time. This court assures you a fair trial.’
‘Well your honour’—he looked timidly up at the judge—‘I want to say: This man, Number Six’—he pointed—‘is innocent. He knows nothing. It was accident these things were at his house.’
‘Excuse me.’
The judge turned his head. ‘Yes, what is it, Number’—he hesitated—‘Six?’
‘Aren’t these proceedings somewhat irregular?’
The judge assumed a kind of patriarchal indulgence. ‘Number Six, I’ve heard a number of things about you. I won’t say I believe them; I won’t say I don’t. But I will say this: You wouldn’t have to ask me that question and you wouldn’t be here today to ask it, if you had been more mutual in the past. The manner in which we conduct these affairs here is clearly set out in a course on the charter and government of this Village which the public was offered an opportunity to take last month.’
There had been such a course. He remembered the announcement distinctly.
‘The procedure is quite simple,’ said the judge. He lifted two stacks of IBM cards. ‘These’—he hefted the one on the right—‘contain all the information relevant to your case. These’—he indicated the second stack—‘Number One Fifty-seven’s. We will insert these, together with any facts you might care to present, into a computer. The computer will weigh the evidence and render an objective judgement.’
‘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.’
T
he 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.