a sense of freedom                 by David A. Stimpson

“You’re just the sort of candidate we need,” said Number 2. ‘Six for Two! Six for Two! Vote! Vote!, Vote!” shouted the madding crowd. People were dressed in bright colourful clothes and held placards which carried his face. White mini mokes travelled the small streets, sounding their two-tone horns and picking up passengers. Then he was running along a beach, behind him giving chase, was a white amorphous mass. It gained on him as it bounded and rolled along giving off a horrible roaring sound.

Rover caught up with him and knocked Number 6 to the ground then covered his face with a suffocating effect.

He woke with a start, his entire body covered in sweat. “Will the nightmares never end?” he thought, brushing his hair back with his hand. Shall I never be free?” Glancing at the alarm clock on the bedside table, it read 7.30 - he would get up in half an hour. At precisely 8 o’clock he pulled aside the sheets and climbed out of bed, he wore a pair of blue pyjamas. He donned his blue and red striped dressing gown, looked out of the window then crossed the bedroom to the bathroom. After a shave and shower he returned to the bedroom to find that his charcoal suit and black shirt had been laid out on the bed for him, his black boots had been polished for him and on the dressing table a steaming hot cup of tea sat in its saucer waiting for him to drink it.

After drying and combing his hair he picked up the cup and saucer then, standing by the window, he sipped the tea slowly as he gazed out upon the street below. There was a postman on his bike delivering the mail. He could hear the sound of a milk float, the bottles rattling in their crates. He liked Buckingham Place, it was one of the quieter streets of London.  Finishing his tea he replaced the cup and saucer on the dressing table then dressed quickly in his black shirt, charcoal suit and black boots. Leaving his bedroom, he descended the stairs to the hallway below. There was a door to his left, he opened it and entered his lounge. There was a gold coloured screen and a television positioned within a set of bookshelves. Above the fireplace was a painting of a battle at sea, perhaps ‘Trafalgar’. There was a couch against one wall and a tiger rug on the floor, as well as a model of a monoplane, two pot dogs and knick-knacks adorned shelves and the mantelpiece. Against one wall was a bureau, the leaf was down and upon it was a memo pad, which he picked up and read what he had written the previous day. There were two entries - labour exchange, car MOT and insurance!  Well, he needed a job, he certainly couldn’t go back to his old one even if he wanted to which he didn’t!   And he must get his car seen to - ever since his return to London he had been putting it off and off. Well, he had been through a great deal, he had to readjust himself and things had been left. Truth was he had become slack in his ways, he had to pull himself together and if he couldn’t get a job straight away he would need the dole at least - money was going to run short soon if he was not careful. “But what job can I do?’ he thought, “I can’t go back to my old firm for several very good reasons”, besides which he couldn’t imagine ‘them’ welcoming him back with open arms - they hadn’t the last time they had met! He’d asked for his ‘ex­-colleagues’ help in finding ‘The Village’. They helped him all right; they put him back in it! Perhaps he would become a security guard or private detective, he certainly had the background for those kind of jobs!

He turned to see a short stout man framed in the open doorway. He was about 45 years of age and dressed in black trousers and shoes, a waistcoat, white shirt and black bow tie and black tails. He had black hair but was balding and sadly, he was mute. If ever he had doubted that his time in The Village had really ever happened, then his butler was living proof that it had. In fact, he was a constant reminder of his previous incarceration in The Village! At first, he had found it annoying that his butler could not communicate to him of his time in The Village and of how he came to be there.

True, his butler did understand English even if he could not speak it, but he didn’t appear to be able to write in English either! He was an enigma in himself! So, whatever the butler knew of The Village and its administration would remain a secret for all time. The butler bowed, this and the smell of bacon and eggs wafting from the kitchen, told him that breakfast was ready.

As soon as breakfast was over he collected his wallet and car keys from the bureau in the lounge. Crossing the hallway he saw his ever-faithful butler waiting for him with the front door open. “I shall be back for lunch,” he told him. The butler bowed and watched his master descend the steps, cross the pavement and get into his green Lotus sports car.

He slid comfortably behind the steering wheel. One turn of the ignition key and the engine roared into life. Selecting first gear, he let out the clutch and pressed the accelerator pedal down, the handbrake off, the car moved forward. The butler stood on the steps of the house and the small sports car disappeared round the corner. He then went inside to carry out his duties. The door closed behind him.

At the end of Buckingham Place he turned left and with increasing speed he merged with the London traffic. ‘Merged’ is perhaps the wrong word to use - his green, yellow-nosed Lotus stood out as individual just like its driver. As the car moved through the busy London traffic, it was dwarfed by lorries and red double-decker buses alike. Even though he was not driving too fast, he could still feel the breeze in his hair. Every time that he drove his Lotus it always gave him a real sense of freedom. He could go anywhere, do anything! But this morning he was on his way to the labour exchange. He was at this time completely unaware that he was about to be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed and yes, even numbered!

The labour exchange was in Finchley Street. He knew parking would be bad but he managed to park only a couple of streets away, the short walk would do him good. He was in a part of London he knew rather well. As he walked down the busy street he could see ‘World Cameras’ on his right. He paused at the shop window for a moment. A man in his early fifties, balding and wearing a grey suit was busy altering part of the window display. The man looked up from his work and he recognised the man at his window. Then, something made him feel uneasy and so he left his window display and disappeared into his shop. The man looking in the window smiled at the shopkeeper. “Yes, you do know me,” he thought, “but the last time we met I had a different face. Hell, I had a completely different body! But of course you couldn’t know that” and then the nervous shopkeeper had gone. He left ‘World Cameras’ behind him and crossed the street, dodging the traffic and the people on the pavement. Ahead of him he could see another shop sign which he recognised, ‘Magnum Record’ store. The shop was open and he could hear a record playing.

He recognised the group as being The Beatles but for the life of him he couldn’t recognise the song. Anyway, he much preferred classical music! Walking further on, he turned left into Finchley Street. Immediately on the right was the imposing stone building of the labour exchange, its two brown doors were open, beckoning him in. As he climbed the steps to the pair of seemingly imposing doors he felt a little apprehensive because once through those doors he knew that he would be dealt the cold hand of officialdom - and that meant questions!

He had sat waiting for what seemed like an age to hear his name called out - it seemed like everyone was before him! The long room in which he sat waiting was not really as dingy as he had expected. It was painted in a pale green and information posters adorned the walls. He couldn’t see out of the windows however, because they were too high up near the ceiling. There was one long counter which ran the length of the room and was completely open so that people could stand along the counter and be able to hear what other people were saying. There was a distinct lack of privacy about the whole arrangement, which he did not like. He certainly did not want his personal business overheard! There were all types in the room. A scruffy individual sat a few feet away from him. He had long matted hair and an overgrown beard and wore a dirty grey raincoat. Another man with short cropped hair, wearing grey slacks and a blue blazer sat bolt upright, distinctly regimental, he thought to himself.

The clock on the wall said 10.30. One of the assistants behind the counter shouted his name, Peter Smith! He stood up and approached the counter. The female assistant was in her mid fifties, her hair was grey and fixed in a bun. She had a rather hatchet-shaped face and looked decidedly unfriendly, her eyes peered at him through brown-rimmed glasses and the blue dress she wore had clearly seen better days. ‘You are Peter Smith?” she asked. “Yes” he replied. “We don’t seem to have your name on record, although Smith is a very common name. Do you know your number?” she asked. Six, Number Six” he replied automatically. “What’s this number six? I want your national insurance number” she replied sharply, “Not the number of your house!” The man standing a few feet away said “Your first time, mate?” and laughed. He stared the man who was still laughing - the stare seemed to say everything, he didn’t need to speak, his face said it all! “Well,” snapped the woman, your insurance number!” “YX562499A” he replied. “Well let’s see if we can find you in our records using your number as we don’t seem to have a record of your name” she said, looking at him over the top of her glasses. “Well, according to your insurance number, your name isn’t Peter Smith.” “Yes, I know” he replied. “Why don’t you use your real name?” she asked, still peering at him over the top of her glasses. “I had to change it” he lied. “By deed poll?” she asked. “Yes” -that was another lie! “Mm, pity, I liked your other name” she replied. “So she’s human after all,” he thought, “that’s reassuring anyway!” “I worked for the Government”. “What did you do?” she asked. Her pen was out and she was taking notes. “Sorry, cannot say” came the reply. “Are you still working for the Government?” she asked. “No, not anymore” he said. “Did they give you the sack? Only we need to know why” she explained. “I resigned!” he shouted. The woman stopped writing and peered at him through her glasses once more. “Apparently, you have not paid any national insurance contributions for just over a year. When did you resign?” she asked. “A little over a year ago he replied. “Why has it taken you so long to come to the labour exchange?” was her next question. “I’ve been away for exactly one year” he replied. “Have you been in prison?” “A prison of sorts, yes” he replied. ‘What was the name of the prison?” she asked. “The Village” came the reply. Memories of that place were indelibly imprinted on his memory, he would never be able to forget. “It was called what?” she asked peering at him again over her glasses. “The Village” he replied. “After I resigned from my position with a Governmental department, I was abducted from my home and then taken to The Village where I was held prisoner for about one year!” “And who did this ghastly thing to you?” “I suspect it was my own ex-colleagues or some other British department” he replied, actually he was very adamant in that belief!

She decided to humour him. “And why were you in this village?” “They wanted to know why I resigned” he replied. “And why did you resign?” she asked. “I didn’t answer their questions so I wont answer yours!” he shouted, bringing his clenched fist down onto the counter. “I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, de-briefed or numbered. My life is my own”. “Not here it isn’t, deary,” she said. It went quiet in the labour exchange. Some looked at him strangely, some laughed. “He’s a flutter” one man said. “Look, Mr Smith, you will have to tell me why you resigned from your job because it may affect your benefit”, the woman explained, she was beginning to lose her patience! He stood staring at her for a moment, “It was a matter of conscience,” he said. “What do you mean?” she asked. “I resigned for peace of mind, because too many people know too much.” He was angry at having to explain himself! “Well that’s not a very good reason for chucking your job in, is it?” she remarked, Oh, well. Fill these forms in,” she said. “And you’re positive you have not worked in the past year or so?” she asked. Look, I told you. I was held prisoner in the Village” he said, trying not to shout. “They must have let you go then” she said, “otherwise you wouldn’t be standing there, would you?” “I escaped with three companions,” he said. “Why don’t you believe me?” he asked. “Well it does sound rather like a fairytale, doesn’t it? And besides, people have been known to try and claim benefit when they have been working” she explained. Look, can these companions corroborate your story?” “I don’t think so somehow. One was a hippy, he could be anywhere. Another was a mute butler and the third is a member or minister of Parliament or something but he will not talk about it. Can’t say as I blame him!” he explained. “You don’t believe me do you?” he asked. “I am sure people are abducted every day of the week” she replied sarcastically, “but all I want to know is, have you worked or earned anything in the past year?” “No” he replied, thinking it better not to mention the work units he had been credited with!

“So what kind of work are you looking for? I don’t think we have any vacancies for spies!” and for once she smiled. “I’m not really sure. A mechanic perhaps, I did build my own car,” he said. “Well fill in these forms now, using your real name. There are no mechanic vacancies”. She was busy looking through her index cards. “Come back next week to sign on. Perhaps we will have a job for you then” she said. He quickly filled in the two forms and left, he’d had enough for one morning. He had been treated just like a number, it was no different than The Village! Well, he was a free man now...wasn’t he?

Emerging from the labour exchange into the street and bright sunshine, he did feel free. He began to make his way back to his car, next stop ‘Jack’s’ garage for his car’s M.O.T. Once back behind the wheel, he was soon weaving in and out of the busy London traffic again. When driving his Lotus it seemed to be the only thing he was in control of. After leaving the labour exchange, driving his Lotus seemed his only freedom!

The life which he once had was now gone and he found it increasingly difficult to pick up the pieces. He had lost control of his life. One fatal decision and he had lost it all. A little over one year ago he’d had a confidential job, a job of a secret nature.

He had been engaged to Janet to whom he would have been married by now. His future had been looking very bright at work and in his private life. But then he had resigned and his previous life disappeared, that decision cost him a year of his life. He found that he had little left. His home was as it had always been, his Lotus sports car as reliable as ever but they are material things. Since his escape from the Village he had found that he had few friends. It was then that he let his thoughts dwell on his ex-fiancée, Janet. After his return to London he had made very discreet enquiries about her because he didn’t want to encounter her father, Sir Charles Portland. Sir Charles was on his list of possibles who could have had him taken to the Village. ‘The Colonel’ was top of that list! He had discovered that Janet had left England and went to live in Canada with a distant aunt. Apparently she had taken this decision after it had been reported that he had died in an accident at sea! He thought of trying to contact her at first but Janet had started to make a new life for herself. He decided to remain dead, it would be for the best in the end... for both of them!

Ahead of him was ‘Jack’s’ garage, he drove onto the forecourt. A man in blue overalls stood wiping his greasy hands on an even greasier cloth. He brought the Lotus to a halt and switched off the engine. “Morning governor” the man said. “Good morning, Arthur” he replied, stepping out of his car. “M.O.T. isn’t it, Sir?” asked Arthur. “That’s right” he replied, “shouldn’t be much wrong with her but if there is, get the parts and I can do the work myself.” “Yes, I know sir. If I had many more customers like you, I’d be out of business in a week!” said Arthur. “Well if you need a good mechanic, I need a job,” he said. “I know you built your car with your own hands!” replied Arthur. “How long will you be?” he asked. “About half an hour” said Arthur. “Just time for a pint in the Mops and Brooms” he said. The pub was just across the road and he left Arthur to do his work. After two pints of bitter in the Mops and Brooms he returned to the garage to find his car had passed its M.O.T. so that meant he had only the certificate to pay for, the cost just £5. This he paid to Arthur as well as having his car filled up with petrol. He paid two other calls before returning home, one to County Hall to buy a new tax disc and the other to his insurance company to renew his car insurance. Of course these mundane tasks should have been done a couple of weeks ago but due to circumstances he had let things slide, it was not like him at all and definitely out of character! At one o’clock he returned home for lunch. As he drove down Buckingham Place on the opposite side of the road from his house, he could see a black gleaming hearse. He slowed down. Standing by the side of the hearse stood a tall thin man dressed in a black frock coat, wearing a black top hat. As he drove slowly past, the undertaker stared at him and as he looked at the undertaker, a cold shiver ran down his spine and he wondered.... “No, it’s all over, finished, done with” he thought. But then why was doubt lingering in the back of his mind? He parked his car outside his house as normal. Crossing the pavement he climbed the steps to his front door. For a moment he half expected it to open automatically for him, but of course it didn’t. As he took a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock, he paused and glanced across the road. Four undertakers were carrying a coffin out of a house. Sombre but perfectly ordinary, he thought. Turning the key he opened the door and entered, closing the door behind him. His sleep was often full of nightmares of the Village and even everyday things and events reminded him of… …of ‘The Village’. He had to pull himself together, learn to live with what had happened to him. But at least here in his house everything was normal and ordinary, well apart from his butler! Still at least he was loyal in looking after him. The butler then appeared from the kitchen and bowed. He knew that lunch was ready. He was not sure why the butler stayed with him but he didn’t know what he would do without his manservant now!

That night his sleep was full of almost real images and sounds, it never took long for the nightmares to begin. Sometimes he was almost afraid of going to sleep and that was far out of character as well! “You’re just the sort of candidate we need” the voice said. “Six, Six, Six, Six!” shouted the madding crowd. Vote, Vote, Vote, Six for Two, Six for Two!”  Ah, just in time for the parade,” said a rather large lady who promptly began hitting him with her umbrella! “I am not a number, I am a person!” he shouted, the gathered crowd laughed at him! “Kill! Kill! Kill!” shouted Number 2. “Security of the citizens is my primary objective. Be Seeing You!” he said. Then he was drowning and a huge white mass engulfed him, it was then he woke from his sleep, screaming.

The following morning the nightmares of the previous night held no substance in the warm light of day and after a full and hearty breakfast he felt a little more cheerful. He told his butler that he would not return for lunch today as he had three calls to make, two calls in town and one in the country. He did not want to make the calls but he had to end the nightmares and only one of three men could do that for him. Caution was the watchword and he was only too aware of the consequences should he fail!

Crossing the hall, the butler opened the front door for him. He was dressed in his usual charcoal suit and black shirt. He passed through the door, descended the steps of his house, crossed the pavement and climbed in behind the wheel of his Lotus. The engine roared into life as he turned the ignition key. “Reliable as ever” he thought. The butler stood at the top of the steps watching his master drive away. Then as the Lotus turned the corner he withdrew into the house, the front door closing automatically behind him, the electric motor hummed as it closed!

The black telephone in the lounge began to ring. The butler entered the room, picked up the receiver and listened. He replaced the receiver onto the telephone and made his way upstairs to his room. Taking his suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe, he began to pack it very methodically.

After checking that all was in order in the house, he donned his black overcoat, gloves and bowler hat. Picking up his brown suitcase he walked to the front door, it opened automatically for him. Stepping out into the morning sunshine, he descended the steps to the pavement, the door closing behind him. Carrying his suitcase in his right hand the butler slowly walked down Buckingham Place, never once looking back!  

© David Stimpson 2001