Everyday I set myself to some kind of work or task, mainly to keep myself occupied, and to stop myself from going mad. Oh in the meantime they questioned me, interrogated me, and I told them all I knew, which was precious little. The doctor, ha! doctor, more like the chief torturer, said that if I didn’t stop holding back information it would be all the worse for me. I told him he had the wrong man, that I didn’t know anything. A nurse gave me an injection, I don’t know what it was but boy did I talk, I talked and talked and talked until I talked my head off. I told them my life story, it was pretty boring now I come to think about it, not an exciting life at all. Number 2 came to visit the hospital one day, came to visit me in fact. I remember he asked the doctor about the progress she was making.................... Number 2 didn’t believe a word of it, said I was jamming, using the telling of my life story to block out everything else. Who did they think I was, Harry Palmer, John Drake or James Bond? I couldn’t be that clever or strong, it wasn’t my fault if the doctor was so stupid she didn’t recognize the truth when she heard it, and Number 2 if it comes to that.
So they eventually left me alone to live out my life in the peaceful atmosphere of The Village. I’m a painter now, a simple enough job, no prospects but its steady work. Then one day I was asked to transfer to The Village mortuary, and there was a secret funeral. No cortege travelled through The Village, no brass band, mourners or undertakers, just the doctor and two gravediggers. Once the funeral was over, I asked one of the grave diggers who it was they buried without proper funeral arrangements. Who told me it wasn’t anyone of importance, just the doctor having one of her mistakes buried that’s all!
Be seeing you