The Prisoner
Episode Seven
The man whom we will call "the Prisoner" resigns and is gassed exactly as before. He wakes up in the Village.
The following conversation accompanies a similar miscellany of images.
Prisoner: Where am I?
Number 2: In the Village.
Prisoner: What do you want?
Number 2: Information.
Prisoner: Whose side are you on?
Number 2: That would be telling. We want information. Information... Information...
Prisoner: You won't get it.
Number 2: By hook or by crook, we will.
Prisoner: Who are you?
Number 2: The new Number 2.
Prisoner: Who is Number 1?
Number 2: You are Number 6.
Prisoner: I am not a number. I am a free man!
The Prisoner wakes up and looks at his watch. He pulls on a dressing gown and wanders into his kitchen, where he switches the kettle on. It doesn't boil. In the bathroom he turns on the shower, but no water comes out. The kitchen radio is broadcasting none of the usual Village announcements: it's completely silent. He picks it up and shakes it.
He steps outside. The only sign of life is a black cat, and the only sound to be heard is the howl of the wind. Back inside, he picks up the phone and jiggles the receiver rest: no response.
Having got dressed, he goes to the café. There is crockery on the tables outside, but the door is locked. He walks down to the stone boat. The terrace above it is littered with toppled tables and parasols. He climbs the bell-tower. There is nothing up there but a strong wind, the cry of the seagulls... and the bell. He rings it vigorously, but summons no one.
Next he comes across one of the Village taxis parked in a square. He checks that the engine is working, then pockets the key.
The Green Dome of Number 2's house looms over him: so he heads there for answers. The doorbell fails to make its usual massive gonglike chime, the door itself isn't locked, and in the hallway there's no sign of the normally ubiquitous butler. The Prisoner approaches the sliding metal doors, but for once they don't open automatically: he has to prise them apart to get in. Number 2's spherical chair has its back to him; when he spins it round, he finds only a shooting-stick umbrella.
He drives off in the taxi, following a road out of the Village. It brings him to a cliff, with a view of high mountains all around.
Now in a purposeful pullover, he fells a couple of trees and uses the taxi to haul them down to the shore. He finds some barrels, which he empties, and busies himself constructing a raft. He raids the General Stores for provisions, chalking the words "I.O.U. 964. No 6?" on the counter. He takes a radio and also a camera, with which he takes many photographs of the Village to corroborate his story.
With the raft now ready, he releases it from its mooring... then tenses as he hears something shatter to his right. Slowly he turns to look. The black cat has knocked over a jug on a table. He boards the raft and pushes off.
Once some way out to sea, sail billowing, the Prisoner removes the film from the camera and wraps it in a waterproof bag. He takes the radio apart and uses the speaker to magnetise a needle, with which he makes a compass. He back-folds a copy of the Tally Ho (with headline "What are facts behind Town Hall?") and starts a diary on the blank side: "Day 1."
We see him shaving. It is "Day 5". We see him eating from a tin. It is "Day 7". He catches himself nodding off. It is "Day 18". He collapses from exhaustion.
He stirs at the sound of an engine. Someone steps over him. He is able to see two men transferring his provisions onto their own boat, before they dump him into the water and leave him for dead. They retire to the helm and motor off, failing to notice the Prisoner climbing aboard at the stern. He goes below deck and ducks out of sight as one of the men comes out of the galley with a tray of the Prisoner's food.
While the men feast at the wheel, the Prisoner slips into a cabin and prises the lid off a large crate: it's full of guns and ammunition. At the helm, one of the smugglers turns on the boat's radio, which gabbles in an unintelligible language. The Prisoner meanwhile enters the galley, puts a frying pan on the stove, soaks some cloths in alcohol from a bottle, and sets fire to them. He then puts a large wet cloth over the pan, turning its contents into a smoking mass. He hides in the cabin.
One of the gunrunners (Gunther) smells the smoke, and shouts in German. He dashes down to the galley, leaving the other man (Ernst) at the helm. The Prisoner grabs him from behind and silently renders him unconscious by locking his arm round the man's neck.
Ernst: Gunther! Wo bist du?
Ernst stops the boat, descends to the galley and gets rid of the smoking cloths. The Prisoner punches him to the floor as he emerges, and drags him to join Gunther in the cabin. He ties their hands behind their backs, ties their ankles and puts a chain on the door. On the bed, Gunther opens an eye.
The Prisoner goes to the helm and steers the boat on through the night. Gunther manages to pull himself into a sitting position, and then lies down on the floor back to back with Ernst, attempting to wake him. The Prisoner sees a light on the horizon to port, and points the boat towards it. Meanwhile the gunrunners have managed to untie each other and are now thwarted by the chained door. There's a cupboard on the floor against one wall; they take everything out of it and kick their way through the back into the next cabin. The Prisoner hears nothing over the noise of the engine, and keeps making for the light.
Ernst starts to creep up the stairs to the helm, but Gunther indicates with a gesture that they should go up by the aft stairs. They crawl forward on opposite sites of the boat, then burst in on the Prisoner. Gunther is quickly sent hurtling headfirst down the stairs, while Ernst forces the Prisoner out onto the deck where they continue to fight. Gunther reappears at the helm and takes a revolver from a drawer. The Prisoner sees him approaching and jumps overboard, frantically swimming for shore as shots hit the water around him. The gunrunners head back out to sea.
The Prisoner wakes up in daylight, unkempt and bedraggled on a stony beach. He gets to his feet and sees the lighthouse of the night before. He takes something from his pocket: his makeshift diary and the roll of film, still wrapped in their bag and undamaged by water. A sheer cliff rises from the beach, and he starts to climb.
At the top of the cliff he encounters a man walking his dog.
Prisoner: Where is this?
He gets no reply. The man hesitates, then simply turns and walks off along the clifftop. The Prisoner follows at a distance. They come to a horse, grazing in front of a gypsy caravan, where a woman and another man are cooking over a fire. The man with the dog sits down and has a brief argument with the woman in Romany. The woman walks over to the Prisoner, silhouetted against the sky, and speaks unintelligibly to him. She calls to those at the fire and gestures for them to bring something. The man with the dog starts arguing again, and the woman storms back to the fire, picks up a beaker and offers it to the Prisoner.
The Prisoner approaches, and the woman gestures for him to drink. He takes a sip. She says something to the others with an "I-told-you-so" expression on her face.
Prisoner: Where is this place?
Woman: Uh?
Prisoner: A road. Where is there a road?
Woman: Ah! Dondaro doa doi.
She points. The Prisoner nods, then finishes his drink, hands the beaker back to her, thanking her, and hurries off in the indicated direction.
He walks across a moor and through a wood, and eventually reaches a road... where a British policeman is waving the traffic on. The Prisoner retreats into the trees and emerges again at a point further down the road, where the police have blocked the road. He sees a large lorry approaching the roadblock, and races off again through countryside. He reaches the road beyond the roadblock, and waits for the lorry to arrive. As it passes him, he runs out behind it and manages to hurl himself inside. The lorry is largely empty, and the Prisoner climbs up onto a flat area above the cab, covers himself in some old sacks, and falls asleep.
Some time later he wakes to the sound of a police siren. In a fit of panic, he jumps straight out of the back of the lorry onto a busy street. He recognises where he is: he is back in London with its red double-decker buses and its tourists with their cameras.
He wanders through the capital, and finds his way back to his own house. He casually walks past it as far as the street corner, looks around, then goes and knocks on his own door. A maid answers, eyeing his dishevelled appearance with disdain.
Maid: Yes?
Prisoner: Who owns this house?
Maid: I beg your pardon!
Prisoner: I... I'm sorry, what I meant was, I... I'd like to see your master.
Maid: My mistress is not at home!
Prisoner: Well, do you mind if I wait?
She shuts the door in his face. He slowly wanders off, then stops as he hears a familiar noise behind him. His own Lotus 7 pulls up outside his house, driven by a middle-aged lady in a trouser suit. She gets out and opens the front door of what was once the Prisoner's house. The Prisoner stares at the car for a second, and is just in time to address the lady before she closes the door.
Prisoner: What's the number of that car?
She steps back onto the doorstep and regards him with mild amusement.
Lady: Terribly interesting.
Prisoner: K-A-R, a hundred and twenty C. What's the engine number?
Lady: Do tell me.
Prisoner: 461034TZ.
Lady: Marvellous.
Prisoner: I know every nut and bolt and cog. I built it with my own hands.
Lady: Then you're just the man I want to see. I've been having a good deal of overheating in traffic. Perhaps you'd care to advise me.
She turns to go in. The Prisoner looks awkward.
Lady: Come in.
Slowly, the Prisoner steps inside. As a clock chimes somewhere in the house, we watch through the Prisoner's eyes as the lady leads him across a chequered floor and opens the door to the living room -- a door that looks just like the front door to the Prisoner's cottage in the Village.
Lady: This way... Make yourself at home. And I'll organise some tea. You would like some tea?
Prisoner: Very much.
Lady: I'm Mrs Butterworth. And you are?
The Prisoner enters the room.
Prisoner: An exile.
Mrs Butterworth: A nameless exile?
Prisoner: No. Smith... Peter... Smith.
Mrs Butterworth: Enchanting! Be comfortable and I'll be back in a moment. And then you can enlighten me on the intricacies of KAR 120C.
She goes out, shutting the door behind her. The Prisoner is left alone to wander round the room, which is just as he left it, and of course exactly like the front area of his cottage. He looks out of the window and sees a skyscraper, then performs a further reality check by picking up the phone and hearing the dialling tone. The only object he doesn't recognise is a wedding photo on the writing desk.
Mrs Butterworth comes back in.
Mrs Butterworth: Refreshment's on the way. Now, tell me more.
Prisoner: What's the date?
Mrs Butterworth: Saturday, March the eighteenth.
Prisoner: Tomorrow's my birthday.
Mrs Butterworth: You're an odd fellow.
She takes a cigar from a box and proceeds to light it.
Prisoner: Er, sorry, you, er, er... you must think I'm crazy.
Mrs Butterworth: Who isn't these days?
Prisoner: Do you know, this was, er... this was my house?
Mrs Butterworth: Really?
Prisoner: Yes.
Mrs Butterworth: In better days?
Prisoner: Before I went away.
Mrs Butterworth: You must miss it.
Prisoner: The lease, um, had six months to run.
Mrs Butterworth: It's been renewed. I have it for ten years, fully furnished.
Prisoner: Oh really?
Mrs Butterworth: Is the inventory in order?
Prisoner: I'll bet. The only thing that's missing is a body.
Mrs Butterworth: Don't tell me you've been prying into my private affairs?
There is a long pause.
Prisoner: Forgive me, I'm... I'm very sorry. Er, would you do me a very great favour?
Mrs Butterworth: Are you growing a beard?
Prisoner: No.
Mrs Butterworth: Pity. I've always had rather a soft spot for bearded men, but I could never get dear Arthur to grow one.
Prisoner: Arthur?
Mrs Butterworth: My late husband. Navy, you know: unhappily now deceased.
There is a knock at the door.
Mrs Butterworth: Come in.
The maid comes in with a tray of tea and sandwiches. She puts it down on the coffee table.
Mrs Butterworth: Oh, thank you Martha. Is this the, um, gentleman you said called earlier?
Maid: It is, madam.
Mrs Butterworth sits on the couch.
Mrs Butterworth: Her description of you was hardly flattering, Mr Smith. You must learn to delve beneath the surface, Martha. Who knows what treasures you may find? All right.
Maid: Thank you, madam.
She departs.
Mrs Butterworth: Come and sit down, Mr Smith.
He joins her on the couch. She offers him the plate of small triangular sandwiches.
Mrs Butterworth: Sandwich?
Prisoner: Thanks very much.
He takes one and eats it whole. Mrs Butterworth hands him a napkin, and then gives him the plate.
Prisoner: You're very kind.
Mrs Butterworth: It's a pleasure.
The Prisoner starts eating voraciously. Some time later, we see him wiping his mouth with the napkin. There's an empty cakestand on the table in front of him.
Prisoner: That was the best fruitcake I've ever tasted.
Mrs Butterworth: I'm a very good cook. It's one of my hobbies.
Prisoner: Yes... Mrs Butterworth, I asked if you would do me a very great favour.
Mrs Butterworth: Certainly.
He goes over to the writing desk.
Prisoner: Behind this desk there was an area of dry rot which was made good about twelve months ago. The bathroom door is sliding: it opens to the left. The sink is on the right as you go in. The hot and cold taps on the shower were put on the wrong way round.
Mrs Butterworth laughs.
Mrs Butterworth: I had them changed. Don't be so silly, you haven't got to prove anything: I believe you.
Prisoner: I'm sorry. I'm not used to that.
Mrs Butterworth: What can I do for you?
Prisoner: I would like to see the lease of the house and the logbook of the car.
Mrs Butterworth: How mysterious.
She joins him at the desk and gives him an envelope. The Prisoner opens it and examines the lease it contains while Mrs Butterworth rummages further.
Prisoner: This is a new one. Yours is the, um, the first name on it. There's no indication of a previous owner.
Mrs Butterworth: The estate agents arranged it all. They said the car was for sale, it was reasonable, and I've always had a taste for a little speed.
She hands him another enveloped document. He examines it.
Prisoner: The, erm, estate agents were Stombell and Croydon?
Mrs Butterworth: Most reputable. And a charming man dealt with me: Mr Croydon himself. Did you ever meet him?
Prisoner: No. That wasn't the firm that I did business with.
Mrs Butterworth: How odd.
Prisoner: Isn't it?
He returns the documents to the desk.
Prisoner: Mrs Butterworth, you've been extremely kind in allowing me to intrude upon your privacy in this way. I have to make two important calls, one in the country, one in town, so if you'll please excuse me, I'll say goodbye.
Mrs Butterworth: Mr Smith, you mustn't!
Prisoner: I'm sorry, I have to.
Mrs Butterworth: You mustn't go like that!... Some of dear Arthur's things, you're very welcome. I've kept them all, you see. I suppose it's stupid, but even though there isn't a man about the place, I like to feel that there is. Do you understand what I mean?
Prisoner: Well, yes, I...
Mrs Butterworth: I just know you're in some kind of trouble. Have you any money?
Prisoner: No.
Mrs Butterworth: Ah! There you are, you see. How are you going to get about?
Prisoner: Perfectly all right. I can manage, thank you... very much indeed... you've been terribly kind...
He makes for the front door, but she takes him by the arm and guides him protestingly to the staircase.
Mrs Butterworth: You're silly and independent and proud. Now come on, upstairs. You'll find everything you want in the bathroom, and I'll lay out some of Arthur's clothes out for you.
The next thing we see is the Prisoner, washed and brushed and wearing clean clothes, sitting in the Lotus 7 outside the house. Mrs Butterworth stands on the pavement.
Mrs Butterworth: On condition you stop that nasty overheating.
Prisoner: It's a deal.
Mrs Butterworth: Bon voyage.
Prisoner: Mrs Butterworth, you've been tremendously---
Mrs Butterworth: No speeches! Off you go.
He starts the engine.
Mrs Butterworth: Don't forget to come back!
Prisoner: I'll be back!
Mrs Butterworth: I might even bake you a birthday cake.
Prisoner: I hope you will!
And with a cheery wave he sets off through London to the accompaniment of the title theme, taking the same route as he did on the day of his resignation. He opens the double doors to the office where it all started, and steps up to the same man working busily at the same desk.
Prisoner: Anyone at home?
A while later, we find the Prisoner pacing up and down in a large, lavish suite of roomns that opens onto a enclosed garden. A man (the Colonel) is sitting on the wall by the garden, examining the black and white photographs that the Prisoner took in the Village. Another man (Thorpe) stands at a table in an inner room, looking through another set of photos.
Colonel: Pretty spot: mixture of architectures: Italianate. Difficult. Certainly has a Mediterranean flavour. What do you think, Thorpe?
Thorpe: I think I wouldn't mind a fortnight's leave there. Prison for life, eh? It's a far cry from Sing Sing.
Prisoner: I'm sorry to interrupt an afternoon's golf, Colonel, but this is not a joking matter.
The Colonel gets up and joins the other two by the table.
Colonel: My dear fellow, you really mustn't blame Thorpe. After all, you yourself on occasion could be a little sceptical. That's why you were such a good man... why we were so sorry to lose you.
He picks up the unfolded copy of the Tally Ho and peruses it.
Prisoner: The evidence is there.
Thorpe: A set of photographs from ground level of a holiday resort, and a schoolboy log on the back of what you call the Village newspaper.
Thorpe pours himself a drink and goes and sits in an armchair. The Colonel leans on the mantelpiece.
Prisoner: I'm sorry, it's the best I could do in the circumstances. You'd hardly expect the Village store to issue sextants, would you?
He goes and faces them from the other side of the room.
Thorpe: Indeed, indeed, if the place is as you say it was.
Colonel: The Tally Ho.
Prisoner: A daily issue.
Colonel: Morning or evening?
Prisoner: Daily at noon.
Colonel: "What are facts behind Town Hall?" Town Hall?
Prisoner: That's right.
Thorpe: Town Council?
Prisoner: Correct.
Thorpe: Were you a member?
Prisoner: I could have been. It's democratically elected once a year.
Colonel: Democratically.
Prisoner: That's what they claim.
Thorpe: And they're all numbers. No names. No names at all?
Prisoner: Just numbers.
Colonel: I see.
Prisoner: Numbers in a village that is a complete unit of our own society. A place to put people who can't be left around. People who know too much or too little. A place with many means of breaking a man.
Thorpe: Intriguing.
Prisoner: They have their own cinema, their own newspaper, their own television station, a credit-card system, and if you're a good boy and cough up the secrets, you are gracefully retired into the old people's home.
Colonel: But, er, no escape?
Prisoner: They also have a very impressive graveyard.
Thorpe: Which you avoided.
Prisoner: The Village was deserted.
Thorpe: Perhaps they were on the democratic annual outing.
The Prisoner strides to the table, grabs a pile of photographs and angrily shows each in turn to the Colonel. The Colonel watches the Prisoner rather than the photos.
Prisoner: The Town Hall. Number 2's residence. My house. The old people's home---
Colonel: My dear fellow, you really mustn't get excited. You must forgive us but, you see, we have a problem. Er, tell him our problem, Thorpe.
Thorpe: You resign, you disappear, you return. You spin a yarn that Hans Christian Andersen would reject for a fairytale.
Colonel: And we must be sure. People defect. An unhappy thought, but a fact of life. They defect... from one side to the other.
Prisoner: I also have a problem. I'm not sure which side runs this Village.
Colonel: A mutual problem.
Prisoner: Which I'm going to solve.
Colonel: Quite.
Prisoner: If not here, then elsewhere.
They stare unblinkingly at each other for a few seconds.
Colonel: Thorpe.
Thorpe: Sir?
Colonel: Check.
Thorpe: Yes, sir.
Colonel: Check every detail contained in our ex-colleague's report.
Thorpe gets up from his chair. We cut to Mrs Butterworth being interviewed by a policeman with a notebook in her living room.
Mrs Butterworth: Of course I helped him. I'd help anyone in trouble... wouldn't you?
Another policeman, this one in uniform, pokes the remains of the gypsies' fire with his foot before cycling off along the clifftop. We return to the Colonel's rooms, where a large world map has been put up on an easel. The table is covered in navigational charts, which two men (an old Marine Commander and an RAF Group Captain) are poring over. Thorpe is on the phone.
Thorpe: Never mind, keep checking and report when you have anything.
He puts the phone down.
Thorpe: All corroborated apart from the boat.
Colonel: The beach?
Thorpe: Gypsies.
Prisoner: Romanies. What about the roadblock?
Colonel: Oh, nothing to do with you, my dear fellow: an escaped convict.
The Prisoner picks up a cup of tea.
Colonel: Can't you give us anything more on the boat? No name?
Prisoner: Would you advertise if you were gunrunning?
Colonel: No. I would not. I most certainly would not. Would you, Thorpe?
Thorpe: No.
He picks up a cup and saucer and moves away.
Prisoner: Are you satisfied?
Colonel: Let us say that the dice are heavily loaded in your favour.
Prisoner: All right, let's get to work.
He goes to the table.
Prisoner: Commander, how's it going?
Commander: On the basis of your log, and allowing for the variance of your primitive device, and the lack of speed of your craft, I estimate you would have averaged some three and a half knots.
Prisoner: Yes.
Commander: Assuming fair winds. You had fair winds?
Prisoner: Mostly.
Commander: You appreciate there is no allowance for time?
Prisoner: No, there couldn't have been. I had no charts nor any means of assessing them.
Commander: You slept for how long?
Prisoner: Four hours out of each twenty-four.
Commander: Remarkable. So, in your twenty-five days at sea, you proceeded at an average of three and a half knots for twenty hours out of each twenty-four on a northeasterly course, which would put us at, er...
Captain: Four hours' sleep, twenty hours' under fair sail, maximum travel on a true course: one thousand seven hundred and fifty miles.
Prisoner: Where was the lighthouse?
Thorpe points to the south coast of England on the world map.
Thorpe: Here.
The Captain sets a pair of compasses against a ruler.
Captain: Two hundred and fifty miles to the inch.
He goes to the map and draws a large circle centred on the lighthouse. The circle clips the coasts of Iceland and the Black Sea, and contains the western half of the Mediterranean and a large chunk of the Atlantic.
Prisoner: Yes, that's my maximum possible travel. Minimum would be, Commander?
Commander: I'd be inclined to allow at least four hundred miles' differential.
Captain: Call it five hundred to cover drift and tide.
He draws a smaller circle inside the other one.
Commander: Yes... on a northeasterly course with an equable climate...
The Commander takes a set square and draws one line on a northeasterly bearing, then another running north-south.
Commander: Somewhere about here.
He shades in the southwest region delimited by the various lines.
Colonel: Coast of Morocco; southwest of Portugal and Spain.
Captain: Might be an island.
It is dawn on the next day, the Prisoner's birthday. The Prisoner is in a building at an airfield, wearing a flying suit ready for departure. A milkfloat pulls up outside.
Colonel: We've got five hundred by fifteen hundred to sweep: seven hundred and fifty thousand square miles. Quite an area.
Behind them, the Captain comes off the phone.
Captain: The clearance has just come through for refuelling in Gibraltar.
The Captain starts to fasten the boots of his flying suit. The Prisoner picks up his flying helmet and wanders out with the Colonel.
Prisoner: Good. Then we'll sweep as far as we can today, and then again tomorrow.
Colonel: And tomorrow and tomorrow. You're a stubborn fellow, Number 6.
Prisoner: James, you call me that once again and you're liable for a bout in hospital.
Captain: I won't be a minute!
They shut the door, leaving the Captain to his boots.
Colonel: Good luck.
Prisoner: Thanks.
They shake hands and the Prisoner walks off towards the waiting two-seater plane. Behind them, the milkman takes a crate of milk into the room they have just left. The Prisoner passes Thorpe, standing by a Rolls Royce, and waves. The Colonel joins Thorpe, and together they watch the Prisoner climb aboard and don his helmet. The Captain, already helmeted, approaches from the building and climbs into the pilot's seat. The plane moves off down the runway.
Thorpe: Interesting fellow.
Colonel: He's an old, old friend who never gives up.
The plane soars into the air and the Rolls Royce drives off.
Hours pass and the plane is now flying over the search area: islands in a gorgeous blue sea. The Prisoner is keeping an accurate navigational log.
Prisoner: Turn. Sweep back fifteen degrees southwest... ... Sweep nine degrees southwest.
At last, the Prisoner catches a familiar sight in the distance.
Prisoner: That could be it. Go closer...
The Captain nods. Far below them is, unmistakably, the Village.
Prisoner: There it is. We've found it: that's it.
The Captain suddenly removes his oxygen mask and briefly turns to face the Prisoner. It's not the Captain: it's the milkman!
Milkman: Be seeing you!
He pulls a control on the panel in front of him and the Prisoner is ejected into the air. The Prisoner's parachute opens and he drifts down to land on the Village beach. The black cat is still there, watching him from the table with the broken jug. Bewildered and angry, the Prisoner scrambles out of his parachute and gets to his feet. He walks across the sand and back into the Village, back to his cottage. The place is as deserted as the day he left.
He goes indoors. The shower, lights and kettle all come on simultaneously. A miaow alerts him to the presence of the black cat, and he turns to see Mrs Butterworth walk in. She carries a birthday cake with flaming candles, and wears a black Number 2 badge.
Number 2: Many happy returns.
The Prisoner hears jolly marching music. Ignoring Number 2, he crosses to the window and sees colourfully dressed Villagers parading round the central pond. Between him and the procession, the little butler stands motionless, holding his black and white umbrella above his head.
Prison bars slam shut on the Prisoner's face.
Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner
Guest Stars:
Donald Sinden as the Colonel
Patrick Cargill as Thorpe
Georgina Cookson as Mrs Butterworth
with
Brian Worth as the Group Captain
Richard Caldicot as the Commander
Dennis Chinnery as Gunther
Jon Laurimore as Ernst
Nike Arrighi as the Gypsy Girl
Grace Arnold as the Maid
Larry Taylor as the Gypsy Man
Episode written by Joshua Adams (i.e. Lewis Greifer) and directed by Peter Graham Scott
Executive Producer: Patrick McGoohan
Production Manager: Bernard Williams
Director of Photography: Brendan J. Stafford B.S.C.
Art Director: Jack Shampan
Camera Operator: Jack Lowin
Editor: Geoffrey Foot G.B.F.E.
Theme by Ron Grainer
Musical Director Albert Elms
Cameraman (2nd Unit): Robert Monks
Assistant Director: Ernie Morris
Sound Editor: Wilfred Thompson
Sound Recordist: John Bramall
Music Editor: Eric Mival
Casting Director: Rose Tobias-Shaw
Continuity: Josie Fulford
Set Dresser: Kenneth Bridgeman
Make-Up: Eddie Knight
Hairdressing: Pat McDermot
Wardrobe: Masada Wilmot
Made on Location
and at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios, Borehamwood, England
An ITC Production
Incorporated Television Company Limited MCMLXVII
by Everyman Films Limited
"I am not a number, I am a free man!"
Episode Seven
"Many Happy Returns"
The man whom we will call "the Prisoner" resigns and is gassed exactly as before. He wakes up in the Village.
The following conversation accompanies a similar miscellany of images.
Prisoner: Where am I?
Number 2: In the Village.
Prisoner: What do you want?
Number 2: Information.
Prisoner: Whose side are you on?
Number 2: That would be telling. We want information. Information... Information...
Prisoner: You won't get it.
Number 2: By hook or by crook, we will.
Prisoner: Who are you?
Number 2: The new Number 2.
Prisoner: Who is Number 1?
Number 2: You are Number 6.
Prisoner: I am not a number. I am a free man!
The Prisoner wakes up and looks at his watch. He pulls on a dressing gown and wanders into his kitchen, where he switches the kettle on. It doesn't boil. In the bathroom he turns on the shower, but no water comes out. The kitchen radio is broadcasting none of the usual Village announcements: it's completely silent. He picks it up and shakes it.
He steps outside. The only sign of life is a black cat, and the only sound to be heard is the howl of the wind. Back inside, he picks up the phone and jiggles the receiver rest: no response.
Having got dressed, he goes to the café. There is crockery on the tables outside, but the door is locked. He walks down to the stone boat. The terrace above it is littered with toppled tables and parasols. He climbs the bell-tower. There is nothing up there but a strong wind, the cry of the seagulls... and the bell. He rings it vigorously, but summons no one.
Next he comes across one of the Village taxis parked in a square. He checks that the engine is working, then pockets the key.
The Green Dome of Number 2's house looms over him: so he heads there for answers. The doorbell fails to make its usual massive gonglike chime, the door itself isn't locked, and in the hallway there's no sign of the normally ubiquitous butler. The Prisoner approaches the sliding metal doors, but for once they don't open automatically: he has to prise them apart to get in. Number 2's spherical chair has its back to him; when he spins it round, he finds only a shooting-stick umbrella.
He drives off in the taxi, following a road out of the Village. It brings him to a cliff, with a view of high mountains all around.
Now in a purposeful pullover, he fells a couple of trees and uses the taxi to haul them down to the shore. He finds some barrels, which he empties, and busies himself constructing a raft. He raids the General Stores for provisions, chalking the words "I.O.U. 964. No 6?" on the counter. He takes a radio and also a camera, with which he takes many photographs of the Village to corroborate his story.
With the raft now ready, he releases it from its mooring... then tenses as he hears something shatter to his right. Slowly he turns to look. The black cat has knocked over a jug on a table. He boards the raft and pushes off.
Once some way out to sea, sail billowing, the Prisoner removes the film from the camera and wraps it in a waterproof bag. He takes the radio apart and uses the speaker to magnetise a needle, with which he makes a compass. He back-folds a copy of the Tally Ho (with headline "What are facts behind Town Hall?") and starts a diary on the blank side: "Day 1."
We see him shaving. It is "Day 5". We see him eating from a tin. It is "Day 7". He catches himself nodding off. It is "Day 18". He collapses from exhaustion.
He stirs at the sound of an engine. Someone steps over him. He is able to see two men transferring his provisions onto their own boat, before they dump him into the water and leave him for dead. They retire to the helm and motor off, failing to notice the Prisoner climbing aboard at the stern. He goes below deck and ducks out of sight as one of the men comes out of the galley with a tray of the Prisoner's food.
While the men feast at the wheel, the Prisoner slips into a cabin and prises the lid off a large crate: it's full of guns and ammunition. At the helm, one of the smugglers turns on the boat's radio, which gabbles in an unintelligible language. The Prisoner meanwhile enters the galley, puts a frying pan on the stove, soaks some cloths in alcohol from a bottle, and sets fire to them. He then puts a large wet cloth over the pan, turning its contents into a smoking mass. He hides in the cabin.
One of the gunrunners (Gunther) smells the smoke, and shouts in German. He dashes down to the galley, leaving the other man (Ernst) at the helm. The Prisoner grabs him from behind and silently renders him unconscious by locking his arm round the man's neck.
Ernst: Gunther! Wo bist du?
Ernst stops the boat, descends to the galley and gets rid of the smoking cloths. The Prisoner punches him to the floor as he emerges, and drags him to join Gunther in the cabin. He ties their hands behind their backs, ties their ankles and puts a chain on the door. On the bed, Gunther opens an eye.
The Prisoner goes to the helm and steers the boat on through the night. Gunther manages to pull himself into a sitting position, and then lies down on the floor back to back with Ernst, attempting to wake him. The Prisoner sees a light on the horizon to port, and points the boat towards it. Meanwhile the gunrunners have managed to untie each other and are now thwarted by the chained door. There's a cupboard on the floor against one wall; they take everything out of it and kick their way through the back into the next cabin. The Prisoner hears nothing over the noise of the engine, and keeps making for the light.
Ernst starts to creep up the stairs to the helm, but Gunther indicates with a gesture that they should go up by the aft stairs. They crawl forward on opposite sites of the boat, then burst in on the Prisoner. Gunther is quickly sent hurtling headfirst down the stairs, while Ernst forces the Prisoner out onto the deck where they continue to fight. Gunther reappears at the helm and takes a revolver from a drawer. The Prisoner sees him approaching and jumps overboard, frantically swimming for shore as shots hit the water around him. The gunrunners head back out to sea.
The Prisoner wakes up in daylight, unkempt and bedraggled on a stony beach. He gets to his feet and sees the lighthouse of the night before. He takes something from his pocket: his makeshift diary and the roll of film, still wrapped in their bag and undamaged by water. A sheer cliff rises from the beach, and he starts to climb.
At the top of the cliff he encounters a man walking his dog.
Prisoner: Where is this?
He gets no reply. The man hesitates, then simply turns and walks off along the clifftop. The Prisoner follows at a distance. They come to a horse, grazing in front of a gypsy caravan, where a woman and another man are cooking over a fire. The man with the dog sits down and has a brief argument with the woman in Romany. The woman walks over to the Prisoner, silhouetted against the sky, and speaks unintelligibly to him. She calls to those at the fire and gestures for them to bring something. The man with the dog starts arguing again, and the woman storms back to the fire, picks up a beaker and offers it to the Prisoner.
The Prisoner approaches, and the woman gestures for him to drink. He takes a sip. She says something to the others with an "I-told-you-so" expression on her face.
Prisoner: Where is this place?
Woman: Uh?
Prisoner: A road. Where is there a road?
Woman: Ah! Dondaro doa doi.
She points. The Prisoner nods, then finishes his drink, hands the beaker back to her, thanking her, and hurries off in the indicated direction.
He walks across a moor and through a wood, and eventually reaches a road... where a British policeman is waving the traffic on. The Prisoner retreats into the trees and emerges again at a point further down the road, where the police have blocked the road. He sees a large lorry approaching the roadblock, and races off again through countryside. He reaches the road beyond the roadblock, and waits for the lorry to arrive. As it passes him, he runs out behind it and manages to hurl himself inside. The lorry is largely empty, and the Prisoner climbs up onto a flat area above the cab, covers himself in some old sacks, and falls asleep.
Some time later he wakes to the sound of a police siren. In a fit of panic, he jumps straight out of the back of the lorry onto a busy street. He recognises where he is: he is back in London with its red double-decker buses and its tourists with their cameras.
He wanders through the capital, and finds his way back to his own house. He casually walks past it as far as the street corner, looks around, then goes and knocks on his own door. A maid answers, eyeing his dishevelled appearance with disdain.
Maid: Yes?
Prisoner: Who owns this house?
Maid: I beg your pardon!
Prisoner: I... I'm sorry, what I meant was, I... I'd like to see your master.
Maid: My mistress is not at home!
Prisoner: Well, do you mind if I wait?
She shuts the door in his face. He slowly wanders off, then stops as he hears a familiar noise behind him. His own Lotus 7 pulls up outside his house, driven by a middle-aged lady in a trouser suit. She gets out and opens the front door of what was once the Prisoner's house. The Prisoner stares at the car for a second, and is just in time to address the lady before she closes the door.
Prisoner: What's the number of that car?
She steps back onto the doorstep and regards him with mild amusement.
Lady: Terribly interesting.
Prisoner: K-A-R, a hundred and twenty C. What's the engine number?
Lady: Do tell me.
Prisoner: 461034TZ.
Lady: Marvellous.
Prisoner: I know every nut and bolt and cog. I built it with my own hands.
Lady: Then you're just the man I want to see. I've been having a good deal of overheating in traffic. Perhaps you'd care to advise me.
She turns to go in. The Prisoner looks awkward.
Lady: Come in.
Slowly, the Prisoner steps inside. As a clock chimes somewhere in the house, we watch through the Prisoner's eyes as the lady leads him across a chequered floor and opens the door to the living room -- a door that looks just like the front door to the Prisoner's cottage in the Village.
Lady: This way... Make yourself at home. And I'll organise some tea. You would like some tea?
Prisoner: Very much.
Lady: I'm Mrs Butterworth. And you are?
The Prisoner enters the room.
Prisoner: An exile.
Mrs Butterworth: A nameless exile?
Prisoner: No. Smith... Peter... Smith.
Mrs Butterworth: Enchanting! Be comfortable and I'll be back in a moment. And then you can enlighten me on the intricacies of KAR 120C.
She goes out, shutting the door behind her. The Prisoner is left alone to wander round the room, which is just as he left it, and of course exactly like the front area of his cottage. He looks out of the window and sees a skyscraper, then performs a further reality check by picking up the phone and hearing the dialling tone. The only object he doesn't recognise is a wedding photo on the writing desk.
Mrs Butterworth comes back in.
Mrs Butterworth: Refreshment's on the way. Now, tell me more.
Prisoner: What's the date?
Mrs Butterworth: Saturday, March the eighteenth.
Prisoner: Tomorrow's my birthday.
Mrs Butterworth: You're an odd fellow.
She takes a cigar from a box and proceeds to light it.
Prisoner: Er, sorry, you, er, er... you must think I'm crazy.
Mrs Butterworth: Who isn't these days?
Prisoner: Do you know, this was, er... this was my house?
Mrs Butterworth: Really?
Prisoner: Yes.
Mrs Butterworth: In better days?
Prisoner: Before I went away.
Mrs Butterworth: You must miss it.
Prisoner: The lease, um, had six months to run.
Mrs Butterworth: It's been renewed. I have it for ten years, fully furnished.
Prisoner: Oh really?
Mrs Butterworth: Is the inventory in order?
Prisoner: I'll bet. The only thing that's missing is a body.
Mrs Butterworth: Don't tell me you've been prying into my private affairs?
There is a long pause.
Prisoner: Forgive me, I'm... I'm very sorry. Er, would you do me a very great favour?
Mrs Butterworth: Are you growing a beard?
Prisoner: No.
Mrs Butterworth: Pity. I've always had rather a soft spot for bearded men, but I could never get dear Arthur to grow one.
Prisoner: Arthur?
Mrs Butterworth: My late husband. Navy, you know: unhappily now deceased.
There is a knock at the door.
Mrs Butterworth: Come in.
The maid comes in with a tray of tea and sandwiches. She puts it down on the coffee table.
Mrs Butterworth: Oh, thank you Martha. Is this the, um, gentleman you said called earlier?
Maid: It is, madam.
Mrs Butterworth sits on the couch.
Mrs Butterworth: Her description of you was hardly flattering, Mr Smith. You must learn to delve beneath the surface, Martha. Who knows what treasures you may find? All right.
Maid: Thank you, madam.
She departs.
Mrs Butterworth: Come and sit down, Mr Smith.
He joins her on the couch. She offers him the plate of small triangular sandwiches.
Mrs Butterworth: Sandwich?
Prisoner: Thanks very much.
He takes one and eats it whole. Mrs Butterworth hands him a napkin, and then gives him the plate.
Prisoner: You're very kind.
Mrs Butterworth: It's a pleasure.
The Prisoner starts eating voraciously. Some time later, we see him wiping his mouth with the napkin. There's an empty cakestand on the table in front of him.
Prisoner: That was the best fruitcake I've ever tasted.
Mrs Butterworth: I'm a very good cook. It's one of my hobbies.
Prisoner: Yes... Mrs Butterworth, I asked if you would do me a very great favour.
Mrs Butterworth: Certainly.
He goes over to the writing desk.
Prisoner: Behind this desk there was an area of dry rot which was made good about twelve months ago. The bathroom door is sliding: it opens to the left. The sink is on the right as you go in. The hot and cold taps on the shower were put on the wrong way round.
Mrs Butterworth laughs.
Mrs Butterworth: I had them changed. Don't be so silly, you haven't got to prove anything: I believe you.
Prisoner: I'm sorry. I'm not used to that.
Mrs Butterworth: What can I do for you?
Prisoner: I would like to see the lease of the house and the logbook of the car.
Mrs Butterworth: How mysterious.
She joins him at the desk and gives him an envelope. The Prisoner opens it and examines the lease it contains while Mrs Butterworth rummages further.
Prisoner: This is a new one. Yours is the, um, the first name on it. There's no indication of a previous owner.
Mrs Butterworth: The estate agents arranged it all. They said the car was for sale, it was reasonable, and I've always had a taste for a little speed.
She hands him another enveloped document. He examines it.
Prisoner: The, erm, estate agents were Stombell and Croydon?
Mrs Butterworth: Most reputable. And a charming man dealt with me: Mr Croydon himself. Did you ever meet him?
Prisoner: No. That wasn't the firm that I did business with.
Mrs Butterworth: How odd.
Prisoner: Isn't it?
He returns the documents to the desk.
Prisoner: Mrs Butterworth, you've been extremely kind in allowing me to intrude upon your privacy in this way. I have to make two important calls, one in the country, one in town, so if you'll please excuse me, I'll say goodbye.
Mrs Butterworth: Mr Smith, you mustn't!
Prisoner: I'm sorry, I have to.
Mrs Butterworth: You mustn't go like that!... Some of dear Arthur's things, you're very welcome. I've kept them all, you see. I suppose it's stupid, but even though there isn't a man about the place, I like to feel that there is. Do you understand what I mean?
Prisoner: Well, yes, I...
Mrs Butterworth: I just know you're in some kind of trouble. Have you any money?
Prisoner: No.
Mrs Butterworth: Ah! There you are, you see. How are you going to get about?
Prisoner: Perfectly all right. I can manage, thank you... very much indeed... you've been terribly kind...
He makes for the front door, but she takes him by the arm and guides him protestingly to the staircase.
Mrs Butterworth: You're silly and independent and proud. Now come on, upstairs. You'll find everything you want in the bathroom, and I'll lay out some of Arthur's clothes out for you.
The next thing we see is the Prisoner, washed and brushed and wearing clean clothes, sitting in the Lotus 7 outside the house. Mrs Butterworth stands on the pavement.
Mrs Butterworth: On condition you stop that nasty overheating.
Prisoner: It's a deal.
Mrs Butterworth: Bon voyage.
Prisoner: Mrs Butterworth, you've been tremendously---
Mrs Butterworth: No speeches! Off you go.
He starts the engine.
Mrs Butterworth: Don't forget to come back!
Prisoner: I'll be back!
Mrs Butterworth: I might even bake you a birthday cake.
Prisoner: I hope you will!
And with a cheery wave he sets off through London to the accompaniment of the title theme, taking the same route as he did on the day of his resignation. He opens the double doors to the office where it all started, and steps up to the same man working busily at the same desk.
Prisoner: Anyone at home?
A while later, we find the Prisoner pacing up and down in a large, lavish suite of roomns that opens onto a enclosed garden. A man (the Colonel) is sitting on the wall by the garden, examining the black and white photographs that the Prisoner took in the Village. Another man (Thorpe) stands at a table in an inner room, looking through another set of photos.
Colonel: Pretty spot: mixture of architectures: Italianate. Difficult. Certainly has a Mediterranean flavour. What do you think, Thorpe?
Thorpe: I think I wouldn't mind a fortnight's leave there. Prison for life, eh? It's a far cry from Sing Sing.
Prisoner: I'm sorry to interrupt an afternoon's golf, Colonel, but this is not a joking matter.
The Colonel gets up and joins the other two by the table.
Colonel: My dear fellow, you really mustn't blame Thorpe. After all, you yourself on occasion could be a little sceptical. That's why you were such a good man... why we were so sorry to lose you.
He picks up the unfolded copy of the Tally Ho and peruses it.
Prisoner: The evidence is there.
Thorpe: A set of photographs from ground level of a holiday resort, and a schoolboy log on the back of what you call the Village newspaper.
Thorpe pours himself a drink and goes and sits in an armchair. The Colonel leans on the mantelpiece.
Prisoner: I'm sorry, it's the best I could do in the circumstances. You'd hardly expect the Village store to issue sextants, would you?
He goes and faces them from the other side of the room.
Thorpe: Indeed, indeed, if the place is as you say it was.
Colonel: The Tally Ho.
Prisoner: A daily issue.
Colonel: Morning or evening?
Prisoner: Daily at noon.
Colonel: "What are facts behind Town Hall?" Town Hall?
Prisoner: That's right.
Thorpe: Town Council?
Prisoner: Correct.
Thorpe: Were you a member?
Prisoner: I could have been. It's democratically elected once a year.
Colonel: Democratically.
Prisoner: That's what they claim.
Thorpe: And they're all numbers. No names. No names at all?
Prisoner: Just numbers.
Colonel: I see.
Prisoner: Numbers in a village that is a complete unit of our own society. A place to put people who can't be left around. People who know too much or too little. A place with many means of breaking a man.
Thorpe: Intriguing.
Prisoner: They have their own cinema, their own newspaper, their own television station, a credit-card system, and if you're a good boy and cough up the secrets, you are gracefully retired into the old people's home.
Colonel: But, er, no escape?
Prisoner: They also have a very impressive graveyard.
Thorpe: Which you avoided.
Prisoner: The Village was deserted.
Thorpe: Perhaps they were on the democratic annual outing.
The Prisoner strides to the table, grabs a pile of photographs and angrily shows each in turn to the Colonel. The Colonel watches the Prisoner rather than the photos.
Prisoner: The Town Hall. Number 2's residence. My house. The old people's home---
Colonel: My dear fellow, you really mustn't get excited. You must forgive us but, you see, we have a problem. Er, tell him our problem, Thorpe.
Thorpe: You resign, you disappear, you return. You spin a yarn that Hans Christian Andersen would reject for a fairytale.
Colonel: And we must be sure. People defect. An unhappy thought, but a fact of life. They defect... from one side to the other.
Prisoner: I also have a problem. I'm not sure which side runs this Village.
Colonel: A mutual problem.
Prisoner: Which I'm going to solve.
Colonel: Quite.
Prisoner: If not here, then elsewhere.
They stare unblinkingly at each other for a few seconds.
Colonel: Thorpe.
Thorpe: Sir?
Colonel: Check.
Thorpe: Yes, sir.
Colonel: Check every detail contained in our ex-colleague's report.
Thorpe gets up from his chair. We cut to Mrs Butterworth being interviewed by a policeman with a notebook in her living room.
Mrs Butterworth: Of course I helped him. I'd help anyone in trouble... wouldn't you?
Another policeman, this one in uniform, pokes the remains of the gypsies' fire with his foot before cycling off along the clifftop. We return to the Colonel's rooms, where a large world map has been put up on an easel. The table is covered in navigational charts, which two men (an old Marine Commander and an RAF Group Captain) are poring over. Thorpe is on the phone.
Thorpe: Never mind, keep checking and report when you have anything.
He puts the phone down.
Thorpe: All corroborated apart from the boat.
Colonel: The beach?
Thorpe: Gypsies.
Prisoner: Romanies. What about the roadblock?
Colonel: Oh, nothing to do with you, my dear fellow: an escaped convict.
The Prisoner picks up a cup of tea.
Colonel: Can't you give us anything more on the boat? No name?
Prisoner: Would you advertise if you were gunrunning?
Colonel: No. I would not. I most certainly would not. Would you, Thorpe?
Thorpe: No.
He picks up a cup and saucer and moves away.
Prisoner: Are you satisfied?
Colonel: Let us say that the dice are heavily loaded in your favour.
Prisoner: All right, let's get to work.
He goes to the table.
Prisoner: Commander, how's it going?
Commander: On the basis of your log, and allowing for the variance of your primitive device, and the lack of speed of your craft, I estimate you would have averaged some three and a half knots.
Prisoner: Yes.
Commander: Assuming fair winds. You had fair winds?
Prisoner: Mostly.
Commander: You appreciate there is no allowance for time?
Prisoner: No, there couldn't have been. I had no charts nor any means of assessing them.
Commander: You slept for how long?
Prisoner: Four hours out of each twenty-four.
Commander: Remarkable. So, in your twenty-five days at sea, you proceeded at an average of three and a half knots for twenty hours out of each twenty-four on a northeasterly course, which would put us at, er...
Captain: Four hours' sleep, twenty hours' under fair sail, maximum travel on a true course: one thousand seven hundred and fifty miles.
Prisoner: Where was the lighthouse?
Thorpe points to the south coast of England on the world map.
Thorpe: Here.
The Captain sets a pair of compasses against a ruler.
Captain: Two hundred and fifty miles to the inch.
He goes to the map and draws a large circle centred on the lighthouse. The circle clips the coasts of Iceland and the Black Sea, and contains the western half of the Mediterranean and a large chunk of the Atlantic.
Prisoner: Yes, that's my maximum possible travel. Minimum would be, Commander?
Commander: I'd be inclined to allow at least four hundred miles' differential.
Captain: Call it five hundred to cover drift and tide.
He draws a smaller circle inside the other one.
Commander: Yes... on a northeasterly course with an equable climate...
The Commander takes a set square and draws one line on a northeasterly bearing, then another running north-south.
Commander: Somewhere about here.
He shades in the southwest region delimited by the various lines.
Colonel: Coast of Morocco; southwest of Portugal and Spain.
Captain: Might be an island.
It is dawn on the next day, the Prisoner's birthday. The Prisoner is in a building at an airfield, wearing a flying suit ready for departure. A milkfloat pulls up outside.
Colonel: We've got five hundred by fifteen hundred to sweep: seven hundred and fifty thousand square miles. Quite an area.
Behind them, the Captain comes off the phone.
Captain: The clearance has just come through for refuelling in Gibraltar.
The Captain starts to fasten the boots of his flying suit. The Prisoner picks up his flying helmet and wanders out with the Colonel.
Prisoner: Good. Then we'll sweep as far as we can today, and then again tomorrow.
Colonel: And tomorrow and tomorrow. You're a stubborn fellow, Number 6.
Prisoner: James, you call me that once again and you're liable for a bout in hospital.
Captain: I won't be a minute!
They shut the door, leaving the Captain to his boots.
Colonel: Good luck.
Prisoner: Thanks.
They shake hands and the Prisoner walks off towards the waiting two-seater plane. Behind them, the milkman takes a crate of milk into the room they have just left. The Prisoner passes Thorpe, standing by a Rolls Royce, and waves. The Colonel joins Thorpe, and together they watch the Prisoner climb aboard and don his helmet. The Captain, already helmeted, approaches from the building and climbs into the pilot's seat. The plane moves off down the runway.
Thorpe: Interesting fellow.
Colonel: He's an old, old friend who never gives up.
The plane soars into the air and the Rolls Royce drives off.
Hours pass and the plane is now flying over the search area: islands in a gorgeous blue sea. The Prisoner is keeping an accurate navigational log.
Prisoner: Turn. Sweep back fifteen degrees southwest... ... Sweep nine degrees southwest.
At last, the Prisoner catches a familiar sight in the distance.
Prisoner: That could be it. Go closer...
The Captain nods. Far below them is, unmistakably, the Village.
Prisoner: There it is. We've found it: that's it.
The Captain suddenly removes his oxygen mask and briefly turns to face the Prisoner. It's not the Captain: it's the milkman!
Milkman: Be seeing you!
He pulls a control on the panel in front of him and the Prisoner is ejected into the air. The Prisoner's parachute opens and he drifts down to land on the Village beach. The black cat is still there, watching him from the table with the broken jug. Bewildered and angry, the Prisoner scrambles out of his parachute and gets to his feet. He walks across the sand and back into the Village, back to his cottage. The place is as deserted as the day he left.
He goes indoors. The shower, lights and kettle all come on simultaneously. A miaow alerts him to the presence of the black cat, and he turns to see Mrs Butterworth walk in. She carries a birthday cake with flaming candles, and wears a black Number 2 badge.
Number 2: Many happy returns.
The Prisoner hears jolly marching music. Ignoring Number 2, he crosses to the window and sees colourfully dressed Villagers parading round the central pond. Between him and the procession, the little butler stands motionless, holding his black and white umbrella above his head.
Prison bars slam shut on the Prisoner's face.
Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner
Guest Stars:
Donald Sinden as the Colonel
Patrick Cargill as Thorpe
Georgina Cookson as Mrs Butterworth
with
Brian Worth as the Group Captain
Richard Caldicot as the Commander
Dennis Chinnery as Gunther
Jon Laurimore as Ernst
Nike Arrighi as the Gypsy Girl
Grace Arnold as the Maid
Larry Taylor as the Gypsy Man
Episode written by Joshua Adams (i.e. Lewis Greifer) and directed by Peter Graham Scott
Executive Producer: Patrick McGoohan
Production Manager: Bernard Williams
Director of Photography: Brendan J. Stafford B.S.C.
Art Director: Jack Shampan
Camera Operator: Jack Lowin
Editor: Geoffrey Foot G.B.F.E.
Theme by Ron Grainer
Musical Director Albert Elms
Cameraman (2nd Unit): Robert Monks
Assistant Director: Ernie Morris
Sound Editor: Wilfred Thompson
Sound Recordist: John Bramall
Music Editor: Eric Mival
Casting Director: Rose Tobias-Shaw
Continuity: Josie Fulford
Set Dresser: Kenneth Bridgeman
Make-Up: Eddie Knight
Hairdressing: Pat McDermot
Wardrobe: Masada Wilmot
Made on Location
and at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios, Borehamwood, England
An ITC Production
Incorporated Television Company Limited MCMLXVII
by Everyman Films Limited
"I am not a number, I am a free man!"
