There was the sound of a marching band. Six opened his eyes and listened to it. A parade. There was always a parade in The Village. His head swam. It was best to be still. Allow the brain a moment to readjust. The thumping of the drum pounded against his skull.
He was in his own room. As he considered the importance of that, he remembered.
They'd come for him last night. He closed his eyes against the pain in his head and the memory. The mind is often reluctant to remember the details of torture. A defense mechanism with which he was far too familiar. There were broken flashes, but no clarity. Weakly he rubbed his face. His body ached. Every muscle felt as if it had been strained to the point of tearing. The parade went on.
He opened his eyes again and stared up at the ceiling, trying to think back, his mind rebelling against the effort. Number Two had questioned him about Casey.
A memory dropped suddenly into place. The girl was dead. It jarred him for a moment. Then he reminded himself. It wasn't a certainty. He had been told by a man who could not be trusted. The thought irritated him. He pushed himself upright and swung his feet to the floor. He had to rest while his head throbbed and his torn body trembled. They had been brutal in their method. He was sick and weak. Number Two's words came back to him. "This is a new method." He put his hands to his head as if it might crack. Was it? It hadn't seemed so. Pain and drugs are as old as the hills. As old as he felt.
He stood gingerly and teetered there. Outside the parade marched on. Did they never get tired of the faux celebration? The drum continued to punish his throbbing head as he hobbled to the bathroom. He ran the tap and let the water splash over the back of his head. The cold felt good. It drove away some of the pain. Allowed the thoughts to flow more freely. After a time he shut off the tap and looked at the tired, drawn face in the mirror.
A memory came unbidden. The memory of his voice answering Number Two questions. It was like a dream. Less clear even then the memories of the torture itself. Now the exact words he had spoken returned like a recording. The confession of Casey's true past. The betrayal of a friend. He turned away, tension threatening to burst his skull. Had he broken? His eyes went to a camera.
He began to shake. They'd finally won? That was what he was meant to believe?
Without haste he dressed and made coffee. His mind was fitful. Picking at the scattered bits of memory like pieces of a puzzle, trying to fit them into a coherent picture. The coffee offered him no comfort and the incessant parade continued to assault him. There was no reprieve from either it or his tormented thoughts.
He went to the balcony door and stepped out. The colorful crowd marched round the reflecting pool. The joyless faces stared ahead, umbrellas twilled and feet stomped in time with the drum. It had all the gaiety of a funeral procession.
He was about to turn away when something caught him. A face turned up to look at him. Appearing for only an instant from under the spinning edge of a umbrella. The face of a girl, framed by unnaturally red hair. Their eyes met across the distance. Then the umbrella swept down and she was lost in the marching sea of color.
Casey.
Adrenaline drove him from the balcony and to the door. It opened for him and he stepped out into the bright sunlight and a group of men. Wordlessly they grabbed him and dragged him into the swirling parade. He stumbled between the two that held him. She was there somewhere. He searched the faces around him in near panic. Perhaps he'd been mistaken. Seeing what he wanted to see. The noise and motion was disorientating. The men kept him on his feet. Kept him walking. His head swam with the exertion.
Without warning the parade came to a stomping halt in front of the Band Stand. He was led to the front of the crowd and held there. His gaze went up to the balcony where a group of people stood. Men in dark suits and top hats. Village officials. And between them, Number Two.
Two raised a bullhorn to his lips and spoke.
"We are gathered here today to honor a fine citizen. A person, who though he once resisted our generous community, now stands before you a new man. His rebellious spirit has been quelled at last and in its stead we find the heart of a true member of society."
Number Two paused for a moment looking down on him. "I present to you, Number Six." He waved a beckoning hand. "Come my dear fellow. Or rather I should say, my dear friend. Please come forward."
He did, compelled by his handlers. They forced him past the now applauding and cheering crowd and up the steps. He reeled drunkenly onto the stage to stand, swaying, beside Number Two. The man smiled at him with uncomfortable warmth. He turned away to look out at the sea of faces.
"So glad you could join us, Number Six." Two said. Still smiling. Still warm. "I was afraid you were going to sleep all day."
"What are you after?" He hissed in return.
The man leaned over to him and said softly. "You are being commended for your contribution to The Village."
Six turned on him hotly. Hard hands held him back. "My what?"
Number Two laughed kindly. "You've confessed."
"Have I?"
"Of course."
Six narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "Why did I resign?"
Something subtle changed in Number Two's face. A slight tightening at the corners of the eyes and mouth. "That was not the nature of our inquiry. This time."
"Really? You had me in such a talkative mood and you didn't even ask?"
"Patience, my dear fellow, patience." Two scolded gently. "There will be another opportunity. And I assure you, you will be eager to tell me. After all one concession leads to another."
In disgust Six looked away again. The blank faces below starred up at him. They were waiting without interest for whatever Number Two offered them. And what Two was to give them was assurance that no one holds out forever. Everyone breaks.
He was to be humiliated before The Village as lesson to them all. Numbly, now he scanned the crowd, looking for the red haired girl. She was not to be found. Too much color. Too much confusion for his addled brain to process.
Number Two had the bullhorn to his mouth again and was addressing the crowd. As Six leaned on the railing heavily, his handlers fell back, believing him to be subdued. Perhaps he was.
He listened to the meaningless words coming from the bullhorn.
"Number Six has given The Village information that is of great value to us. He has chosen to lay aside the self for the greater good of the community."
Number Two paused and Six could feel the man's eyes on him. He kept his own trained on the crowd. They returned dulls stares. But Two's words reached them. If any among them were holding their secrets they would find their convictions shaken.
"We should never forget," Number Two continued, "that Number Six fought long and nobly for what he believed. But at last, like a wayward child, recognized the error of his ways. He came to understand that it is better to give up an old friend so that he might find new friends."
Sudden applause from the crowd. Clapping hands and dead faces. Applauding their own destruction like trained monkeys. He glared back at them. Obediently they fell silent as Number Two prepared to speak again.
He saw her. In the midst of the crowd. A shock of red and the bright glint off the barrel of a gun. Without thought he turned and drove at Number Two. The report from Casey's weapon was a thing he felt more than heard. He fell hard with Two pinned under him. Above them there was a confusion of fleeing officials and desperate guards.
Fear and horror contorted Number Two's face. He was like a man caught in a nightmare. He made no effort to rise. The even move. Warily Six regained his feet. Anxious men grabbed him. Yanked him away. Sent him staggering. He got his balance and lunged for the rail.
Below the crowd was in a frenzy. A mad confusion of color and noise. He searched for Casey but found it impossible amid the chaos. Men with drawn guns fought their way into the living mass. They would have no better luck spotting her.
A rapid burst of popping sounds drew his eyes to the center of the throng. Only firecrackers. But it sent fresh panic through the crowd. They stampeded outward away from this new terror. More of Casey's tricks. He caught a glimpse of red hair just as thick, acrid smoke began rising up, spreading over the people below. Another smoke bomb. She was covering her exit well.
If they didn't manage to kill or capture her, she would go back to the mountains. To what fate? Why should it matter to him? The girl had shown herself to be a killer. Whatever he'd hoped to preserve in her may already be lost.
He gave the pandemonium below a final angry glance. This stunt would not go unpunished and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
He turned back towards the balcony. Something warm and wet crawled down his left arm, drawing his attention. He pulled open his coat and touched his shoulder. The shirt was wet and his hand came away red with blood. He leaned heavily on the rail, suddenly feeling weak. Casey's bullet had found a mark after all.
The pain was starting now. It radiated to his finger tips. An unpleasant but survivable wound, provided the bleeding were stopped. But the shock was hitting him harder than it aught. Last night's torture session had exacted a heavy toll. He wasn't quite up to being shot just yet. He took hold of the railing with his good hand to steady himself as the strength drained out of him. At the present moment death did not seem an unlikely outcome.
He dared not to let go of the rail. It was all that kept him on his feet. He pressed against it, dizzy now, balancing precariously on unsteady legs. He caught a glimpse of Number Two behind a wall of men. All concern was focused on the target of the failed assassination attempt. No one had taken any notice of him.
There was a rushing of wind in far off trees. Blood dripped from his finger tips and splashed on the floor. Too much blood to be losing. Dimly the sound of a siren came to him and then three pops. Not firecrackers this time. Gun shots. From the direction of the hospital it seemed. But it was difficult to be certain. The wind had become a roar and his head pounded. Someone shouted but he couldn't hear the words. There was too much wind and it was growing dark.
Number Two's face seemed to swim at him out of the darkness. Large and indistinct. Like the moon on a foggy night. He grinned at it. Swayed forward and fell. It was a very long way down.