FAN FICTION: ‘The Captive Hearts’

A Prisoner Story by Carly Dennison

WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT?…”

And so droned the mechanical voice of my tormentor; a grinding, piercing, wrenching voice from an unknown source hidden behind a blackened screen, that tore into my brain until I could bear it neither physically nor mentally any longer.

“WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT?…! Faster! Faster! Faster! The strobe lights accompanying the words endlessly performed their terrible dance.

“WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT?…” My hand clenched the armrests of the chair I was manacled to; my fingernails embedded into the cold leather.

“WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT?…” the voice persisted. “WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT?…”

My whole body heaved and fell under the unrelenting cacophony of sound, lights and wracking pain. Blood trickled down my face from wounds made by electronic probes attached to my forehead, and with each static charge that stung the flesh of my body, I craved the relief that death might bring me. And though I knew that by betraying him this rest I longed for might come more swiftly, I dare not – I WOULD NOT – speak his name!

My whole body heaved and fell under the unrelenting cacophony of sound, lights and wracking pain. Blood trickled down my face from wounds made by electronic probes attached to my forehead, and with each static charge that stung the flesh of my body, I craved the relief that death might bring me. And though I knew that by betraying him this rest I longed for might come more swiftly, I dare not – I WOULD NOT – speak his name!

Through all of this: the brutal agony: the cold unrelenting, forbidding, inhumanity of it all, I still loved him. Even then, as he stood united with my tormentors, I could not feel anything but the most pure and tender love for him. More than anything else, I wanted to look upon him just one more time, but I knew that in my delirium the merest glance might give him away. And when at the very moment I finally began to fall into unconsciousness, I felt for the most fleeting of moments the touch of his gentle hand as it brushed against mine. For an instant my eyes met his. Those blue, once emotionless eyes were at last filled with such sorrow that all I’d been through in this cold, heartless place faded into nothingness. It was then, and only then, that I knew he had truly loved me.

“WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT…” Suddenly, my whole being came over with an overwhelming sensation a serine peace. It was as if all the pain had been lifted from me and, for a moment, I was back in the warm sunshine of that Cambridge summer 5 years earlier…

___________________________

I’d been just a very ordinary girl from a very ordinary village in North Wales; in fact, I was what some people might call a bit of a “Plain Jane” back then. My father owned a small garage near Conwy and had taken out a loan to help finance my studies. I remember so clearly how delighted he and mum were when I won that scholarship at Cambridge University.

I travelled down to the City alone by train in the September of 1957 and recall a somewhat befuddled feeling of excitement and trepidation as I entered the grounds of Queen’s College, the first leaves of Autumn crunching beneath my feet while I cautiously walked in the direction of the Bursar’s office.

popular with many of the male students. It was through her that I was invited to attend the May Ball at Trinity College the following year and it was there that I saw him for the very first time.

He was tall, devastatingly handsome and had the bluest, most mysterious eyes I’d ever seen. He was the kind of man who turned heads; he had an aura about him – an aura that oozed an insatiable sensuality and brooding menace. From the very moment I saw his face I was smitten, but not for one moment did I ever fool myself into believing that he would notice me. Nevertheless, I was under his spell and as he weaved his magic by merely BEING, little did I know that he would have the most cataclysmic effect on my life.

___________________________

During the Summer break, I decided to stay on in Cambridge rather than go home, so I took a part-time job in a tearoom in the city centre to tide me over. It was one late July afternoon that I saw him again; his college scarf draped across his elegant shoulders and a rolled-up umbrella in his hand even though there wasn’t so much as a cloud in the sky. He stood in the doorway of the café and after glancing around for a moment as if he was deciding whether he should grace us with his presence, he finally strolled inside, taking a seat at a table by the window.

As I looked across at him, motionless, I felt a sharp dig to my ribs: “Go on, girl”, insisted the manageress – “He won’t bite!” But I could barely put one foot in front of the other. Eventually, I gathered my composure just enough to walk over to him and, nervously clearing my throat, asked: “What can I get for you, sir?”. “Tea. Cream. No sugar,” he replied in the most exquisite tone. “He spoke to me!” I thought as I floated towards the kitchen. At last, he knew I existed!

I dutifully, and extremely nervously, served him his order but, as fate would have it, some old dear and her husband arrived at that very moment and decided to try one of our ‘famous’ Ploughman’s Lunches, which had to be freshly prepared. By the time I’d completed the task and hurried back from the kitchen, he’d gone. I never saw him again… until I was brought to ‘The Village’.

___________________________

After graduating from Queen’s in the September of 1969, I took up a position as a Chemical Analysist at Imperial College, London. With a great deal of hard work, not to mention a fair measure of good luck Professor Collins, one of my old lecturers, recommended me for a position with the Ministry of Defence at a military instillation in North Yorkshire, and within 18 months of my arrival, I was working on a rather hush-hush project alongside a hand-picked unit of scientists from N.A.T.O.. Nevertheless, suddenly and quite without warning, the project was shelved, and all the scientists that had been working on it were, hastily dispersed. It was shortly afterwards that I suffered a minor “accident” on the A1 near Catterick, when I was run off the road by a undertaker’s hearse of all things. It was shortly after that I arrived here, in ‘The Village’.

I’d been told to prepare my “master’s” quarters at The Green Dome in time for the arrival of the new Administrator and had watched the helicopter touch down on the landing pad through the main window. Only moments later, during a brief exchange between the “old” and “new” Number 2, I heard a familiar voice – the tone of which had the effect of making me stand motionless for several seconds – while my heart beat so ferociously that I feared it might leap from my chest. Only when I entered the living area did I know for sure: it was HIM!

At first, he didn’t notice my presence as I pottered about the room making sure that his every comfort was attended to. But then, as I collected up my cleaning equipment and started to make quietly away, I happened to glance in his direction to find those familiar blue eyes studying my every movement. ‘Had he recognised me?’ I thought – trying in desperation to reach the door without tripping over my own two feet. ‘No, of course he hadn’t – how could he?’ All I’d ever been was a shadow he once walked around.

That evening I sat alone in my accommodation thinking only of Him. Who was he now? Why was he here? Was he a “prisoner” too? No, he couldn’t possibly be. My mind wandered all night; I barely slept a wink.

The following morning, I made my way to the Green Dome to prepare breakfast; my heart filled with excited foreboding. He was already up and about when I arrived and was standing with his back to me – looking down through the window at the Village below; the master of all he surveyed. Suddenly he turned and gently laid down the teacup and saucer he’d been holding onto a grand, highly polished oak table. He looked at me directly.

Dressed in a black blazer and with what appeared to be the same college scarf I remembered him wearing in our Cambridge days draped over his left shoulder, he looked almost identical in appearance to the last occasion I’d seen him in the tea shop back in Cambridge. For several seconds it was if time had stopped as we looked at each other from opposite sides of the room. What strange quirk of fate had brought us together in this place? Whatever it was, I wasn’t about to find out there and then, as he was simply to turn on his heel and walk from the room without so much as uttering a word.

___________________________

For several weeks I worked for him without any pleasantries or instruction, until one morning he quite unexpectedly asked me to join him for breakfast. If we had been in Cambridge I’m sure I’d have nervously declined because of my insecurity, but here I dared not refuse, so I thanked him timidly and pulled up a chair at the oak table.

Within moments I felt that I’d known him all my life. In spite of the extent of our previous exchanges being limited to an occasional nod of the head which, I assumed, was his way of expressing his satisfaction with my work, we discussed literature, poetry, art and the sciences like old friends, and every now and then his blue eyes appeared to smile.

With every passing day our friendship grew, until soon we would not only share breakfast, but long walks through the woods and, often, secret rendezvous in the caves that ran for miles under the Village. And then one beautiful moon-lit evening he finally took my hand in his and kissed me with such a sweet gentleness that I could hardly believe this to be the same man who I’d witness many times crush my fellow inmates like flies.

I recoiled, not through lack of desire; God knows I’d yearned for this moment for so long. In spite of him only ever treating me in the gentlest manner, he terrified me, and I could not – DARED not – accept his advances. I turned and ran deeper and deeper into the woods.

From the sound of the crunching leaves and twigs in my wake, I knew that he was less than a few paces behind me, and for all my efforts to evade him, I realised very quickly that escape was impossible. Inevitably. I turned myself over to him.

“Why did you run?” he enquired in a pained tone – his blue eyes filled with sadness. “You must know I would never hurt you.” I did not. I could never be sure that he was not spinning some deceitful, cruel web to entrap me, at which he’d cast me aside for his sport. Ever so tenderly, he lifted my chin with his long, lithe fingers and drew my eyes to his.

“Can’t you see, I love you”, he breathed softly, his words almost whispered. Though I tried to fight it, I could feel a tear leave my eye which cascaded down my cheek onto his hand. “Please! Please,” I begged, “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me!” And with that, I fell into his arms, where I had once prayed but never dared hope I’d one day be.

of new experiment he’d devised to relieve me of the information I supposedly carried in my head? How would I ever know? How could I ever trust him? Love him?

He held me so close to him that I could feel his heart beating against my cheek. I shook uncontrollably with such a terror than I had never known. This man wielded the power of life and death over me; he could crush me, destroy me, tear my heart from me and walk away without so much as a backward glance and yet I was prepared to yield without protest. I was totally within his power, both emotionally and physically. ‘Why would I need to give him my heart and my soul when he could just take them whenever he chose?’ Did he truly want me or was this some kind of new experiment he’d devised to relieve me of the information I supposedly carried in my head? How would I ever know? How could I ever trust him? Love him?

We stood together, motionless – I, almost ridged with fear; he, taking short, shallow breaths.

As the night began to draw in and the smell of damp earth filled my nostrils, I finally raised my head from his chest where it had been resting and looked deep into his eyes. “I had a dream all those years ago when we were in Cambridge,” I said quietly, “that one day God would allow me to be with you, although I knew it was a foolish dream. How could someone like you love someone like me? I’m nothing – less than nothing – especially in this place. Here, you are more powerful than God himself. Please be careful with my dream.”

___________________________

On the morning of the following day, I woke with him for the very first time – our bodies still entwined as in the moment that we’d had fallen into our slumber. I’d enjoyed the most peaceful, serine sleep of my life and for the first time, I felt that as long as I was with him, nothing and no-one could ever hurt me.

As on every morning for the past two months, we shared breakfast in his rooms. I’d then wrap his college scarf around his neck and kiss him passionately. He’d go off to his duties as Number 2 and I would return to my place within the Village system. But today, unlike most other days, I breezed through my duties safe in the knowledge that when all my fellow inmates were back in their ‘cells’ for the night following curfew, I’d be with HIM.

___________________________

As the weeks and months rolled on, we began to find it increasingly difficult to devise ways to conduct our relationship without putting wise the ever-vigilant Village Guardians. We’d arrange to meet quite by accident in the Village tea rooms and had both, quite by coincidence of course, enrolled at the same art class held at the Recreation Hall twice weekly.

But then came the news we’d both dreaded. A message arrived from a higher place that a “new” Number 2 had been appointed to take charge of the Village at the end of the month: “Preparations should be made for the switchover.” He broke the news to me as we walked along a stretch of beach close to the lighthouse at the eastern-most tip of the Village perimeter. I was devastated, and almost inevitably, the tears began to flow. ‘How could I go on here without him? How could I face another day in this God-forsaken place when he’d gone?’

“My darling,” he began in an attempt to console me. “Whatever it takes, I will find a way to come back to you – I swear!”.

I drank from his sweet lips as if I were a dying man in a desert who’d at last been given water, and I held him so tight that I felt I might’ve crushed him. Though I dared not let go for fear of never holding him again, I was shattered. Totally. Completely. All I could see before me was a lifetime of never knowing where he was or if I would ever see him again.

For several days we only able to see each other in passing as, for one reason or another, we’d both been preoccupied with preparing for the arrival of the new Number 2. It was during this time that another spectre arose: I was pregnant.

___________________________

It seemed almost an eternity before we we’re able to find a reason for us to be alone together again, and only then for the briefest moment. He finally sent for me under the pretext of a reprimand for shoddy work. When I arrived at the Green Dome I found his lunch guest, No.96 – a fellow Guardian – just preparing to leave; we passed each other in the grand hallway without so much as a glance. I eagerly told him my news.

For the very first time I saw fear in hiseyes as he digested my words. His initial reaction was to walk out onto the balcony where he stood transfixed; peering down on the hustle and bustle of daily life in the Village below. After what seemed like an age, he finally turned and strode cautiously to a large metal filing cabinet and took out a bound file inscribed starkly with the legend, ‘Sterilization Project’. At that very second there was a buzz at the door which prompted him to slip the volume into a briefcase. “Come!” he barked. The door slid open and in stepped No.12 – the Grocer who I’d always suspected was a Guardian. He looked at me shiftily.

As the case was handed to me he brushed my hand with his finger, then said sternly: “And make sure you take it to the clerk right away!” I nodded and left – the Grocer’s eyes boring into my back as I walked towards the door. I’d delivered such cases before for various No. 2’s, but once outside the Dome I quickly realised that this one had intentionally been left unlocked. Once safely inside my accommodations, I discovered that the document was an inventory of all the men   that had been brought to the Village over the past 20 years – every one of whom had been sterilized on arrival. I immediately realised what this mean for both of us.

“But why?” I asked when, some days later, I found an appropriate opportunity to return the file.

“To avoid this kind of thing; to discourage relationships such as ours. It disrupts the status quo, you see. It complicates matters.”

“Then how…?”

“…Oh, it doesn’t include Guardian’s” he interjected. “Just Prisoners. Did you never wonder why there are no children in the Village?” I had but had never thought to question it. Afterall, I’d been taught from the moment I arrived there that ‘Questions were a burden on others.’

“Then what are we to do,” I asked desperately. Even now I half expected some mad scientist or member of the Village authorities to suddenly emerge from his or her hiding place to congratulate themselves on the success of their latest experiment. Mercifully, that didn’t happen, Instead, the once confident man to whom I’d given myself, body and soul, stood before me like a lost child toying with the shooting stick he’d often wielded like a sceptre.

“Do you love me?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yes,” I replied, taking one step closer to him. “Yes, of course I do!”

“Then we must get out of this place. I can’t leave you here to face this alone.”

“But how?” He held out his arms and ran into them. “I’ll find a way. I promise. “

___________________________

me at the back of the Labour Exchange. I’ll shut down the CCTV system from here. (A pause). I love you.” The line went dead.

Later that evening, my whole being began to fill with utter dread as I heard the familiar whir of helicopter blades that announced the arrival of the new Number 2 who would take up residence in the Green Dome. I leapt from my bed and threw open the window from where I could see a dim light breaking from his window.

The sudden unexpected shrill of the telephone caused me to jump. Cautiously, I picked up the receiver to hear a familiar voice. “We must go NOW!” it said. “Get whatever food you can and meet me at the back of the Labour Exchange. I’ll shut down the CCTV system from here. (A pause). I love you.” The line went dead.

I grabbed some clothes and a few provisions; a packet of biscuits and some fruit and I ran the short distance between my residence to the Bureau as quickly but cautiously as I was able. Though I’d managed to elude the ever-vigilant searchlight from the watch tower, my only fear now was that the thumping of my heart would give me away to one of the many patrols that weaved through the Village streets after Curfew.

He was already waiting for me at the rear entrance of L-Shaped building when I arrived, and after taking my hand firmly in his, we stooped to avoid the prying beam from the Watch Tower and ran as hard as our legs would take us towards the woods at the eastern edge of the Village.

Taking a small electronic device from his pocket and pointing it at a wire fence that stood guard in a clearing beyond the last trees, which hummed and spit the occasional spark in our direction, we crawled on all-fours beyond the Village parameter and to what I hoped would be freedom. Once outside, we simply ran, until our hearts cracked and legs could take us no further. Our home for the night, it appeared, would be a disused gamekeepers lodge that had nestled unnoticed under the leer of a nearby mountain range. Once inside, we hungrily ate the biscuits and melted icicles to ease our thirst – knowing all too well that the Village authorities would soon be on our heels.

We drifted into an exhausted sleep.

___________________________

A cold, icy blast brought us suddenly to our senses the next morning. Still wrapped in each other’s arms, we peered through a broken window across the vast expanse of snowy mountains. It was then that we heard the voices.

Quickly, I darted towards the door of the hut and, fumbling with frozen fingers, managed to untie the piece of rope that had kept it in place against the biting gale that had raged outside the previous night. I scrambled back to him on all fours as the voices grew increasingly louder. I immediately began to wrap the rope around my left wrist, and then putting both my hands behind my back, tuned to him: “Tie it. For God’s sake…”

For a moment I saw all the sorrow of the world in his eyes. A tear fell onto his cheek, rolled slowly down his finely chiselled features and fell gently onto the dusty wooden floor of the hut. Taking his hand in mine I told him that this,was the only way. One day he would have left the Village and never returned. Without him my life; my existence in that place would have been unbearable. At least this way we were able to spend at least one night of freedom together.

Without so much as uttering another word we just knew inside everything that needed to be said; from one heart to another – from my soul to his. Again, I offered him my partially bound wrists. He took the ends of the ropes between his slender fingers and pulled them tight.

___________________________

“…WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS…..” Silence.

Through the haze of pain, I saw a masked figure make its way slowly towards me carrying a tray. On it lay a syringe. A gloved hand caressed it with its fingers while, from behind, someone placed a strap around my right arm and pulled it tight until my own fingers lost all feeling. The masked figure leaned towards me, the syringe in hand.

And then, through this agonising assault, I heard his voice as he took the syringe from the gloved hand: “This one is mine!” he said firmly. He must’ve known that I would want it to be him and not some faceless “thing” to take my life.

Ever so gently he brushed the sweat and blood-soaked hair from my eyes and lifted my head so that I might look at him just one last time. I thought of the life that we might have had together with our child.

“I love you!” I thought.

“I know!” he replied.

---

© Copyright The Hellfire Club: The OFFICIAL PETER WYNGARDE Appreciation Society: https://www.facebook.com/groups/813997125389790/