Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

The prisoner looked at the latest arrangement of scratches on the wall, counted four and then drew a diagonal line through them. He stepped back and admired his handiwork. The entire wall in front of him was now covered, and a visitor who didn’t know better might imagine that he’d been there for years. The truth was more mundane. He just liked drawing gates.

He sat down again on the cold granite and sighed. This was getting boring. He was almost beginning to look forward to the probing sessions, because at least you got to talk to someone, even if the conversation was not greatly diverting. He wondered what it was like outside. The only light he got was from a small window high up near the ceiling, and the temperature was uniformly cold day and night. At least they’d given him a blanket to wrap round himself now, even if it did smell strongly of horse.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of singing, far off beyond the opposite wall. He raced over and pressed his ear against the stone. He could just make out the words:

My Master has a ding-a-ling-a-ling

and he plays with it all day long

“Hey!” he shouted, slapping his hand against the wall. The voice stopped immediately. “Who goes there?” he said, slapping the wall again. There was silence for several seconds and then the voice started up once more:

I wish I had a ding-a-ling-a-ling

but he says it would be wrong

It was a young girl’s voice, tuneful and lilting. The prisoner found it uplifting and tantalising at the same time. He slapped the wall again.

“Hey! Speak to me, stranger!” he shouted. “’Tis a pretty tune you sing, young maiden, but I would much rather have discourse with you.”

There was another long silence.

“Please?” he said. He heard the sound of footsteps approaching the other side of the wall.

“Who goes there?” came the voice. “Do you intend to probe me, sir?”

“No, madam. Sadly, I am the probee in these parts.”

“Ah, so you are a fellow prisoner, then.”

“I am indeed.”

There was a brief pause.

“May I enquire as to who you are?” said the girl. “Do you even know your name?”

The man sighed. “No, I fear I do not.”

“Ah. ’Tis the same with me. I fear my mind may have been befuddled. I remember nothing that happened before the day I arrived here.”

“And yet your voice … your voice … it reminds me of someone I used to know.”

“Really? How nice. I wonder who that was.”

“Yes, I wonder too.”

There was another silence, longer this time.

“Do you think they’ll ever let us out of this dreadful place?” said the girl.

“I don’t know. Perhaps there are yet friends of ours striving to set us free. Surely we must have had friends … once?”

“I am sure we must. We must have had friends. Everyone has friends. Even – ” And then it seemed that the effort of trying to keep her spirits up finally failed the girl, because all the man could hear now was sobbing.

“No, please don’t start weeping my dear – ”

“It’s … it’s all right. I merely have a mote of dust in my eye. Look! I rub my eye and blink once then ’tis clear.” She paused. “You are right, sir. We must be steadfast. We must dream of freedom. Close your eyes. Draw back the curtain – ”

“Curtain? I am not so certain about that – ”

“It scarcely matters, sir. Any dream will do.”