by John Marrs
...
4. Foo Fighters
“Long Road to Ruin”
...
5. Roxette
“Crash! Boom! Bang!”
...
Libby did not appreciate the flippancy with which Cadman referred to the Passengers.
“We have yet to discuss it properly,” she said. “And I wouldn’t know where to start. It’s impossible.”
Cadman shrugged. “Bringing the dead back to life, travelling at the speed of light, standing at a supermarket checkout and not looking at what the person in front of you has put on the conveyer belt—they are impossible things. Voting for someone to die whom you’ve never met? Not so impossible. And the public is already lapping up the opportunity to have its say.”
“Who in their right mind would want to send someone to their death?”
Cadman read the tablet he held. “Approximately two hundred thousand people so far—and that’s based only on what’s trending on Twitter.”
“I don’t understand. Two hundred thousand people are doing what so far?” asked Libby.
Cadman turned to his team. “Am I going to have to spell everything out to them?” He sighed. “Of the million Twitter mentions of the hijacking, at least two hundred thousand of them have hashtagged the name of a Passenger they’d most like to see dead.”
“How can they be so quick to judge?” asked Muriel. “They know as much about the Passengers as we do. You can’t make a decision based on so little.”
“Wars have been started, fought, and won on less detail,” Cadman replied.
“Muriel is correct,” the Hacker began, and a hush befell the room. “People are voting purely on the basis of what they have seen and little else—much like how decisions are made in your inquests.” Libby was the only juror not to look sheepish. “Your process is biased and unfair,” the Hacker continued. “I would like to make my process fairer.” He paused.
“Is he always this dramatic?” Cadman whispered.
“He’s waiting for us to ask how,” said Libby.
“Ooh, mind games. I’ll bite. How, Mr. Hacker?”
“Let’s find out a little bit more about our Passengers, shall we?” the Hacker replied. “Please turn your attention to the wall.”
Libby watched as some screens blanked and others rotated so that just eight remained. Seven contained one Passenger, and the last showed footage of firefighters dampening the blaze of Victor Patterson’s taxi. It was a stark reminder of what the Hacker was capable of.
“Let’s begin with Passenger number one. Claire Arden is a twenty-six-year-old teaching assistant at a school for children with special needs. She is married to husband Benjamin and seven months pregnant with their first child.” Libby’s heart broke for the red-eyed woman, tears streaming down her face and clutching her stomach. And when #killclaire appeared in the corner of the screen, it nauseated Libby.
“In vehicle number two, we have Bilquis Hamila, forty-six, who arrived in this country two years ago from Somalia, claiming political asylum. She is widowed and has a daughter back home whom she hopes to bring to the UK. Her application to become a British citizen has already been refused by the Home Office, and she is currently midway through the appeals process.”
In her nursing career, Libby had worked with refugees, foreign nationals, and asylum seekers. So she was no stranger to hearing the horrors inflicted on a person by war and torture and seeing how regularly it manifested itself with psychoses, depression, and PTSD. She wondered how much Bilquis had suffered to make her flee her country and leave her child behind.
“Our third Passenger, you might recognise. It’s actress Sofia Bradbury, seventy-eight, a star of stage and screen for seven decades. She is married to husband Patrick, they are childless, and she has dedicated much of her spare time to raising millions of pounds for children’s charities and hospitals.” To everyone’s surprise, Sofia gave the camera a smile and a wave.
When Passenger four’s face filled the screen, Libby’s heart raced again. “Jude Harrison is twenty-nine years old, a former computer programmer for a car manufacturing company. He has no partner, no dependents, and is currently unemployed. He is also presently homeless and living out of his car.”
Libby drew in a long breath, the homeless part of his description having come out of the blue. She noted Jude’s eyes shifting away from his camera, embarrassed. What had happened to him in their time apart that caused him to live in his vehicle? This time, she looked beyond him and spotted empty pizza boxes and fast-food cartons next to a rucksack, all spread out across the seats behind him. For the first time, she noticed a sadness in Jude that ran deeper than his current circumstances. She had seen the same look before in her brother Nicky’s eyes.
“Passengers five and six are husband and wife Samuel and Heidi Cole, both forty years of age,” the Hacker continued. “They are parents to children Beccy and James, aged nine and eight. They have been married for ten years. Sam runs a refurbishment and construction company, while Heidi is a police officer in the Bedfordshire constabulary.” Libby’s heart went out to their children, and she hoped they had been shielded from what was being broadcast. The couple appeared equally anxious. She couldn’t decide if having your partner trapped in the same life-or-death situation as you would be a comfort or more stressful.
“And finally, Passenger number seven is Shabana Khartri, thirty-eight, a stay-at-home mother of five who is married to husband Vihaan, an alleged people trafficker. She moved to the UK when she married at eighteen and has lived here ever since. She has never worked and does not speak English.”
How much does she understand about what’s happening around her? Libby asked herself. By the way she wrung her hands and kept her eyes tightly shut, Libby assumed Shabana was only too aware that she was caught up in something awful.
“Now, jurors,” the Hacker continued. “Without discussing your decision with your colleagues and based only upon the information I have presented to you, it is decision time. One by one, please tell me which Passenger you are choosing to send to their death.”
CHAPTER 24
#EnglishBeforeImmigrants—251,098 tweets
#WeHateThe8—167,918 tweets
#KillThemAll—104,221 tweets
#SaveThemAll—12,001 tweets
#SendingPositiveVibes—2,566 tweets
Libby turned her head towards the rest of the jurors. By their blank expressions, nobody else appeared to know how to respond to the Hacker’s request for the name of a Passenger to send to their death. She cleared her throat to speak first.
“You’ve only given us an outline of these people; that’s not who they are,” she began. “You can’t expect us to decide who should die based on a pencil portrait.”
“I think you’ll find that I can and that I just have,” the Hacker replied. “Now who would like to go first?”
Libby gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “No, I am not participating. You might have the Passengers under your control, but you don’t have me.”
“Do I really need to remind you of what happens when you don’t do as I ask, Libby? Thanks to Jack, there are pieces of Victor Patterson still falling from the skies. I have no hesitation in re-enacting that moment with the aid of your friend Jude. So, I’ll ask you again. Who would you like to pick first?”
“Number two—Bilquis,” said Jack, taking the room by surprise. He folded his arms defiantly. “Well, someone had to get this charade moving,” he added. He fixed his gaze on Muriel as if to cajole her into a decision.
“It is with a heavy heart that I choose Bilquis too,” said Muriel quietly.
“Bilquis,” repeated Matthew.
“Bilquis,” said Fiona.
Libby wat
ched the screen as a helpless Bilquis covered her mouth and wept.
“And you, Libby?” the Hacker asked.
She looked at each Passenger in turn, but there was not one candidate who deserved to live or die more than another. It didn’t matter whom she picked as neither she nor the public vote would make up the majority. Bilquis had already been handed a death sentence, so she chose the person with the least number of years ahead of them.
“Sofia,” she said, and like the other jurors, she couldn’t bring herself to look up at the face of the person she’d picked.
“Thank you,” said the Hacker. “It doesn’t take a statistician to point out that it’s an almost unanimous decision, but, Cadman, out of interest, could you reveal the results from social media, please?”
Cadman looked to one of his team, who mouthed the word “sent” before Cadman examined his tablet. “My algorithms tell me the Passenger the public would most like to die is the same as the jury’s choice—Bilquis.”
Libby and Matthew were the only jury members whose eyes returned to the wall where Bilquis was now the main image. Gradually, the volume grew louder and louder until her distress and pleas for mercy were impossible to ignore. Muriel clamped her hands over her ears.
“Please,” Bilquis begged. “Please, change your minds . . . I am a good woman, I want to be with my daughter again, let me tell you what I do to help others and you might think diff—”
Before she was allowed to finish her sentence, Bilquis’s car shook violently before a flash of light and flames could be seen racing from the rear and towards her. Within seconds, Bilquis became engulfed in an inferno. Libby was paralysed, unable to move her head or tear her eyes away from what was unfolding as Bilquis’s clothes caught fire. She thrashed around, making agonising noises Libby had never heard another human make. Suddenly a figure appeared in front of Libby so that she could no longer see the screen. Without saying anything, Matthew placed his hands on her shoulders.
“Look at me,” he said. “Look at me.”
Libby’s eyes met his. “Keep looking at me until this is over and I tell you to stop.” More screaming followed, and then the sounds of flames and skin crackling before another explosion and a loss of picture. By the time Matthew let go of Libby, all that remained on the wall was a blank screen.
“I can’t be here, I need to leave,” she exclaimed, rising from her seat and hurrying on shaky legs towards the door. “I need air, I have to go home.” She banged both hands on the door until it opened. Commander Riley and his colleague blocked the door, preventing her escape.
“Please, let me out,” Libby begged. “I can’t stay here any longer and watch more people die.”
“I am sorry, ma’am, but I’m not allowed to let anyone leave the room until the process is complete,” the commander replied. “I have my orders.”
“I don’t care!” Libby shouted, tears streaming down her face. Her breathing was rapid and, once again, she felt as if her skin was close to boiling point. Another panic attack, this time more full-blown than the last, was imminent. She needed cool, fresh air and to feel safe again.
She reached to grab the officer’s broad arm and to pull it to one side. It wouldn’t budge, and in her frustration, she lashed out, clipping him around the head and knocking his earpiece to the floor. In one swift manoeuvre, he grabbed both ends of his gun and used it to push her sharply backwards, where she lost her balance and fell, backside first. She yelped in pain as her coccyx connected with the flagstone floor.
“Social media is not going to like that,” muttered Cadman.
“Do not treat her like that,” snapped Matthew, and squared up to the commander.
“Sit down, please, sir,” Commander Riley ordered. “This building is on complete lockdown. Every street within a one-mile radius has been evacuated, and this building is also being searched for explosive devices. Until either the Hacker is traced or we know how to disable those cars, you will all remain in here.”
He pointed to a news channel that had reappeared on the wall. The jurors recognised the town hall where armed soldiers were redirecting members of the public from behind blue tape. Police cars, ambulances, fire engines, and army bomb disposal units could all be seen. Above the building a swarm of drones competed for airspace.
“We should have just held firm. We shouldn’t have done what he told us to,” said Libby. Matthew stretched out his arm to help her off the floor. She accepted it, and the doors closed behind her.
Once again, the Hacker’s voice came from nowhere. “If that had been your course of action, I would have detonated all vehicles,” he said.
“You’re sick,” Libby replied. “You don’t blow people up to get attention. That’s not how the world works.”
“Have you read the news in the last century? Did Oppenheimer, the IRA, Al-Qaeda, ETA, Hamas, and ISIS pass you by?
“You know what I mean. Ordinary members of society don’t behave in this way. They don’t kill for the sake of it.”
“And neither do I. I kill for a purpose.”
“Which is?”
The Hacker didn’t reply.
“You knew that Bilquis was going to be chosen first—her or Shabana, didn’t you?”
“Why might you assume that?”
“Because you didn’t include anything positive about them. Instead, you emphasised that Shabana didn’t work, she spoke no English, had five children, and her husband’s been accused of people trafficking. And Bilquis was a failed asylum seeker wanting to bring another family member over here. You cherry-picked nuggets of information to encourage us and social media to vote in a particular way.”
“Which is exactly how this jury operates. You make decisions based on the bare minimum of facts. Are you saying it might have made a difference if I’d mentioned her daughter in Somalia has been dead for two years and it’s her ashes Bilquis wanted to bring to Britain? Or that before Bilquis escaped the civil war in her country, she was made to watch her five-year-old child being raped by rebel fighters? Should I have told you that she nursed her daughter as she bled to death in her arms? Perhaps I should have added that despite all this, Bilquis still found the strength to help and pay for fifteen orphaned children to flee Somalia on the same boat as her? If you had been given these facts, would you have allowed her to burn to death?”
Libby’s expression hardened. “You told the people what they wanted to hear to make their decision easier.”
“As with your inquests, the full disclosure can be an inconvenience when a decision needs to be made. Am I wrong, Jack?”
CHAPTER 25
#ShaantiSeAaraamKaren—401,301 tweets
#RIPBilquis—345,988 tweets
#EnglishBeforeImmigrants—253,098 tweets
#SaveThemAll—177,918 tweets
#SendingPositiveVibes—19,566 tweets
What does he mean?” Libby directed to Jack.
“With regards to what?” he replied.
“When he said the truth is an inconvenience. Why was he directing that towards you?”
“I have no idea. Perhaps you should ask him? You two appear to have developed quite the little rapport. A friendly word of advice though—you’d best be careful or people might come to the wrong conclusions.”
His tone was far from friendly and Libby’s eyebrows rose. “Why would you even think that?”
Jack straightened his tie, the corners of his mouth rising to indicate his amusement at having goaded her. “Centre stage suits you, Miss Dixon. When you came into this room, you were a shy little wallflower, and look at you now; you’re like Japanese knotweed, spreading your roots into places they don’t belong and proving quite impossible to restrain. Some might think you’re beginning to enjoy your time in the spotlight.” He looked to the cameras and smiled.
“I thought beneath that façade there just might lie a shred
of decency. But you’re empty, aren’t you?”
Jack’s response was to flick her away with his hand as though he were swatting a fly. “I think you’ll find the many thousands of constituents I tirelessly serve may disagree.”
Muriel interrupted, her expression concerned. “Why hasn’t the Hacker told us where the collision point is?”
Matthew shook his head. “He only tells us what he wants us to know.”
“Is it just me or does anyone else have a horrible feeling he plans to send the cars to this building?”
“That wouldn’t happen because they won’t be permitted access into Birmingham city centre, or any city centre for that matter,” said Jack. “If each of these vehicles is packed with explosives like the Hacker claims, they are unlikely to reach a one-mile radius of an exclusion zone.”
A new camera angle appeared on a screen. Footage came from high above a moving car. Framing the screen were numbers, graphics, and coordinates.
“Hmm,” Cadman began, and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “This is interesting. Apparently, we shouldn’t have access to this.”
“Isn’t it a news channel’s drone?” asked Libby.
“Not according to Reddit. Users say the graphics are military.”
An ominous feeling swept through her. “What’s social media saying about the purpose of these drones?”
“Bear with me,” he replied as he and his team typed key words and phrases into their devices. “Okay, José . . . so, footage of one of the drones was recorded by a regular Passenger and uploaded onto Snapchat seven minutes ago. The consensus is that it’s an unmanned combat aerial vehicle operated by the army . . . and now KnowHow users are claiming it’s an RP 7876V. Said drones are apparently ‘armed and capable of discharging many rounds of ammunition.’”
Libby faced Jack. “Are they going to shoot the Passengers off the roads?”
“Isn’t it obvious? What else do you think they’re going to do? Sit back and watch them blow up in the middle of our cities? You must remove the smallest number possible to save the most. It’s standard warfare technique.”
