by Kim Curran
I’m almost hoping they’ll lock me up.
Large glass doors hiss open as we approach and inside everything is quiet. More like a hospital than the loud police station I had imagined. There are no hookers or pimps screaming at each other. No tramps proclaiming their innocence. I’m a little disappointed.
Detective Lee swaps a few brief words with a policeman behind the large reception desk, tells the policewoman who’s accompanied us that ‘he’s got this’ and then leads us through a set of double doors at the back. What noise there was in the main area is now totally silenced. My trainers squeak loudly on the polished floors. Zizi scowls at me, like I can shut them up.
She mutters the whole way about civil liberties. Lee ignores her, which annoys her even more. Despite myself, I kind of like him.
He stops in front of a door and punches a six-figure number into the pass lock: 538873. I start looking for patterns in the number. Dates, codes, words. The only meaning I can ascribe is that as a simple letter cipher it would mean ‘kettle’. But it’s probably only a random number. He opens the door and steps aside.
It looks more waiting room than interrogation room. There are two low sofas facing each other either side of a glass coffee table. There are even mugs on the table. Lee nods for us to take a seat. He tidies the mugs, which clank together in his hand, and places them in a sink.
I take a seat and, after dusting crumbs off the cushion, so does Zizi. She’s chewing on the skin around her nails. They’re painted bright green today, although they’ve started to grow out a little and she’ll need to have them redone soon.
Lee eases himself onto the sofa opposite us. ‘You might be wondering how we tracked you down.’
‘Not really,’ I say. ‘You have surveillance everywhere.’
Lee looks a little unsettled. ‘Well, we didn’t need any surveillance, Miss Quinn. Your friend Ryan McManus gave us your name. But rest assured we would have found you anyway.’
I can’t hold back the small gasp of shock. ‘You caught Ryan?’
‘We let him off with a warning 30 minutes ago. He hadn’t done anything wrong.’
‘Then why exactly have you dragged my daughter in here?’
Lee slides over a slim tab. The latest graphene model, I notice. Looks like WhiteInc has been helping the police out in more ways than one. With the lightest of touches he brings the screen to life. A grainy image appears. It’s a crowd of people, holding placards and chanting. Lee taps the screen and the picture zooms in. I recognise some of people: Ryan, Karl, Kiara, me. It’s footage of the protest earlier filmed from a high vantage point. A drone or a satellite, I’m not sure.
Hooded figures press through the crowds. Where their faces should be are grey smudges, like someone has wiped a thumb over the screen. Now I understand what their silver scarves were for: anti-surveillance.
‘Those are the guys you should be arresting. Not me,’ I say.
Detective Lee smiles and the volume on the tab goes up.
A distorted voice plays out of the tiny speakers.
‘Yeah, let’s all throw stuff. That’s how you bring about change. That’s how you stick it to the man!’
I barely recognise my own voice. The screen pauses as the image of me goes to throw something into the crowd. I have one hand stretched out in front of me, the other poised to release my missile. I look like that Banksy painting in the Tate.
‘Do you know what the punishments are for inciting violence?’
I laugh, leaning back in my chair. This has to be some sort of test or something. He can’t be serious. I look at his face. He looks very, very serious.
‘I wasn’t inciting anything. I was being sarcastic!’ I say, leaning forward.
‘It didn’t sound sarcastic. And straight after you incited the crowd, this happened.’
The image plays again as the boys in black start hurling bottles down into the crowd and everyone starts screaming.
‘No, you’ve edited that. That’s not what happened. I didn’t tell them to start.’
‘Well, Miss Quinn, that’s certainly how it looks. So tell me, what do you know about these anarchists?’
‘The kids in the masks? I have no idea.’
‘They are members of the NF. What can you tell me about your involvement with them?’
Zizi’s intake of breath when he says those two letters scares me more than anything so far.
‘Zizi, this is crap, you can see that, can’t you? I don’t even know who or what the NF are!’
Her face is paler than usual as she watches the riot play out on the small screen. ‘Oh, Petri, didn’t I tell you that violence is never the answer.’
‘Petri’s had issues with violence in the past?’ Lee says.
‘What? Hang on, no.’
‘Ah yes, I see. Three reports of fighting at school.’
‘That’s private information, you can’t use that!’ I shout, waving my hand in front of his face disrupt his feed. It makes no difference.
‘All state schools operate an information sharing policy. I have all your files here, Petri. And it doesn’t look good.’
‘I told you I should have gone to a private school,’ I snap, staring at Zizi. ‘But, oh, no, you wanted me to get a real education! In the real world.’ I make ironic air quotes around the word ‘real’. I never wanted to go to a private school either. But I’m choosing to ignore that right now.
‘You can’t make this about me?’ Zizi says, holding her hand to her heart, all Hollywood diva.
‘Why not? You’ve made everything else in my life about you!’
Lee interrupts before things get too out of hand. ‘My superiors want me to press charges.’
‘Surely that won’t be necessary,’ Zizi says, all sweet and smooth—the voice I’ve heard her use with her fellow directors, right before she starts screaming. ‘My daughter isn’t a danger to society. She got carried away in the heat of the moment.’
‘I didn’t get carried away in the heat of anything!’ I say. ‘It was a joke! A joke! Why can’t you see that?’
The image has zoomed in even further and the clip plays on loop. My face is bright red and spittle sprays out of my mouth. I look like a crazy person.
I drop my face into my hands and let out a groan of frustration.
‘Well, that’s as maybe, but our actions do have consequences. I hope you can see that, young lady.’
I glare up at him from between my fingers.
‘Look, as this is your first offence—’
There’s a knock on the door. Whoever’s on the other side doesn’t wait to be called in. They throw open the door like they belong here.
I’m expecting to see Zizi’s lawyer, when…
‘Max!’ Zizi gasps. ‘What are you doing here?’ She looks confused. Angry even.
I don’t care. Relief washes over me like a warm breeze. Max has that effect on me. On everyone really. Whenever he walks into a room it gets instantly calmer, happier. And not only because he’s the creator and CEO of Glaze, but because there’s something about him that makes people feel good about themselves. The way, when he talks to you, he makes it feel like he’s really listening. When I was younger, he was the only adult I knew that didn’t treat me like an idiot. Who didn’t make me feel like I was in the way.
He’s wearing his usual grey shirt, grey suit with a red handkerchief poking out of the top pocket. No tie though; the only sign that he’s been on a transatlantic flight. He doesn’t even look tired. Although his greying stubble does look a little less designer than usual.
I look behind him, expecting to see the gaggle of staff that follow him everywhere these days. But he’s alone. I must be in even more trouble than I thought.
‘Detective Lee,’ Max says, approaching the policeman, his leather-gloved hand outstretched.
Lee stands up, curling the tab into a tight tube. ‘How did you get in here?’
‘I’m Maxwell White,’ Max says, by way of explanation. It’s the only ex
planation he ever needs.
‘Yes, I know who you are,’ Lee says, his voice icy cold. ‘Everyone in the world knows who you are, Mr White.’
‘Well then,’ Max says, slapping Lee on the shoulder with his gloved hand. The detective flinches as if Max’s touch is toxic.
If Max notices Lee’s obvious hatred he doesn’t react. Instead, he turns to me. ‘Petri, what have you been doing to worry your mother so?’
Zizi stands up and kisses Max on both cheeks, her lips never touching his skin. Max has a thing about germs. ‘How was the flight from Guatemala?’ she says, eyeing him coldly. Whatever they fell out about, it was big.
‘Long.’
‘And my lawyer told you about what was going on, I assume? Remind me to fire her.’
Max laughed. ‘And what has been going on?’
‘It’s nothing I can’t handle,’ she says, fiddling with her coat collar. ‘Nonsense cooked up by the police.’ She faces Lee while continuing to talk to Max. ‘You know how they’re always looking for some white, middle-class scapegoats to blame to hide their institutional racism. Couldn’t have them blaming Ryan McManus, the boy who organised the riot—’
‘Protest, Zizi,’ I interrupt. The knowledge that it was Ryan who gave me up turns in my stomach like a worm. ‘Ryan organised a protest,’ I finish lamely.
‘Either way, they couldn’t arrest an articulate, intelligent mixed-race boy, now could they? Not when they have the Investigation for Racial Imbalance breathing down their necks,’ Zizi finishes triumphantly.
I don’t follow her logic. They’re not going to arrest Ryan because he’s black because they’re racist? I don’t bother to try to work her out. I can only follow what she’s on about half of the time.
‘I’m sure the police are doing their jobs to the best of their abilities with the information available to them, isn’t that right, Detective Lee?’ Max says.
Lee doesn’t answer. He licks his lips slowly, and smacks them together.
‘Although, I am interested to know why a member of the Police Central eCrime Unit is investigating a protest?’
‘You’re with the eCrime Unit?’ Zizi says, the ice in her voice melting a fraction.
‘We have reason to believe that the NF are behind a series of high-level hacks. I would have thought that as a director of a multinational corporation,’ Lee says, playing Zizi’s own words back at her, ‘you would care about such things.’
He was right. Zizi did care. Only last month she’d ranted about how when she’d been a hacker they used to believe in something. About how they used to have manifestos and consciences. But now all they wanted to do was wreak havoc. She hadn’t been impressed when I asked what her old hacker buddies thought of her selling out and working for their biggest target. Glaze was the hacker’s holy grail after all.
‘Why should we?’ Max says, stepping in front of Zizi. ‘Glaze is hacker proof. Now, if we can return to the issue at hand. The attempt to taser a minor, simply because she didn’t appear on your register... Well, that is not what we had in mind when we agreed to your request for assistance in this operation.’
So that’s why WhiteShield were there. The police had needed their help.
‘Our request?’ Lee says, his eyebrows practically jumping off his forehead. ‘The way I heard it, it was WhiteInc who stuck their noses in. Now why was that?’
Max waves the allegation away. ‘Yet again, Detective Lee, you aren’t in possession of all the facts. Decisions like this get made way above your pay grade.’ And Max says it with exactly the right touch of disinterested superiority to suggest that every decision is made way above Lee’s pay grade. ‘Now, back to the issue at hand. While I appreciate all the fine work the Metropolitan Police Force does, it does concern me that your people can’t tell the difference between a dangerous criminal undermining society and a girl who isn’t old enough to be chipped. Perhaps if the Met agreed to full integration with the Glaze network everyone would be working with the correct data … ’ He leaves the sentence hanging.
‘So everyone in the force could all be bombarded with useless information 24/7? We’re fine with the limited access we have, thanks.’ Lee’s hands clench around the rolled up tab.
‘Apparently not,’ Max says, nodding his head towards me. ‘Now, I really hope I don’t have to get a company lawyer...’ He leaves the sentence hanging again. WhiteInc employs the best and meanest litigation lawyers in the country. Max makes sure of it.
Lee pats the tab against his leg, his knuckles white. Max has him rattled and he knows it.
‘Right, Petri,’ Max says, turning away from the detective. ‘Look at me and tell me the truth. Are you a revolutionary bent on bringing down the social order?’
I stand up and look him squarely in the eyes. Max says the eyes never lie. That to look a person in the face and lie goes against all that we are. Which is why he always insists on doing business face-to-face.
‘I’m not a revolutionary,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to bring down anything. The only thing I want is to go home.’
‘That’s good enough for me.’ He turns to look back at Lee. ‘Detective? Will that be all?’
The two men stare at each other. Max is taller than Lee, but he doesn’t have the detective’s bulk or youth. Not that it’s going to come down to a physical fight.
‘Do you think you’re above the law, Mr White?’ Lee says, the tendons in his jaw flinching.
Max pauses for the longest time, an amused expression playing about his face. ‘Not above it, no.’
‘Oh, so it doesn’t apply to people like you? Talk about the entitlement of privilege. Well let me tell you, Mr White…’
‘Do you know the true meaning of the word “privilege”, Detective Lee?’ Max says, cutting Lee off.
The detective hesitates, confused by this curveball.
‘I didn’t think so. So few people have a classical education these days. Maybe you should look it up. Petri, let’s go.’
I stand up, programmed to follow Max’s instructions.
‘Stay right there,’ Lee snaps, and my knees bend. Calmness returns to Lee’s expression. He turns to me. ‘Petri Quinn, in accordance with section 29B of the Criminal Justice Act 2017, I am hereby issuing you with a civil disobedience order.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Max snorts. He grabs hold of my arm, his leather glove creaking.
Lee ignores him. ‘Now, we have a choice,’ he says, turning to Zizi. ‘We can remand Petri in custody until such a time as she can have a court hearing, which, given how swamped we are since the events of this afternoon, might be a week, maybe two. Or we can fit her with a blank now and you can all go home.’
‘What’s a blank?’ I say. ‘What does he mean?’
Zizi breathes in, the air whistling through her tight lips. I can hear Max’s teeth grinding from here.
‘A blank chip?’ Zizi eyes gloss over, accessing data. Why will no one tell me what they’re talking about?
Lee takes pity on me and explains. ‘It’s a simple procedure that negates the need for any sentencing. It means we can track you, monitor your activity, but … ’ and Lee turns back to Max. ‘It will mean a five year ban from Glaze.’
‘Hang on,’ I say looking from Max to the Detective. ‘You can’t ban me. I’m not even on yet.’
Zizi chews her finger, looking from Max to Lee and back to Max. Max stares at the door. No one looks at me.
‘So,’ Lee says. ‘What will it be?’
5
SHAKING, I FOLLOW LEE out of the room. My head feels like someone’s filled it with concrete; heavy and dense. The pounding rush of blood in my ears is so loud I can’t hear what Zizi is saying, only see her lips moving. I turn away, unable to even look at her.
I begged her to let us contest this, to get Max to set his super-lawyers on the police, screamed about the injustice of it all. But she ignored me. Max tried reasoning with her too. He kept saying he could fix this. That she wasn’t to take her problem wi
th him out on me. Zizi countered by saying it had nothing to do with him and it was her decision, not his.
‘You’re right,’ Max had said, his voice smooth as marble. ‘You are her mother. So why don’t you act like it for once?’
That had only served to make her mind up. ‘Do it,’ Zizi said to Lee. ‘Do it now.’
Now, Max has given up trying and looks distracted, as if I’m eating into his precious time. Which I guess I am. He’s busy checking his feed and, if I know him, already back to business.
Zizi is talking to me, trying to explain I guess. All I hear is white noise.
Lee ignores them both as he strides down the corridor. Leading me to my fate. He stops in front of a door, punches in a new set of numbers, which I don’t even have the energy to register, and stands aside. What choice do I have? I walk in.
Zizi tries to follow us, but Lee stops her with a raised hand. Her face crumples as the door swings closed. Locking her and Max on the other side.
Lee turns to me. He smiles, kindly, like a nurse about to give an injection, like whatever he’s about to do may hurt, but it will be for my own good.
He says something, but I still can’t hear, and points behind me.
I turn around.
I know what the official chipping shops are like. I went with Kiara when she got hers done. The shop was a glowing beacon of white, impossible to miss as soon as we walked into the shopping centre. Up on the third floor spilling light and loud music into the soulless atrium. It called to me like a Siren.
We had to queue for three hours for Kiara to get her turn in one of the four chipping docks—large leather chairs that looked more like something out of an old-fashioned barbers, all white leather and chrome. There was a hole in the headrest to give the operator access to the back of the head. I watched as Kiara sat down and laid her head against the padded rest. The operator, wearing a pale blue t-shirt with the Glaze logo—three overlapping triangles—emblazoned on his chest, brushed aside her hair and placed the gun at the base of her skull. There was a hiss of compressed air, a dull thunk, and that was it. Kiara was chipped.
