GLAZE

by Kim Curran

  The room is flooded with pinpoints of light as people flick on lighters. The guards all have torches on their guns that now dance around the room like fireflies. There’s a crash and the sound of breaking glass. The riots have come to the last polling station in the city. Right on time.

  Bodies pour in through the broken glass. Charlie is at the front, holding a bottle with flaming rag coming out of it. He throws it over the heads of the people and it comes smashing down in a corner. The floor and walls where it landed instantly burst into flames. Shank is behind him, hefting a bottle of his own, his eyes crazy and wide. The boys from T-Raz along with their friends have come to join the party.

  I turn back to Max, who’s watching this all happen with his mouth hanging open.

  ‘No,’ he says, so quietly I can hardly hear it. ‘No.’

  People are screaming, panicking. The boys are chanting and running around shouting into people’s faces. It’s all meant to cause fear without any harm, but I can already see, in the flickering light from the fire, that people are getting hurt, falling over in their desperation to get away, stampeding over each other.

  I’m momentarily blinded as the electricity goes back on. We all are.

  It looks even worse in the light. The terror, the blood pouring from cuts. Only Max looks unafraid.

  ‘Stay calm!’ he shouts again. Only this time his order takes hold. People stop screaming and running and freeze where they are.

  The rioters knew that the lights coming back would be their signal to get out. But they’re too caught up in the moment. They’re tearing down paintings, turning over tables, smashing full bottles of champagne against the walls. The guards descend and there’s a crack of gunfire.

  Two boys are blasted off their feet. The rest run, leaping over turned tables, pushing past the statue guests, and head back out onto the street. There’s a second crack of gunfire and another boy goes down. I can’t be sure, not with the scarf covering his face, but I think it is Shank. He still has a bottle in his hand.

  ‘Stop it!’ I scream at Max. ‘Stop it.’

  Max looks down at me and smiles. Smiles like he was giving me a present for my birthday. ‘No.’

  There’s another deafening burst of gunfire from the guards. Followed by a roar so deep I wonder if there’s a dog in the room.

  Ethan launches himself at Max and the two tumble to the floor. They roll over and over, each one trying to get on top. Max is taller but Ethan is broader. His youth and years of working out in prison has given him strength Max will never have. Ethan flips Max on to his back and climbs on top of him. He has one hand around his neck and with the other he’s pounding his fist into Max’s face. I flinch with each blow Ethan lands.

  ‘Ethan! Ethan, don’t!’ I pull him off Max and hold his face in my hands. It’s wet from his tears. ‘It’s over, Ethan,’ I say, pressing my forehead against his, willing his anger and pain to fall away. He’s shaking so hard his teeth rattle. ‘It’s finished. He’s finished.’

  Ethan shrugs his torn hoodie back on to his shoulders and stands up. He wipes his nose with the back of one hand and takes mine in his other.

  Max smiles up from the floor, wiping blood from his twisted mouth. ‘Finished, what are you on about, girl?’

  I look across the room, at the still bodies on the floor and the frozen guests still standing. ‘You’re right, you know? I don’t want to be alone. I want to be happy. To belong. I see that now.’

  Max gets to his feet, spits blood, brushes dust off his jacket. ‘You have no idea how happy I am to hear this, Petri.’

  ‘The only problem is, what I want doesn’t matter any more. It never did.’

  The tiniest flicker of uncertainty passes across his face as he dabs at his cut lip with his red silk handkerchief.

  ‘What people want isn’t important. What they need is.’

  ‘And what do they need, do you think?’ Max says.

  ‘To be left alone. To find their own way.’ He rolls his eyes at this. But I ignore him and push on. ‘I spoke to Zizi. She told me about the back door.’

  He swallows. ‘And what of it?’

  ‘You’ve just helped us access it.’

  He looks up from his handkerchief to me. ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘That data card I gave you had everything Logan found plus a little something extra. A virus Zizi helped design.’ I point at table, where the data from Logan’s files have reloaded.

  He snorts. ‘Don’t be silly. Glaze has the gold standard in virus protection. It’s impenetrable.’

  ‘Not when switched off it isn’t. And your firewall wasn’t programmed to reboot after a power cut. We made sure of that. Right now, a kill command is being issued across the network. Every chip, in every head, is being wiped clean.’

  His eyes flash as he checks his feed. Then he looks to the guests around us. Some are scratching their heads and blinking, as if trying to remember where they left something. When his eyes meet mine, he knows. No more lies.

  ‘What people do with the technology, that’s up to them now. They can build a new network on their terms or leave them blank. It’s open source now. No single person in control. But whatever they do, the last message they’ll see before it all goes blank, is you, telling them all what you really think of them.’

  I press an image on the table and a video starts playing on every screen in the room.

  The video shows Max’s office from the angle of a security camera. He is sitting at his desk and looks up as a man in grey enters. ‘Take a seat, Prime Minister,’ he says.

  ‘Very funny, White. I’m not Prime Minister yet.’

  ‘It’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Can you do it? The election?’

  ‘Of course I can. The masses are too easy to manipulate. Too stupid to see what’s happening. And the best part, they’ll thank us for it. So yes, the election is yours. The question is, what will you give me in return?’

  ‘Everything you wanted. No interference from the government while you expand.’

  ‘And the police?’

  ‘I think we’ll be looking at severe cuts in the next budget. And perhaps it’s time we privatised the police force.’

  ‘So we have a deal.’ The filmed Max stretches out his hand and the man in grey grasps it.

  The video cuts out.

  I return my attention to the Max in front of me now. He’s staring across at a man on the other side of the room. A man who’s wearing a grey suit that matches his grey skin.

  ‘You’re finished, Max. Your pet politician too. It’s all over. Spin that!’ I say, and walk away.

  Everyone lets us pass. The guards, the guests, they’re broken and limp. Like puppets with their strings cut.

  I stop at a body lying face down on the ground and turn it over. It is Shank. He’s sucking on the string of his hoodie, looking surprised. There’s a small dark hole right where his heart should be. There’s nothing I can do for him now. I close his eyelids, and stand up.

  We’re at the shattered windows leading back out on to the street when we hear the scream. Raw and primal and filled with terror. The crowd has turned on Max.

  It’s cold outside and Ethan wraps his arm around me.

  ‘Is it over?’ I ask, unsure whether this revenge is enough for him. Whether Edmond Dantès would have been satisfied.

  He looks up to the dark sky, at the sudden wind that’s blowing around us from the descending news copter, then back to me. ‘It’s over,’ he says.

  And we walk away.

  Sure, maybe Max can spin his way out of this. Although judging by the reporters descending, it’s going to be tricky. Even if he does go down in a blaze of dishonour, someone else could step up to take his place. And maybe he’s right? Maybe we don’t want to make choices for ourselves. And I sure as hell know no one wants to be alone. I take Ethan’s hand as we walk past the policemen swarming up the stairs, knowing that being alone is one thing I don’t have to worry about.

&
nbsp; As we step out onto the road, I look up at a drone camera above and smile.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The book you have just read (unless, if like me, you skip to the end and read the acknowledgements first, in which case, the book you are about to read) is about the dangers of social networks. And yet, the very fact you are holding it in your hands right now is evidence of just how wonderful those same networks can be. Because without the encouragement and support of people I have met thanks to social media, this book would have been destined to a lonely life of obsolescence on my hard drive.

  The first and most important of those people is Jared Shurin. When I mentioned to Jared that I was considering self publishing Glaze he sent me an email which began, ‘Welcome to the terrifying world of my enthusiasm.’ He has been terrifying, amazing and delighting me with that enthusiasm ever since. My gratitude for his involvement is as endless as his energy.

  Secondly, Regan Warner, my partner in crime (or at least in advertising), who not only read the first draft of Glaze on her phone but also designed the stunning cover.

  To Amy McCulloch, editor extraordinaire and bouldering partner, it’s been a joy to work with you. Ciara ‘Ladyface’ Daly, eagle-eyed copy editor and all round amazing person, I owe you huge. And proofreader, David Bailey, for his freakish mastery of the English language, I will adore you forever ever.

  To my dear friends and beta readers, James Smythe, Laura Lam, Lou Morgan and James Dawson. To Chris, my husband and my rock. As always.

  And finally, to all the bloggers who have gone above and beyond in helping spread the word about Glaze. You are incredible. Go #teamglaze.

  Glaze is a story about a girl who feels lost in the crowd. Drowning in the noise of so many voices. That’s something I understand only too well. But thanks to all of these amazing people and to you, dear reader, I’ve been given a rare and precious chance to be heard. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

  If you enjoyed GLAZE, and even if you didn’t, please consider leaving a short review on Amazon.