THE MARRIAGE ACT, page 10
‘You probably don’t remember me,’ he said, offering his hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ Arthur apologized. ‘My memory isn’t what it used to be.’
‘Mohammed Varma,’ he continued. ‘You helped train me back in the day.’
‘Mo!’ exclaimed Arthur, his face lighting up. ‘Look at you!’ The two men embraced and exchanged pleasantries.
‘I’m still getting my head around passing my twenty-year anniversary. I’m an assistant chief now so I don’t go out on calls as much as I used to. I’m swamped with paperwork instead.’
‘It’s really good to see you.’
Mohammed caught Arthur scanning the drill ground. ‘A lot’s changed since you were last here, I guess.’
‘It certainly has.’
‘Listen, I was sorry to hear about June. I didn’t know her as well as some of the others, but she was one of the good ones. You both were. I hope you got the flowers.’
Arthur recalled the number of colourful bouquets that arrived the day of her funeral and nodded his gratitude. He wondered if his old colleagues knew of the whole story, his denial of her death, the refusal to let June go; that instead of reporting her loss, he had kept her body by his side in their bed for months. If Mo was aware, he said nothing. Instead, he jangled a set of keys in his hand.
‘Health and Safety regs mean I’m not supposed to let civilians go up the tower but no one here is going to dob us in.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Are you okay going up on your own? I’m happy to carry you over my shoulder for old time’s sake?’
Arthur laughed and reassured him he would be fine alone. As Mo unlocked the metal door, Arthur used one hand to steady himself on the railings, while the other clutched a shopping bag. ‘I’ll be in the station when you’re ready,’ Mo continued. ‘Come and join us for a cuppa before you go.’
It took Arthur much longer to climb the five floors now than it did back in his day. He used to think nothing of running up two or three steps at a time whilst hauling heavy equipment. Today, he was breathless by the time he reached the summit.
Arthur leaned against the railings and absorbed the 360-degree view of the town he had loved and lived in all his life. There were more drones in the sky than birds and less traffic on the roads now that commuters carpooled in driverless vehicles. When online shopping eventually won its war against the town centres, much of the retail area had been torn down and replaced with modern housing in areas constructed specifically for Smart Marriages. As a result, much of the landscape was altering beyond his recognition.
Arthur and June had refused to relocate from the Old Town despite the upgrade opportunities their marriage brought. They were happy where they were. Until one morning when everything had changed. Without warning, June had quietly slipped away.
Up there on the fire tower, he recalled every second of it, as clear as if it had happened earlier that day. He’d placed the breakfast tray on her bedside table as he had every morning since she had stopped walking or talking and had retreated to their bed. As the Audite had opened the curtains and the glittering sun had poured in, he’d noticed her grey pallor and sunken cheeks. He had seen enough dead bodies in his career to know that June had left him.
Arthur hadn’t tried to resuscitate her or restart that huge, wonderful heart of hers. Instead, he’d laid down next to her and run his fingers through her hair and stroked her cool, parchment-thin face. It was so unfair that June had developed the one variant of dementia that still had research scientists baffled. For seven years it had gradually been squeezing the life out of her, draining her body of energy and her mind of thoughts and memories. And when she’d lost her communication skills, he had started speaking for them both. However, even on her death, he hadn’t been ready for the conversation to end.
Many times that fateful day, Arthur had ordered the Audite to call for help. Then he’d change his mind before the line connected. It wasn’t only the fear of them taking her away that upset him, it was the repercussions of the Sanctity of Marriage Act and what would be expected of him as a widower. So things had to continue as they were.
He’d purchased two large bags of cat litter and apologized as he’d heaped it upon her to absorb any leakages before they could seep through the bin liners he’d been about to enfold her in. Then he’d rolled her up tightly inside the duvet and sealed it up with roll after roll of parcel tape until it was airtight. Finally, he’d purchased a dozen reed diffusers and air fresheners to scatter about the bedroom and landing.
Then Arthur had tried to put June’s death out of his mind by carrying on as normal. For the most part, she was the June of old. He spoke to her as if she was there and imagined her answers. Occasionally the version of herself with the faltering memory would appear and he’d fill in the blanks. But, for the first time in years, they were their old selves.
He’d needed to fool his wearable technology for when it randomly recorded their conversations. First, he’d reported June’s as faulty and unable to register her health statistics and movements. America’s latest trade war with China meant Tungsten, the mineral used to create the devices and which was key to their ability to vibrate, was in short supply. He was warned it might take weeks to get a replacement. It would explain why there was no movement from her. Then at various times of the day, he’d played video recordings he had made of June over the years, hoping her voice would buy him more time. He had got away with it for months before an algorithm had finally recognized the repetition.
After countless Push notifications, Lorraine Shrewsbury, a Relationship Responder, sent her first email, then began calling before eventually turning up unannounced on their doorstep. It was her fault that Arthur and June were finally separated. While he had been sitting in a holding cell at Campbell Square police station, she had ensured authorities removed his wife from their home. And now that he couldn’t see June, he couldn’t hear her either. He still spoke to her often but the replies no longer came. For the first time since before they had met, over fifty years ago, Arthur was truly alone.
The rest of the week after June’s discovery had been a blur. In line with all Smart Marriages, a fast-tracked autopsy of a spouse following their sudden death began and, three days later, an investigation into her potentially suspicious death was swiftly dropped. She had died of a dementia-related stoke. Arthur was released the day before her funeral, which, by law, should have been in the same week as her death.
Today, and five-storeys high, he took a deep breath and reached into his shopping bag. He removed a transparent ziplock bag containing a portion of June’s ashes. The other half remained inside a wooden box on the passenger seat in the campervan parked in their garage.
The fire service was the family she had chosen and, along with Arthur, they had become her two greatest loves. Here, among friends, was the most fitting place to scatter half her remains. The rest he would keep at home with him. As Arthur shook the unzipped bag, a light breeze took June in its arms and carried her up into the air and out of sight. If Arthur possessed the physical strength, he might well have pulled himself over the railings in the hope the wind might catch him too. But that wouldn’t be fair on his former colleagues.
So he remained where he was, eyes closed, reliving a cavalcade of memories until he was ready to make his way back down. One more flight awaited him when his Smart bracelet vibrated. He tentatively pressed play.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Foley, it’s Martin Warner from your solicitors, Hatchett & Moss. I’ve left several messages asking for you to call me but I’m not sure if you’ve received them. The Crown Prosecution Service has been in touch and I really need you to return my call at your earliest convenience.’
Arthur shook his head. After the police had released him, Warner had warned it might not be the end of the matter. And now it looked as if his troubles were set to continue.
24
Anthony
‘What was this place?’ asked Anthony. He struggled to keep up with the broad-shouldered woman striding up the staircase three steps ahead of him.
She placed a finger into her ear, listening to orders through an earpiece. ‘Everyone who comes in here asks that question,’ she said gruffly but without answering it. So he left it at that.
She hadn’t said much earlier when she’d flashed him an identification card on the concourse of Euston station, then escorted him to an awaiting vehicle. They’d travelled in silence to a building on the banks of London’s River Thames. The pungent odour of burned plastic that had struck him on the ground floor had faded with each storey climbed. It reminded him of the smell in his mother’s car when he’d been allowed inside it after she had deliberately driven into the pillar of a bridge. He didn’t know what had compelled him to want to sit inside the wreckage until he’d found her St Christopher necklace in the footwell.
Now on the third floor, Anthony’s escort led the way through more heavy doors before reaching a near-empty room. A bank of empty phone sockets stretched in a diagonal line and a dozen broken desks and chairs with missing wheels were stacked up in the corner under smeared windows. Its condition didn’t surprise him. Over the years, the meeting places altered but their condition remained predictably unkempt. He could only assume the majority of the Government’s off-the-books work was completed far away from Westminster’s prying eyes.
After surrendering all his electronics to the escort and undergoing a full body scan, Anthony pressed the pads of his fingers against a screen while reading from a script on a separate screen below it. Biometric devices scanned his eyes and speech patterns until they verified his identity. A final set of doors, this time constructed from thick metal, slid open to reveal an open-plan, windowless room.
Anthony took a seat amongst more than a dozen people sitting at tables pushed together in a U-shape formation. There were no visible phones or tablets, not even a notepad or pen. All but one of the dozen television screens attached to the walls were unplugged. Whatever this meeting was about, there was to be no official record of it.
He poured water from an open bottle into a glass as he scanned the room for familiar faces. Henry Hyde, the man who had recruited Anthony while he was still studying at university some fifteen years earlier, turned his head and gave him a nod. His face was ageless – he could be in his mid-thirties or mid-fifties. And he had always looked like this since he and Anthony had first met. His clothes were like a uniform, the same black suit, black shoes, white shirt and black tie every time. It was as if he was on permanent standby for a funeral. Close to him was MP Maddy Cordell, the Minister of State, her heels as sharp as her tongue. The rest were unfamiliar to him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, shall we make a start?’ began Hyde, removing a remote control from his pocket. He pointed it at the screen and a live image appeared of Anthony’s local MP, Eleanor Harrison. She was a no-nonsense Education Secretary whom, until now, he had yet to witness without her trademark bright-red lipstick. Today, however, she was make-up free and had bruising under her eyes and a cut to her head. He recalled reading about a recent hospital admission but he couldn’t remember the details.
‘I’m sure I don’t need to update you on the events of Jem Jones’ tragic death two weeks ago,’ Hyde continued. ‘Naturally, our sympathies lie with her family at this difficult time.’
A ripple of amusement spread across the room. Anthony was the exception. He wanted to shout at them, telling them to shut up and show some respect, but he knew how ridiculous it would sound. Instead, he quietly simmered until Hyde turned his attention to him.
‘Had it not been for Jem’s support and influence on the general public, I don’t think it’s inaccurate of me to suggest that we might not have won the last election with such a clear majority and pushed through the Marriage Act,’ he continued. ‘But times change, and so does public opinion. And once Freedom for All became a party in its own right, we had little choice but to up the ante. Jem was a sacrifice we were forced to make in order to direct support away from the FFA and back towards us. It was an appropriate conclusion to her era.’
‘But has it concluded though?’ asked Eleanor Harrison. ‘I’d have assumed after her death, anti-Acters would be keeping a low profile. But it appears they’re more prolific than ever.’
‘Bloody Freedom for All terrorists are as bad as suicide bombers.’
‘At least suicide bombers have the good manners to blow themselves up,’ Harrison replied. ‘The FFA keeps crawling back like cockroaches.’
‘Let Jem’s supporters and the FFA fight it out amongst themselves,’ Hyde said. ‘And if it quietens down, we will intervene to fan the flames and ensure the fire rages on.’
Anthony held his gaze firmly on the desktop. He didn’t want to look up and witness the smug, arrogant faces of those surrounding him. He didn’t belong here. None of them realized that, in killing her, he had lost a part of himself.
‘The social media pollsters have assured us the majority of the public remains supportive of the Act and consistent in their blame of Freedom for All for Jem’s “suicide”,’ added Hyde.
A man with his dreadlocks tied above his head snorted. ‘Are they the same pollsters who predicted Scotland would remain in the United Kingdom after the referendum or that we’d be back in Europe by now?’
‘Polling isn’t an exact science and there’s always a margin of error,’ Hyde scowled. ‘The electorate can be notoriously hard to predict.’ He loosened the top button on his oversized jacket. ‘Moving on to the matter in hand. And this is where you come in, Anthony. There is a new era of opportunity coming that we would like you to strategize. It is ambitious but necessary for the next stage of our country’s growth. And it will have a direct effect on almost every single family, perhaps more so than the roll-out of the Audite.’
Filled more with apprehension than curiosity, Anthony listened intently as Hyde revealed their agenda. And the more he heard, the more his fingertips began clawing at the arms of the chair, as if desperate to remain afloat in quicksand.
‘So I hope that you are in agreement,’ concluded Hyde almost an hour later. ‘To futureproof the United Kingdom within one generation, this is the way forward.’
This time, Anthony’s eyes flitted around the room. Some of the faces appeared to approve, but others were suspicious. He wondered if any quietly shared his outright distaste.
‘Your thoughts, Anthony?’ Hyde asked suddenly. ‘I assume this is something that you can begin working on immediately?’
Anthony wanted to tell him no, that this was a step too far, that he could go to hell and find another puppet to do his dirty work. He wanted to rise to his feet, turn his back on them, walk out of the door and forget everything he had heard. He wanted them to know that in killing Jem, he had made a monumental lapse in judgement. That all he wanted was to return to his wife and his son, put the house up for sale and catch the first flight to Saint Lucia where they could start afresh and away from this madness. Only none of that was possible yet.
‘Of course,’ he replied, nodding his head in the same way he’d done for the last fifteen years. ‘I’m sure I can.’
25
Corrine
‘That isn’t traceable, is it?’ asked Corrine, a note of fear catching in her throat.
The person of indeterminable gender sitting next to her and hunched over a keyboard gave her a sideways glance as if to suggest it was a stupid question. Of course it wasn’t traceable, thought Corrine. As a former member of the now defunct collective, this person had escaped arrest despite a worldwide hunt for all associates. They were not an amateur.
‘What’s the kid’s name?’ they asked in a well-spoken accent that belied their scruffy baseball cap, jeans and army fatigue jacket.
‘Nathan, but I don’t have a surname.’
Corrine couldn’t follow what was being inputted, but it appeared to be some kind of coding. Moments later, the logo for Old Northampton General Hospital appeared on their screen. ‘Nathan Deakin,’ the hacker continued, reading from it. ‘Admitted after being found outside the hospital’s A&E department by junior doctor Noah Stanton-Gibbs on his way to start a shift.’
‘Yes, that’s him,’ Corrine said eagerly. ‘What’s his condition?’
‘As of last night, stable but still unconscious. A toxicology report found compounds of three drugs in his system – one a kind used for anaesthesia, another a hallucinogenic, and the other . . . oh, this is interesting, a drug that treats male impotence.’
‘So what’s going to happen to him now?’
‘Do I look like a doctor?’
Corrine hesitated. ‘Are you able to access the records of someone else?’
‘Who?’
‘An MP. Eleanor Harrison. She’ll have been taken to the private hospital in New Northampton.’
It took even less time for the hacker to access Harrison’s records. ‘She was discharged following a minor head injury.’
‘That can’t be right. You must be looking at a different Harrison.’
‘It’s the only one I can find listed.’
‘How did she recover so quickly? Only last week, the news reports said she was in intensive care. They reported her condition as serious.’
‘And that’s the first time an MP or her people have ever lied, right? It says here that it was a minor injury to the supraorbital foramen – which is near an eyebrow, I think – and they released her the next day.’
Corrine shook her head.
‘Anything else you want while I’m here? Passcode to Downing Street? A list of all members of the Illuminati? They do exist, by the way . . .’
‘No, but thank you.’
The hacker nodded their head and rose to their feet. ‘Check your phone,’ they said. Corrine glanced at the screen. It contained a telephone number with a message attached. ‘Memorize it if you need me again. It erases itself in twenty seconds.’ Corrine did as she was told as the text and the hacker vanished.
