Chapter 42

42

Anthony

Early morning starts were becoming the norm for Anthony. Awake at four a.m., showered by 4.15 a.m. and sitting at his desk in the home office by 4.30 a.m. Thirty minutes before Jada’s alarm sounded at 7 a.m., he would pad through the house, into the kitchen and make himself breakfast. Then he’d return to his desk with a bowl of cereal, a yoghurt, coffee and enough sugary snacks and fruit to last him until midday. Later, and only when the pinhole cameras he’d installed around the house without Jada’s knowledge confirmed he was alone, he would return to the kitchen to remove a frozen lunch from the freezer and perhaps an evening meal. He’d blast them in the semiconductor oven and store their piping hot contents in thermal heat pots under his desk.

The longer he worked, the less time there was to dwell on the Freedom for All campaigners who had died in arson attacks on their homes in Old Coventry. But it hadn’t stopped him from searching for their images online. The faces of the children, a boy and a girl, were now seared in his memory. They were dead as a result of his work.

Over the last few weeks, Anthony had separated much of his life from the one being lived by his family. He might show his face briefly when Matthew returned from school or later before his son went to bed. But conversations between Anthony and Jada were often through electronic means and, if in person, they’d dwindled to perfunctory greetings. Sometimes, the first words they might say to one another on any given day were ‘goodnight’ or ‘see you in the morning’.

The first time he learned Matthew had been prescribed ADHD patches was when he glimpsed one attached to his son’s upper arm during a FaceTime conversation. Anthony considered asking Jada what else the specialist had recommended, but decided against it. She was his mother, she knew best.

Anthony’s latest project brought with it a stress he had not experienced the likes of before. He was used to high demands and tight deadlines, but it wasn’t the workload that was troubling him as much as the subject matter.

He opened his encrypted message inbox. There were updates and messages from teams scattered worldwide whom he had managed for seven years but had never met in a physical environment. Video calls used filters to distort their faces and voices. Their names were fictitious and only identifiable by those way above Anthony’s paygrade. Sometimes he wondered if they were even real or if he was talking to chatbots.

The day passed quickly and he had lost track of time until a camera alerted him to the opening and closing of the front door. Matthew was returning home with Jada. To his shame, try as he might, he couldn’t recall the last time he had walked his son to or from school. A vision of the future caught him off guard: one where the choice was taken out of his hands. It left him cold.

‘The next stage of our campaign is to exploit AI and the insight it gives us to radically overhaul the education system,’ Henry Hyde had begun at that last meeting. ‘AI models can now be trained to identify the voiceprint of up to six hundred people in any one recording. Our proposal is to integrate this technology into state schools. Alongside students’ wearable technology, this will ensure three-sixty-degree student monitoring.’

Hyde had paused to allow the disclosure to settle.

‘For what purpose?’ a man Anthony didn’t recognize had asked.

‘The purpose is far-reaching,’ Hyde had continued. ‘It will identify bullying and act as a deterrent towards it and pick up on discussions and suggestions of abuse at home. It will also measure a child’s use of vocabulary, their grasp of language, it will learn their most popular topics of conversation, appraise their conversational ability and cross refer it to work online and in their digital exercise books. Along with recommendations from their teachers, this AI system will also allow us to identify and separate high performers from those who need extra assistance.’

‘What do you mean by “separate”?’ the same man had continued.

‘There are many students who cannot flourish because they’re hampered by the distracting activities of others. We aim to redress this.’

‘But they’re already separated into different sets based on their academic abilities,’ said Eleanor Harrison, the education minister. It appeared to be the first she was hearing of Hyde’s proposal.

‘Yes,’ Hyde had agreed, ‘but some of these children maintain disruptive behaviours outside the classroom, such as in the playground or in sporting environments. Hence our final solution is to establish purpose-built residential communities, where every pupil gets the most out of their education. Young Citizen Camps will be located around the country to assist more troubled youths and those with behavioural conditions to reach their full potential away from those they seek to distract. In a new environment, they will thrive.’

Anthony’s stomach had tightened; based on what he’d been told by Jada about his son’s recent school reports, Hyde could be talking about Matthew.

‘A troubled child’s ability to learn and retain information can increase threefold without parental or sibling interference,’ Hyde had continued. ‘Imagine their potential in a dedicated facility that’s not local to them.’

‘So you’re sending them away?’ had come another voice.

‘We don’t use the expression sent away. No child will ever be sent away. After a student is identified as in need of intervention, teachers and psychologists will be invited to offer their expert opinions before an offer to parents is made. And, even then, this will be a wholly voluntary process.’

Anthony had subconsciously tapped his foot against the table leg. ‘And what if the parents refuse?’ he’d asked.

‘They’re absolutely within their rights to do so. It will, of course, be included as a footnote on the child’s National Identity Card that an offer was declined – it is only fair to prospective employers to receive full disclosure. Likewise, it will also be included on their parents’ records too.’

‘Can you tell us more about these Young Citizen Camps?’ a narrow-eyed woman with greying cornrows had asked.

‘As one of the top five greenest countries in the world, our camps are being repurposed from existing properties.’

‘Repurposed from what? Former offices?’

‘The majority are deregulated military barracks and former correctional facilities.’

‘Prisons?’ MP Maddy Cordell had laughed. ‘And you’re expecting us to sell this idea to the public?’

‘Firstly, they are now former correctional facilities,’ Hyde had repeated impatiently. ‘And secondly, this is more than just an idea. It’s happening. Work has already started on the first twelve.’

‘I assume you’ll be at least removing the prison ring fencing?’ Cordell had scoffed.

‘A proportion of it will remain for their protection and to prevent unlawful entry. Parents will want to be assured their children’s safety is our number one priority.’

‘What will be on the curriculum?’ Harrison had asked.

‘There will be less emphasis on mainstream education’s core subjects such as English literature, maths and coding. Research has found these pupils to be less responsive to those subjects and therefore more disruptive. They’ll be educated and trained for the industries our model predicts they’re best suited for, such as the building trade, careers in the domestic sector, the food and beverage industry, childcare workers, cashiers, clothing manufacturers et cetera. The values we instil in them at Young Citizen Camps will remain with them until their eventual reintegration into society.’

‘You are doing the workforce in those sectors a huge disservice if you’re saying the most suitable people for those roles are underachievers,’ the woman with the greying cornrows had huffed. ‘You’re suggesting those careers are only for write-offs, that they are the jobs nobody else wants. It’s hugely insulting to millions.’

‘On the contrary. These jobs keep the engine of society moving forwards. If our weakest academic students are offered support and training from an early age, they have the potential to be the backbone of our economy’s growth. Meanwhile, children continuing to attend our regular schools will thrive without disturbance. It’s a win-win situation. Britain’s next century can, and will, be better than the last.’

A nervous Anthony had cleared his throat. ‘Like Ms Cordell asked, how will you convince parents this is in their children’s best interests?’ he’d asked.

‘I have assembled an assortment of the country’s leading psychologists and scriptwriters to develop a television series that will begin the marketing of this project to the masses. It will be upbeat, family viewing, broadcast on a mainstream channel and across social media, based in a Young Citizen’s Camp. As well as creating likeable, identifiable and believable characters, the focus will also be on the fun, exciting, opportunities to be had for those who participate. Targeted advertising will appear on the communication devices of under-sixteens, and their parents will be offered financial encouragement to participate. We want to create a vision of a place where parents are confident their children will gain the best opportunities. And we want young people to want to be a part of these camps.’

Anthony had listened intently as Hyde had detailed exactly what was expected of him, the tight timescale and generous budget. His final question continued to haunt him now, every bit as much as the faces of the dead children of FFA supporters.

‘What kind of behavioural conditions will these camps cater for?’ he’d asked.

‘Off the top of my head, anything from anger management issues to oppositional defiant disorder, conduct disorders, the learning impaired, some identifiable on the Autism Spectrum scale and those diagnosed with bipolar and Attention Deficit Disorder.’

They were the three words Anthony had hoped he would not hear. Attention Deficit Disorder. He had finally reached his critical juncture. Now he could either continue to serve those above him or he could find his own path. It was too late to save the lives of the FFA victims, but it wasn’t too late to protect his son.