Chapter 47

47

Anthony

Anthony watched from the opposite side of the road as the queue outside the art deco building slowly decreased in size. Each person waiting in line was frisked by security staff then scanned with a metal and plastics detector before being allowed inside. He’d assumed Freedom for All members might be keeping a low profile after the recent arson attacks. Instead, they were united and defiant, ignoring passing vehicles that blasted their horns in support at them or hurled abuse from open windows. Fearing Government surveillance might be at work, he pulled down his baseball cap to partially obscure his face and lifted his collar up.

A little voice inside him, the one that was starting to question if he was fighting for the correct side, urged him to venture inside. He’d invested so much energy into trying to destroy FFA’s reputation, it was time he saw for himself just how deserving they were of their notoriety. He crossed the road and became one of the last people to join the line. After being scanned, he placed his phone and Smart watch inside a secure ziplocked bag and walked along a short, darkened corridor until he reached a set of fire doors. Beyond them was the middle level of an auditorium.

He hadn’t known what to expect, but certainly not vast numbers like this. At least four to five hundred people of all ages and descriptions were seated and directing their collective attention towards the stage. Anthony looked towards a giant white screen. Below it was a handful of figures sitting around a table, facing the audience. He took the nearest empty seat as the lights dipped and listened as a young woman made an emotional speech about the recent arson attacks. Guilt tore another chunk from his soul as images of the victims were shown.

A second speaker discussed how AI should never have been allowed to identify problems in marriages in the first place. ‘Artificial Intelligence Programs will never have a sense of humour,’ he began. ‘They will never appreciate art, beauty, or love. They will never feel lonely. They will never have empathy for other people, for animals, for the environment. They will never enjoy music, or cry at the drop of a hat. Those aren’t my words. It’s what AI had to say about itself – specifically a program called GPT-3 which was developed to mimic human language. When prompted by a researcher, AI wrote that its programs lack consciousness and self-awareness. That was in 2020. Even back then, AI was already warning us of its limitations. Yet it was still allowed to dictate the fate of human relationships.’

Other speakers discussed the legalities of a forthcoming protest march in London, culminating in a planned mass gathering in Kennington Park. Anthony wondered if the location was deliberate given supporters of the Chartist Movement campaigning for political reform had once gathered there for a protest for democracy in an industrial society. Almost 200 years had passed and the FFA was fighting for similar rights. History repeats itself, he thought.

To Anthony’s surprise, organizers were hoping anything up to half a million people might attend. Trapped in his own bubble, he hadn’t appreciated just how deep the vein of hatred ran for the Act.

An hour passed and the last person to take to the stage was a man Anthony recognized from his frequent television appearances since Jem Jones’ death. While the party purposefully had no leader – instead, opting for a panel of members instead – Howie Cosby was its public face.

‘I’d like you to take a look at this photograph,’ he began and an image of an elderly man appeared on the screen behind him.

‘This is Arthur Foley, a retired firefighter from this very town. Who knows how many lives this hero saved throughout his career, serving his community and inspiring those coming up through the ranks.’

The photo switched to one of a younger Arthur holding hands with a smiling woman. Both wore uniforms.

‘This is his wife June, a fellow firefighter who also spent her career in the emergency services. They were married for forty-nine years, two of which under the Act, before she died suddenly in her sleep. So deep was his love for his wife that he chose to live with her body rather than have authorities take it away. Later, when she was discovered by a Relationship Responder, instead of being offered counselling, Arthur was punished for refusing to commit to finding another relationship. His marriage was completely disregarded by authorities.’

Cosby paused to take a sip from a bottle then he continued, recounting Arthur’s court case. Without warning, an image of Arthur’s dead body, slumped behind the wheel of his campervan, appeared on the screen. His eyes were closed, face grey, his head tilted to one side and the neck of his shirt stained by vomit. It drew gasps from the previously hushed crowd.

Anthony paled. He recalled identifying his mother’s body at the mortuary, specifically the post-mortem bruising from where she had gone through the car windscreen after deliberately driving her car into a motorway bridge. For years he had blamed himself and how his need to break from his environment and enrol in university had come at the cost of his mother’s already fragile mental health. Jada had come close to convincing him that he was blameless, but he had never completely believed her.

But now, glaring at this stranger’s body, he knew there was no doubt about it. The voice in the back of his mind was to be believed. Anthony’s work was killing people. His mother was his first victim, Jem Jones his next, followed by the arson victims and now Arthur Foley. Where would it end?

‘Five days ago, Arthur chose to die rather than lose his home or be pressured into marrying someone he didn’t love,’ Cosby continued. ‘It is your Government that is making this happen. For every couple that benefits from low stamp duty, NHS+ or all the other ways they have tried to bribe us, there is an Arthur Foley. Please, make your voice heard.’

A ripple of applause began around the auditorium as the main lights returned and a break for refreshments was announced. But while others moved from the seats, Anthony remained in his. Tears poured from his eyes, ran down his face and seeped through the neckline of his jacket. He felt a gentle tap on his arm. He turned to find a woman in the aisle offering him a packet of paper tissues. He accepted them without shame and dabbed at his eyes.

‘Stories like this upset me too,’ she began. ‘I only wish they were a rarity but they’re becoming the norm. And they never get any easier to hear. Is it your first time here?’

Anthony nodded.

‘What made you come?’

‘Curiosity,’ he said vaguely. ‘And you?’

‘To bring fairness back to our society. For us and our children’s sake.’

Anthony thought of Matthew. Did he really want to raise his son in a country where its people would rather die than be pressured into remarrying? Suddenly, Anthony had a pressing urge to feel fresh air against his face. This was all too much; he shouldn’t have come. He thanked the woman again for the tissue as he rose from his seat.

She held out her hand to shake his, pressing her palm against his for longer than necessary. ‘I hope to see you again, Anthony,’ she said. And before he could ask her how she was aware of his name, she ascended the stairs, leaving something in his hand.