The Passengers

by John Marrs

  “Hi,” she began nervously. She thrust her hand out to shake his.

  “That’s very formal,” he teased, but shook it regardless. “What’s your name?”

  “Libby.”

  “I’m . . .” But she couldn’t hear his response through the feedback of a DJ’s microphone. She was about to ask him to repeat it when he spoke. “So you’re a Michael Jackson fan?”

  “My brother and I were raised on his music. My mum would play him all the time.”

  “My dad was the fan in our house. When I was a kid, he bought us tickets to see him play in London, but then Jacko died so we never got the chance to go.”

  “My mum did the same! She still has the tickets in a frame on the bathroom wall.”

  Libby smiled at him and already felt a tingle inside her stomach.

  “Are you from around here?” he asked.

  “No, we’ve come up from Birmingham for a girlie weekend.” She pointed towards her six friends, then immediately wished she hadn’t when they blew exaggerated air kisses in his direction. He responded by doing exactly the same. Libby liked that.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” she asked, and he agreed.

  As the two made their way towards the bar, it was as if the pub had emptied around them because all they saw and heard was each other; not the dancing, drunken bodies and voices filling the room or the thumping beat of the dance music. Libby chatted about her job in nursing while he explained how he’d worked in the automotive industry until the driverless-car revolution made his role redundant. Their dislike of the vehicles appeared mutual, but Libby didn’t want to put a damper on the evening by explaining why.

  She appreciated that he asked her as many questions as she asked him, and there was a warmth to his eyes that made her want to dive in and learn everything about him. When he laughed, the dimples in his cheeks appeared. The walls she had spent two years constructing since William left were falling quickly. She had never experienced anything so intense as her desire to kiss him there and then. However, she held back.

  “Shall we go outside where it’s quieter?” he asked, and she agreed.

  The beer garden was illuminated by lines of cables and electric lanterns offering the night sky a creamy white glow, stretching the length and breadth of the outside space. Fairy lights were wrapped around the branches of three trees, and a fitting playlist of laid-back Balearic beats music came through speakers. A table emptied of drinkers as they arrived so they took it, while a waitress placed a lit candle inside a terra-cotta pot between them.

  For the first minute they just sat, looking at each other, both comfortable with the silence. “It’s probably the alcohol making me say this,” Libby began eventually, “but I feel like I’ve known you for ages and not two hours.”

  “Ditto,” he replied. “And no, I don’t think it’s the alcohol talking.”

  He moved his hand to reach for his glass. His little finger brushed against hers before he moved it away again. Libby slid hers back so they were touching.

  Another hour passed as they talked until Libby couldn’t hold back any longer. She leaned across the wooden table, placed her hand on his arm, and moved her lips towards his until they connected. It was a first kiss, a kiss between lovers, and the kiss of two people who knew each other inside out, all rolled into one. She didn’t want it to end.

  Suddenly she felt a tugging at her sleeve. “Libs, I’m so sorry but we need you,” Nia said urgently.

  “What?” Libby snapped.

  “I’m so sorry,” she mouthed towards Libby’s new friend. “Cerys has fallen off the toilet cistern.”

  “Fallen off it? What was she doing on it?”

  “She’s had too many vodka and oranges and was dancing on it when she slipped and smashed her face on the floor. She’s out cold. We’ve called for an ambulance.”

  “Shit,” cursed Libby, and turned to face the man whose name she still didn’t know. “I’m coming back,” she said, and smiled hopefully at him as she rose from the bench. “Please, just wait here.”

  In the ladies’ bathroom, it was clear Cerys’s injury was more than just a superficial wound. Then, as she walked alongside the gurney carrying her friend to the ambulance, she turned her head to see him one last time, only drinkers blocked the doorway to the rear and she couldn’t make him out.

  Six long months had passed and Libby still hadn’t put the stranger out of her mind. Once, she even caught herself wandering between the fragrance counters of the department store John Lewis, spraying colognes onto pieces of card and trying to match them with the scent she remembered him wearing.

  She cursed herself for not asking him to repeat his name, because without it, her online search for him became a Herculean task. Hours were spent trawling the internet and placing his description on social media, leaving her email address as a contact if anyone recognised him. With the exception of a handful of prankster replies, she drew a blank.

  Twice she had made the ninety-mile journey to revisit that Manchester bar on the off chance he might be a regular patron. But despite hours spent sitting alone in a booth and people watching, he was nowhere to be seen. The bar staff didn’t recognise him from his description and he had not “liked” the pub’s Facebook page. Taxi operators refused to search their records without a name; a LinkedIn trawl of former car manufacturers didn’t throw up any recognisable pictures. Her last resort, a psychic, was of predictably little use.

  In her heart of hearts, Libby knew that it was time to admit defeat. The man with no name would never be found. She wondered if, deep down, she was using her search as an excuse not to return to the dating scene. Perhaps it was the perfect relationship for her—if she couldn’t locate him, she could never truly know him and he couldn’t let her down. He could never be another William.

  Without realising it, Libby had reached her destination. She hesitated, staring across the busy road and towards a two-hundred-year-old building. Birmingham’s former town hall stood out from its more modern surroundings. Its Roman-influenced architecture was made up of limestone and whitish-grey bricks and featured dozens of pillars supporting its pitched roof. It was an impressive construction, but one she dreaded spending the rest of the day inside.

  CHAPTER 8

  HowThingsOperate.com

  What are the five levels of driverless cars?

  Level 0: The driver performs all tasks.

  Level 1: The car can help keep itself in lane and use auto cruise control and braking.

  Level 2: The vehicle now has added self-parking and self-acceleration.

  Level 3: Technology means it can drive itself under certain circumstances.

  Level 4: A car can steer, brake, accelerate, change lanes, turn, use signals, and respond to events by itself in geofenced areas. Drivers can still take control.

  Level 5: The vehicle is completely autonomous. It does everything and requires no human attention. There are no manual brakes or a steering wheel.

  Libby dragged her feet along the flagstones, through the glass sliding doors, and into the foyer. The aroma of pastries and coffees caught her attention, so she bought a pain au chocolat and a banana from a café.

  She avoided the elevator and chose to delay the inevitable by climbing five flights of stone stairs. At a set of solid oak doors with hinges as wide as boat paddles, she patted out any creases from her outfit and pressed the buzzer. A bright blue LED panel illuminated.

  “Fingerprint scan required,” an automated female voice began, and Libby held her right hand towards a camera lens. “Verified,” it continued, and the doors opened.

  Inside the room, she counted six formally dressed men and women. Some spoke into earbuds linked to mobile phones; others worked on computer screens, but Libby couldn’t see what they displayed. Two male security operatives clad in black approached her. They each had one slightly disco
loured iris that Libby recognised as smart lenses. Why does everything these days have to be smart? she wondered. Perhaps Nia was right and Libby would have been better suited to the Dark Ages, albeit without the dinosaurs. They escorted her towards a table.

  “Put your belongings in this box,” said one in a gruff tone, and Libby obliged, placing her handbag, watch, and mobile phone inside it.

  “Haven’t seen one of these for a while,” said the second operative, who picked up Libby’s device to show his colleague. He tried to flex its unbendable chassis and it threatened to crack.

  “Careful,” said Libby.

  “I bet she still uses cash too,” his colleague added.

  Once her belongings were X-rayed, they returned her handbag, but her phone and watch were placed in a silver metal locker under the table. White discs strapped to the palms of the operative’s hands were used to scan Libby from head to toe in search of recording or communication devices. Satisfied she possessed neither, the shorter of the two men removed a swab from a sealed packet.

  “Mouth,” he said, and on her tongue placed the cotton end, which was then inserted into a cylindrical case the size of a pen lid. With his face up close to hers, Libby noticed that reflected on the inside of his smart lens was a tiny image of herself, likely taken from her National Identity Card along with information only he could read.

  “Speak into this,” he continued, and held a tablet towards her mouth. “Name.”

  “Libby Dixon,” she said, and a green tick appeared on the voiceprint recognition screen.

  “Will I have to do this every day?” she asked. “I don’t see my DNA or voice changing much over the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Rules are rules,” he replied, and escorted her towards another hefty set of doors. He typed in a code and scanned his own eye before they opened into a generous-sized, square chamber. Inside, two men and two women were gathered in a corner under arched opaque windows that could not be seen into or out of. With their backs towards Libby, they turned only their heads at the sound of the moving hinges.

  “Hello again,” she began, and offered a nervous smile to no one in particular. They replied with nods instead of words and continued their conversation.

  It was exactly the same unfriendly, sterile environment as it had been yesterday. Four broad wooden desks were set out in a semicircle formation in the centre of the room. They faced a triple aspect wall on which Libby could just about make out the faint outlines of twelve television screens, one much larger than the others. In the corner of each was the word “offline.” Shoulder-high mahogany wall panelling ran all the way around the room.

  To Libby’s left were three more tables where two men sat quietly, each wearing smart glasses and with only tablets laid out in front of them and virtual keyboards projected onto smoked glass surfaces. Now that phones and tablets had the same capabilities as desktop computers or laptops, Libby couldn’t recall the last time she’d come across either.

  One of the men was a stenographer, there to digitally record and type notes of everything discussed once proceedings were called to order. The other was responsible for projecting visuals onto the wall. Neither had spoken more than a handful of words yesterday.

  Unsure of what to do with herself until the clock struck nine, Libby removed her pastry from a paper bag and pulled off a piece to nibble on.

  “There is no food to be consumed in here,” sniffed a woman with a Scottish accent. She wore a dark blue plaid skirt and matching jacket. Libby felt her face redden like she’d been told off by a teacher, and she dropped the snack into a metal bin. “That’s for paper only,” the woman added.

  Libby searched for another dustbin to no avail, so she reached in to grab it, then slipped the pastry back into her handbag instead. Suddenly, a green light on the wall flashed.

  “Right, shall we begin?” a voice began, and a man turned. He eyed Libby up and down distrustfully but tried to disguise it with a disingenuous smile. Jack Larsson was a member of Parliament, cabinet minister, and the only face she recognised from outside the room from his occasional television appearances. As he moved towards the tables, he whistled the opening bars of an old song she recognised called “Feeling Good.” Considering the serious nature of what they were about to discuss, it wasn’t the most appropriate of choices.

  As each of his colleagues made their way towards the desks, she hesitated, waiting until they were all seated before pulling out a chair. Yesterday she’d received short shrift from the woman in plaid for choosing a seat not apparently allocated to her. Libby’s chair was the farthest from the exit she’d have to wait the entire day to use again.

  Aside from Jack Larsson, she had no idea of the other people’s names. She had been warned by one of the security operatives that asking any personal details, even a Christian name, was strictly prohibited. However, she had been made to wear a silver badge with “Miss Dixon” etched in black capital letters.

  The person controlling the footage placed a black, metallic briefcase in front of Jack, then typed a combination into an electronic keypad before the catches clicked open. He removed its only contents—five electronic tablet-like devices—and handed one to each person. Libby was the last.

  “Begin recording,” Jack ordered.

  “System recording,” the stenographer replied, and Libby could just about hear his fingers gently tapping on the glass keyboard.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen, we all know the routine by now,” Jack continued. “But in accordance with the Road Traffic Act Autonomous Car Provisions, I’m obliged to remind you that I am calling a start to meeting number 3121 of the Vehicle Inquest Jury. Our purpose is to hear what each car’s ‘black box’ has to say about an accident and thus apportion liability. Today, the burden of responsibility will be upon you to decide whether people involved in fatal collisions with driverless vehicles were killed either lawfully or unlawfully. Either man or machine is to blame, and you will decide.”

  Libby knew what was to come next, and she hated that she had been forced to be a part of it.

  CHAPTER 9

  InquestJD.co.uk

  Home > Justice and the Law > Courts

  IF YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR VEHICLE INQUEST JURY DUTY, HERE IS WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW:

  The jury is made up of four government-appointed individuals, including a member of Parliament and representatives of the General Medical Council, Legal Services Board, and Religious Pluralists—the organisation assembled by religious leaders to ensure all major faiths practised in Britain have their voices heard by one body.

  A fifth member randomly selected from the public will complete the line-up and serve a five-day term. Service is mandatory, and inclusion may not be shared with anyone due to the sensitive nature of an inquest.

  The jury meets for one week a month in different UK locations and decides upon the cause of a fatal vehicular accident.

  The identities of all jurors and associated staff are protected from records so as to remain impartial and free from the risk of repercussions following the decision-making process.

  Libby ran her eyes across her fellow jury members as foreman Jack Larsson continued to read aloud a mandatory list of rules and guidelines.

  As Jack was the head of the government’s Ministry for Transport, his appearance yesterday came as a surprise to her. Initially she found him an affable man and the only one of the four to introduce himself to her, shake her hand, and offer her a coffee. Despite landing somewhere in his sixties, Jack had a stocky physique and shaven head which made him a physically dominating presence. His nose and thick lips were pronounced, and his hazel eyes bored straight through anyone who challenged him with the ease of a drill going through water. His perma-tan suggested a man who frequently holidayed abroad.

  Libby had been too self-conscious to regard any of the jurors properly
yesterday. But now, as Jack spoke, she took the opportunity to assess them all.

  She placed the Scottish woman in plaid sitting next to Jack as in her forties. She wasn’t listening to the speech she must have heard a hundred times before, and surfed her tablet instead. Libby noted that each time she dropped her head to something, her frameless glasses slipped to the end of her nose before she pushed them up again.

  Adjacent to her was a handsome younger man who represented the General Medical Council and wore an olive-green tailored tweed jacket over a crisp white shirt with silver cufflinks in the shape of pills. His eyes were as rich and chocolatey as the colour of his hair and the stubble growing from his cheeks and chin. He had paid her no attention and Libby had yet to witness him smile. Outside of those four walls, she might well have been attracted to him.

  At the end of the row of desks sat a plump woman with thick red hair and little to no make-up, clad in dull, shapeless clothing and a chunky black wristwatch. Her face was softer than the woman in plaid’s. A solitary hair poked out from a nostril and it was all Libby could do to stop herself from leaning over and plucking it. On the lapel of the woman’s jacket were the red embroidered letters “RP,” an acronym for Religious Pluralist.

  And then there was Libby. Her mandatory participation began when a young courier in a fluorescent top thrust a padded envelope into her hands as she left for work one morning. He’d mounted his bike and hurriedly pedalled out of sight before she had the chance to tear it open, read the instructions, and throw it back at him.

  Libby thought it was a prank that she of all people—someone with a profound hatred for all things driverless—had been chosen. Once she had been part of a twenty-thousand-strong protest, marching to Downing Street to voice their fears against Level Five cars. So she assumed that if challenged and warned of her bias, the jury request would be hastily rescinded. It wasn’t. And with no friends who had been similarly sequestered—at least as far as she was aware—Libby had gone online to search for recollections of former participants. However, information was scarce.