The Passengers

by John Marrs

  The last time Shabana had taken a journey into the unknown was when her plane left Mumbai’s Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport and landed at London’s Heathrow just a week after her wedding. It was a day of firsts—the first time she had left her village, the first time she had been away from her family, the first time she had flown, and the first time her new husband had punched her.

  Her first impression of Britain had been how grey it was. Everything was colourless and made of concrete, from the bridges over the motorways to the paving slabs that made up the driveway to Vihaan’s home. It also felt so much more orderly than India. The houses in the estate were of equal size, had the same proportioned gardens containing the same dull palette of flowers. And while it was less cramped and tidier, and it smelled fresh, it lacked complexion. So soon after her arrival, she was already craving colour and chaos. And when she expressed her homesickness to her new husband, he responded with his fist.

  It was during the third day of her lavish Indian wedding to Vihaan when Shabana began to suspect he wasn’t all her family had assured her he was. She knew how it had felt to love and to be loved. And this was not it. She had fallen for Arjun, a waiter in a hotel restaurant in her hometown of Kailashahar a year earlier. Her family despised him—his only sin was to have been born into a different caste, thus rendering him unsuitable for her parents’ high expectations. Marrying him was out of the question, her father warned, but when his threats fell on deaf ears, her brothers beat the boy half to death and she never saw him again. Even now, she missed being loved by him.

  The following year, she was introduced to Vihaan. He was a decade her senior, and had flown from England to meet her. And on the first of their three chaperoned meetings before their arranged ceremony, Shabana convinced herself that perhaps, given time, she could make herself fall in love with him. But as the final day of their marriage celebrations drew to a close and the attention heaped upon them by their friends and family began to ebb, so did his interest in her as anything other than an attainable object to penetrate.

  For years after, as Vihaan lay on top of her, reeking of cigarettes, sweat, and beer, he was unconcerned with the degree of pain he was causing. Her only means of escape was to let her mind drift back to Arjun. She’d recall sneaking out of school to join him on his moped for long, lazy afternoons in the countryside. There and away from prying eyes, they would lie under the shade of the tall trees by a lake and watch as the farmers in the distance harvested their golden crops under the clearest of blue skies. She had never felt more at peace in her life than she had there.

  Today, albeit briefly, Shabana’s freedom had been returned to her. But as she struggled to comprehend what she had been caught up in, she closed her eyes and thought about Arjun again. And if she were able to escape this vehicle, she made a vow to find the money to take her children back to her village so they could find the same beauty in the peace she once had there.

  Shabana looked at the mobile phone in her hand again and willed it to start ringing. She wished she knew how to use it, but her husband had never allowed it. Besides, who would she have called? She had very few friends and she didn’t know anyone’s number. All she wanted was to press the green button as her son, Reyansh, had instructed and talk to him. Then she could tell him that something was happening that didn’t feel right and that she was scared.

  Suddenly, Shabana remembered a number Reyansh had called once when his baby sister Aditya started choking on a grape. Try as she might, Shabana couldn’t get her fingers far enough down the tot’s throat to reach it, so Reyansh typed three nines into the phone, and minutes later, a man in a green-and-yellow car came and saved her daughter’s life. Vihaan gave her two beatings that weekend—one for putting his daughter’s life at risk, and the second for catching her tearfully hugging the paramedic who saved the child’s life.

  Perhaps whoever answered that number might know her son? Nervously, she typed the numbers into the phone, pressed the green button, and held it to her ear. No voice answered; it was just a monotonous tone. She tried twice more but with the same result.

  Reyansh’s words that morning came back to mind. “The world is beautiful beyond these walls if you give it a chance.”

  She must keep her faith in her boy. He was a good son, and she knew that whatever was happening on that television screen, he would never put his mother in harm’s way.

  CHAPTER 28

  YouBetOnIt.com

  LATEST ODDS ON WHICH PASSENGER WILL SURVIVE

  Claire Arden: 1:10

  Sofia Bradbury: 6:2

  Heidi Cole: 10:1

  Sam Cole: 25:1

  Jude Harrison: 75:1

  Shabana Khartri: 100:1

  PLACE BET

  Libby’s throat was dry. She made her way to the corner of the room and reached for a bottle of carbonated water from the fridge next to the tea and coffee urns. It fizzed as she unscrewed the top and took a large mouthful. She felt every pair of eyes upon her.

  She knew what they wanted from her, but she was reluctant to do it. The Hacker had left another of his silences hanging ominously in the air, waiting for her to question what he meant by Jude needing her support.

  Libby was making no headway in trying to persuade the Hacker that his course of action was abhorrent, and it was frustrating the hell out of her. She was also disturbed by how much he knew about her life outside of that room and why he felt the necessity to show the jurors and the world what had happened that day in Monroe Street. Back then, watching that family die had brought back memories of her own family’s darkness, which in turn manifested itself in the return of her panic attacks and, later, her PTSD diagnosis.

  For a mental health nurse, she had suffered almost as much as some of her patients. Much of the time she was able to split herself in two—one was an empathetic, compassionate, and professional nurse, the other, a sensitive and sometimes fragile woman too often haunted by her failings of the past. While such personal traumas gave her a deeper understanding of her patients’ suffering, she feared that, eventually, her employers might insist she was not strong enough for the job and sideline her into something more administrational or supportive. Making her watch and relive that day on Monroe Street so publicly would not help how she was perceived. Her hatred towards the Hacker’s cruelty intensified.

  “I’m done playing his games,” she said. “Someone else can ask what he means.”

  “But he responds better to you,” urged Fiona.

  “Yes,” added Jack. “Perhaps it’s your flirtatious nature.”

  “Shut up, Jack,” Libby snapped. “Just shut up.” His response was a wry smile.

  Libby drank more water and left the bottle on top of the fridge. Then she made her way into the centre of the room and looked up at the twelve screens. Her face was framed by the largest of them, plus five smaller screens that also contained her image via the BBC, CNN, Sky News, MSNBC, and NHK World-Japan news channels. The rest consisted of the Passengers. The unwelcome burden of discovering what the Hacker planned next lay squarely upon her shoulders.

  “If it makes any difference, someone has shot up the popularity ranks,” said Cadman, breaking the room’s uneasiness. “Since that trip down memory lane—or as he calls it, Monroe Street—social media is going nuts for Miss Thing over there.”

  “What are they saying?” asked Matthew.

  “Let’s have a look-see. @cyberagga14 says, ‘#libby is so brave. #girlpower.’ @sky_fits_heaven writes, ‘The only 1 2 stand up against the Hacker. #pussypower.’ And @liquidlove69 says, ‘Heartbreaking. Still bawling my eyes out. Keep strong, Libby.’ The hashtag #respectforLibby is trending across all the platforms. Our girl’s gone global.”

  “One minute they hate my shoes and the next I’m a hero,” Libby deadpanned.

  “Oh, the shoes still aren’
t getting any love,” added Cadman.

  Libby took a deep breath and looked up to the ceiling. “Okay, you win. Why will Jude need my support in the next hour?”

  “I’ve shown you what it’s like to send a person to their death. Now I’m going to demonstrate how it feels to give one of them a life beyond their ordeal. Because over the next hour, you will each decide which of the final six Passengers you would like to save. The Passenger with the most votes from you and the public will be spared when the vehicles collide.”

  “So to save one life, we must send five others to their graves,” said Libby.

  “For every action, there’s a reaction.”

  “It’s another impossible decision.”

  “You said it was impossible last time, but I can’t see Bilquis in her vehicle, can you? You can make anything a reality if you have determination, motivation, and greed. If you don’t believe me, ask Jack.”

  As was becoming more apparent, when the Hacker directed something towards Jack that only the two of them understood, Jack responded with silence.

  “I don’t want to do this,” Libby replied.

  “Keep one alive or kill them all, the choice is yours.”

  “But it’s not a choice, is it?” Libby returned to her seat and held her head in her hands.

  “In hiding behind your position as jurors, you have all made decisions on who has been to blame in accidents without ever learning who the victims really are. To you, they’re only case numbers. But the Passengers sitting before you are more than that. I am going to make your decision a little easier. I’m going to give each jury member the opportunity to lend their support to one Passenger—you will interview them to discover why your fellow jurors and the public should spare their life. You can ask them anything you desire, and it’s up to them how honestly they answer. But I suggest that it’s in each Passenger’s best interest to be as transparent as possible. Then, once everyone has had the opportunity to promote their worth, you and the public will decide upon the sole survivor. Libby, shall we start with you? Who would you like to support?”

  “Jude,” she replied with little hesitation. She could not lose the opportunity to talk to him directly—and perhaps for the last time. She directed her contrived smile in his direction and he reciprocated. I’ll do my best for you, she thought, and for a moment, it was as if he understood her and gave her a look that said, I know.

  “Jack, you’re next,” said the Hacker.

  “Miss Arden. She didn’t ask to have her car hijacked.”

  “And the others did?” asked Matthew.

  “But neither did her unborn child. Surely we can all agree she and her baby must be spared?”

  “Muriel, whose direction are you leaning towards?” the Hacker asked.

  “Shabana Khartri.”

  “Of course,” muttered Jack. “Your devotion to our friends with a darker skin tone is duly noted.”

  “She is a mother to five children who depend on her.”

  “Perhaps one of the questions you could ask her is why has someone who has been in our country for almost twenty years not yet bothered to learn our language? Not that she’d be able to understand you, of course.”

  Muriel rolled her eyes. “You don’t know her circumstances.”

  “We don’t know any of their circumstances. But that small piece of knowledge tells me that she doesn’t value Britain and the opportunities we have afforded her. She has not integrated herself into our society.”

  Libby noted that as Jack spoke, his voice was growing louder and he was positioning himself more in the direction of a camera following him. He’s playing to the audience, she thought. He’s being an MP.

  “So you’re saying we should impose a death sentence upon her because she can’t speak English?” asked Libby. “What about her family? You’re showing yourself up as an old racist, Jack.”

  “Don’t even try and play that card with me,” Jack scoffed. “I’d be saying exactly the same thing if she were white and European. As for her family, she has more than double our national average of children. How old are they?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “So they could be all adults?”

  “She’s thirty-eight, so no.”

  “It’s likely her family are relying on her financially,” Muriel continued.

  “You mean relying on us tax payers financially.”

  “When was the last time you paid any tax?” asked Matthew. “I assume your money is squirrelled away in offshore accounts. Well, it was until the Hacker shared it with the world.”

  Jack ignored him and continued to argue with Muriel. “Would you really be choosing Mrs. Khartri if the cameras weren’t upon us?”

  “Of course!”

  “Because I don’t think that you would. If you’re being truly honest with our audience, then you have only chosen her because you can foresee the drubbing you’d receive by the Asian community you also represent if you didn’t. You have already let down our African viewers by backing the death of Bilquis. If you are seen to allow Mrs. Khartri, a second person of colour, to drive to her death without putting up a fight, then the fragility of your already wafer-thin, irrelevant organisation will crumble to the ground, which, I might add, is where it belongs. I suggest that you are the racist in the room, not I.”

  “Not only are you a bigot, but you’re a bloody idiot too,” Muriel hit back, her nostrils flared and her jaw tensed.

  “Matthew?” asked the Hacker.

  “I choose Heidi for the same reason as Muriel picked Shabana. I don’t want to be the one who leaves two children orphaned. I would prefer not to have that on my conscience.”

  “Oh, so now you choose to have a conscience?” said Jack. “In your time on this jury, you’ve chosen to toe the line and do as you’re told, but once the cameras are on you and you have to answer to the world, you suddenly decide that you care? All of you, you’re hilarious.”

  “And you, Fiona?” asked the Hacker.

  “Sofia Bradbury.”

  “What?” Jack saved his loudest laugh for Fiona. “Of all people, you are choosing to save the life of an actress?”

  “I don’t have to justify myself to you,” Fiona replied.

  “What’s happening to Shabana’s car?” asked Libby suddenly.

  The focus of everyone’s attention was drawn to a screen and Shabana’s car coming to a halt. The unease in Shabana’s eyes was immediate. She kept turning her head to the windscreen and the window behind her. There were moving shadows everywhere.

  “Something’s frightening her,” Libby continued.

  Suddenly, Shabana’s face was replaced by live footage from outside the car, looking in at her through the front windscreen. People swarmed her vehicle like wasps around a nest. The sound returned and the jurors heard her name being chanted, hands banging on the windows, and saw people grabbing at the door-handles, trying to yank them open. The camera switched to a live Snapchat channel as traffic came to a standstill and more people deserted their vehicles to take selfies with the woman trapped in her car. Children were being held aloft by their parents to help them get better views of Shabana and history in the making. Soon the mob was at least fifteen people deep.

  Shabana’s face was contorted by fear, but her screams couldn’t be heard above the cheering and excitement as each new person appeared.

  “They think they’re helping her,” said Fiona. “They think they can get her out.”

  “Why aren’t the police stopping this?” a panicked Libby asked.

  “Some users who are monitoring their communication channels claim teams have been deployed to disperse them,” said Cadman. “They should be arriving there any second now.”

  Libby held her breath until three marked police vans appeared, sirens and lights blazing. Masked officers in riot gear poured from the side door
s, pushing their way through the throng, using their shields and batons to move towards Shabana’s car. In an instant, their heavy-handed approach faced resistance. And as they grew closer to their target, the crowd turned on them. It became an angry mob with fists flying and rocks and debris being hurled at the police.

  A yellow cloud of gas appeared from nowhere, making it harder for the cameras to see what was happening, but the jurors heard screaming coming from adults and children running blindly in different directions.

  “I have a terrible feeling about this,” said Matthew. “Remember what the Hacker said would happen if any of the vehicles were interfered with—”

  He didn’t have the opportunity to finish. Shabana’s car exploded into a fireball, taking out her and scores of people and officers.

  CHAPTER 29

  JUDE HARRISON

  No!” yelled Jude at the sight of Shabana’s car becoming engulfed by flames.

  He slapped himself on each side of his head with the palms of his hands again and again as if it might knock the images out or wake him up from a nightmare.

  Squirming in his seat, he couldn’t take his eyes away from the aftermath of the bomb blast. As the yellow gas dissolved, it was replaced by a thicker, darker fog as the car burned. His perspective alternated between which camera was capturing the clearest and most powerful images. Over the next few minutes, Jude witnessed the angst and confusion as the bloodied and the injured were carried away from the scene; he watched dazed survivors stepping over bodies, some virtually unrecognisable as human, others in tattered clothing and with missing limbs.