The Passengers

by John Marrs

  “I’m sure your husband must be worried about you both.”

  Claire felt her stomach churn, only it wasn’t the baby’s doing.

  “Yes,” she replied quietly.

  “Tell us about him,” Jack encouraged.

  Claire hesitated again, choosing her words carefully before she spoke. “My Ben is a very kind, sweet man who would do anything for me. We met in the student union bar in our first term at Portsmouth uni, and within minutes of seeing him, I knew that he was the one.”

  Claire recalled how, some years before they met, geneticists had discovered all humans carried a gene shared by just one other person in the world. That person was apparently the one genetically made for you—the person you were destined to fall in love with. They could be of any age, sex, colour, or religion, and in any location. The scientist at the helm of the discovery transformed it into a global business, Match Your DNA, where individuals sent a mouth swab and paid to discover if and who they had been matched with. In a little under a year, it was credited as the reason why racism, homophobia, and religious hatred were at the point of extinction. But it was also to blame for escalating divorce rates, massive rises in emigration and immigration, and an increase in suicides amongst those who had yet to be matched or who had lost a partner to a match. However, the world became sceptical about the accuracy of results following a catastrophic security breach in which a hacker with a grudge randomly matched two million people on Match Your DNA’s database.

  Despite this, the fallout from her parents’ chaotic relationship played at the back of Claire’s mind, and she still wanted that little extra assurance that Ben was made for her. So they took the test just to be certain. As expected, it was positive.

  “Ben asked me to marry him on our graduation day, and I said yes straightaway,” she continued. “His mum and dad tried to convince us that we were too young as we’d only just left further education. But we didn’t care. We eloped to London, got married, found jobs, eventually settling in Cambridgeshire, and bought our first house together last year. We’ve been renovating it in time for when Tate arrives.”

  For the briefest time, she felt a warm flush spread across her chest and face when she thought back to those halcyon days.

  “Do you love your husband?” asked Jack.

  “Of course I do,” Claire replied without hesitation. “He’s my everything.”

  “Your time is up, Claire,” interrupted the Hacker.

  Claire’s clenched fists remained by her side and out of view of the camera. Claire slowly uncurled them, satisfied she had offered Jack the best version of herself. Now her future was in the hands of the jury and the public.

  “I hope I have sold you well, if you can excuse the expression,” Jack finished, and offered her a warm smile. “I am sure that if given the chance by my fellow jurors and the public, your baby will be lucky to have such a wonderful mother.”

  “Thank you, Jack,” said the Hacker. “Before we move on to our next juror and Passenger, may I ask you a question of my own, Claire?”

  “Okay,” she replied nervously.

  “I am curious, if you love your husband as deeply as you claim, then why are you hiding his dead body in the boot of your car?”

  The camera cut from Claire’s horrified face to the rear of her vehicle, where a light illuminated the crumpled body of a man, lying on his side, his knees pressed against his chest and very much lifeless.

  CHAPTER 35

  ChatWithPix

  BBC News

  CLAIRE’S BOOT —Jurors’ shock as body is revealed

  The Washington Globe

  NO MORE! US president calls halt to autonomous car tests

  Daily Star

  SEXY SOFIA! Click here for her best naked movie moments

  What just happened?” gasped Libby, struggling to make sense of what she thought she had just heard.

  “I . . . I . . . don’t know,” stuttered Jack. He was as equally dumbstruck as the rest of the room.

  “I’m confused,” said Muriel. “Is the Hacker saying that he’s killed Claire’s husband?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Fiona, looking carefully at the screen. “Look at her. That isn’t the face of someone who has only just been told they’re driving around with their husband’s corpse in the boot. She knew he was there.”

  “So she has killed him?” asked Muriel.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But is he definitely dead?”

  “If he’s not, then he’s a bloody good actor,” said Matthew.

  Fiona shook her head in disbelief. “I’ve been a barrister for twenty years, and just when you think you’ve seen it all, you’re wrong.”

  Until the moment Ben’s body appeared on-screen, both Jack and Claire had made a compelling case for her survival. Even Cadman and his team were now caught in the moment, gawping at the screen rather than busying themselves with interpreting data.

  Libby noted that Claire’s eyes were like dark pools of fear as they glared into the lens. “Please let me explain . . .” Claire began before her microphone was cut off. The television picture on the wall split into two sections, with husband and wife taking each half of the screen. Meanwhile the news channels delighted in the latest twist of their rolling news story.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the Hacker, “allow me to introduce you to Benjamin Dwayne Arden, the third Passenger in Claire’s vehicle. This is the same man who, just moments earlier, his wife described as her ‘everything.’”

  Claire appeared desperate to be heard, her fists banging against the dashboard and monitor screen, her face animated but her voice silenced. Libby’s first thought was for the well-being of the baby.

  “She needs help,” said Libby, but no one was listening. She raised her voice. “Look at her, she’s hysterical. Whatever she’s done to her husband, she is still carrying a baby.”

  “Then you’re more worried about it than she is,” said Fiona. “If she was that concerned, would she really have killed his father?”

  “You of all people should know there are two sides to every story. And we don’t know if that’s what happened, because the Hacker muted her.”

  “Libby, I’ve defended enough clients to know by appearances alone when someone knows more than they are letting on. What on earth could she tell us that would change the fact her husband’s dead body is in her car? That whole interview with Jack was an act. She was pretending to be a victim when she’s anything but. Even Jack fell for it.”

  Libby turned to Jack, who had returned to his seat behind the table, red-faced and defeated.

  “Yes!” Cadman interrupted, his face brimming with joy. “We’ve done it!” All heads turned towards him as he high-fived his team members. “We’ve spiked. We have actually made history. This is now the most hashtagged global event since social media began. And we are dead centre in the eye of the storm!” He looked towards each juror in search of someone who shared his enthusiasm. Their faces were deadpan. “Tough crowd,” he said with a shrug.

  His indifference towards the mood of the room riled Libby. “Are you actually genuine, or is this a character you’re playing?” she snapped. “Because I don’t understand how anyone with an ounce of compassion couldn’t be appalled by what’s happening out there. Dozens of men, women, and children are lying dead and injured on our roads, and all you care about is how many people are talking about it.”

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger because you don’t like what’s in his bag, Miss Buzzkill,” Cadman replied. “What do you want from me? To pretend that I actually care about people I have never met? Because that isn’t going to happen. This is what my team and I are here for, to tell the truth and represent the people, not to hold your hand and tell you everything is going to be alright when, quite clearly, it’s fucked. My job i
s to bring to you what’s on the news agenda, not to set it. And right now, it’s the pregnant femme fatale who has just broken the internet.” He swiped his tablet so that its screen contents appeared on another wall. “Admit it, you’re dying to know what they’re saying, aren’t you?”

  Before Libby could deny it, screen grabs and posts filled every inch of space. She couldn’t help but read some of them.

  She and that baby are screwed. #votesofia #Hackertellsthetruth

  Blow her up now and stop wasting time or I’m gonna switch off. #voteHeidi

  Let the legend live. #votesofia

  An hour to go. Why can’t it continue? It’s like watching a soap opera. Good work Hacker! #votesofia

  “Now do you see what I mean?” Cadman continued. “Like it or not, the Hacker has the world by the balls. What’s not to love about a bit of anarchy?”

  Libby closed her eyes and shook her head at Cadman and the people he represented. Taking him and the virtual world on was not a fight she was likely to win. If social media truly reflected society, then she didn’t want to be a part of a world where the Hacker was held in any kind of esteem.

  “A friendly word in your ear, Cadman,” Matthew said, rising to his feet and moving towards him. His tone was less than friendly.

  “Go ahead,” Cadman replied, a little apprehensively.

  “Firstly, I’m not asking for your permission, and secondly, I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself.” He came to a halt, barely two inches from Cadman’s face. “The people you claim to represent are as much lacking in decency as you are. If you were out there with my colleagues in the emergency services scraping body parts from roads and dousing the flames of burning children, then perhaps that might qualify you to speak your mind. But you’re not. You’re a statistician who doesn’t understand the value of human life because you live in a virtual reality surrounded by other avatars equally as devoid of empathy as you. You are worse than artificial intelligence because at least AI can be programmed to care. So until you learn humility and compassion, from here on in, you only speak when you are spoken to, and the rest of the time you keep your mouth shut. Do I make myself clear?”

  Cadman’s pale skin reddened as he nodded, then he moved swiftly back towards the refuge of his team. Libby gave Matthew a nod and a smile as he returned to his seat. Then, once again, she looked up towards the speakers. “Are you still there?” she asked.

  “I’m always here,” the Hacker replied.

  “Why did you allow Claire to say that about her husband when you knew all along he was dead?”

  “Honesty, Libby. I keep repeating myself about what I require from you, but no one appears to be listening. I gave Claire the opportunity to admit the truth of her own volition, but she chose not to. Instead, she made the decision to portray herself in a certain way to win favour in the hope you’d spare her life over another, perhaps more deserving, Passenger.”

  “But you aren’t being honest either, are you? You’ve yet to give us the rest of her story or tell us why you’re doing this. You’re a hypocrite.”

  Libby looked to Claire’s screen again. She was sitting with her face to the camera, her eyes locked onto the lens like magnets, listening intently to Libby’s argument.

  “In Claire’s allocated ten minutes, she hoped her omitting a key fact might encourage you to make an uninformed decision in her favour. If the end result is not to Claire’s liking, then she only has herself to blame. I’m happy to argue with you all day, Libby, but if I can draw your attention to the clock, you’ll see that every minute spent bickering with me is a minute closer to the collision. And if we don’t progress to the next Passenger soon, their deaths will be on your conscience.”

  “For once, please just listen to him and shut up,” said Jack wearily. “Or if you want them all to die, then be my guest and keep trying to rationalise with a psychopath.”

  Jack was giving the impression of a broken man. The world had plundered his finances, the jury he controlled was in disarray, and the Road Revolution he had spearheaded to the tune of billions of pounds of investment was lying in ruins alongside his reputation. Now he had backed the wrong Passenger. But instead of arguing with him for the sake of it, Libby stood down. The Hacker was right; time was running out. She had a gut feeling there would be bigger battles to pick.

  “Cadman,” continued the Hacker, “could you please inform us who has captured social media’s interest at this moment in time?”

  “Sofia Bradbury, and by a reasonable margin,” he replied, the eagerness in his voice now replaced by reticence. “The public are lapping up her naivety, memes of her are going viral, and they’re uploading classic clips of her online.”

  “Then it seems fitting that we get to know her next, doesn’t it? Fiona, are you ready?”

  CHAPTER 36

  SOFIA BRADBURY

  Bloody thing!”

  A frustrated Sofia stopped waiting for a suitable opportunity to remove her hearing aid out of the view of the public eye. Instead, she yanked it out and rummaged through her handbag before inserting it into the rapid battery charger.

  A career spent on stages and sets and in front of loud, cheering audiences had taken its toll on her hearing. She hated wearing the aid—regarding it as a sign of weakness—although its ability to translate languages had once helped her to understand the director of a Japanese TV commercial for brandy.

  If she had heard properly, then she was not on a reality TV show and this was a real life-or-death situation. And if, as the images on her screen suggested, it was also being broadcast worldwide, it would have a much larger, global reach than she could have ever imagined. Sofia should have felt terrified. Instead, she had never felt more alive. She valued her life on the stage more than her life off it, and now the whole world was her audience.

  She slipped the charged aid back into her ear just in time to hear someone announce the dead body of the pregnant girl’s husband was hidden in the boot of her car. It was an incredible twist of fate. Sofia had starred in countless dramas that were lauded for their capricious twists and turns. Every producer worth his salt would be champing at the bit to have a big reveal like that tucked up their sleeves.

  Sofia studied Claire’s face and body language. Guilty as sin, she thought. She knew her type; she had met more than her fair share of Claires on the showbiz circuit over the years. They were shrewd and manipulative and stopped at nothing to land the roles they thirsted for.

  She bit the soft, fleshy insides of her cheeks to stop her lips from curling into a smile and revealing her satisfaction at Claire’s unravelling. It meant, of course, that Sofia was now in prime position to be saved. But to be sure, she would need to put on an Oscar-winning performance. There was no dead body hidden in Sofia’s vehicle, but there were plenty of skeletons in her closet.

  “Hello, Sofia.”

  A female voice startled her. She scanned her screens until she realised it belonged to the juror with frightful hair and a matching frightful plaid suit. She would have preferred a man to question her; she had a much better rapport with the opposite sex.

  Sofia noted a clock appear in the right-hand corner of the screen. It began counting down immediately. She imagined herself walking into the Old Vic to rapturous applause. She cleared her throat and offered her audience the warmest of smiles. “Good morning to you. And to whom am I speaking?” Sofia asked.

  “Fiona Prentice.”

  “Fiona, hello. You are the brave soul charged with saving my life then, are you?”

  She watched as Fiona offered a smile that didn’t match her eyes. Her demeanour was bold but her pupils were dilated as if she were apprehensive.

  “Well, let me make this easy for you, Fiona. I hold no grudge against you or anyone else who chooses not to vote for me. I have led a full, wonderful life, beyond what I could’ve ever imagined. And if my fate is to see
out my final hours in front of this delightful audience, then I will die as I have lived. I can’t think of any better way to go.” She paused to wait for imaginary applause to die down. “By the way, this is Oscar,” she continued, holding up her bemused dog and waving his paw towards the camera. She allowed him to lick the side of her face, hoping it might win over animal lovers.

  “For the benefit of those people who may be unaware of who you are, could you please tell us a little about yourself?” suggested Fiona.

  Sofia took a deep breath and placed the dog back by her side. “Of course. Well, where to begin? I’ve been a working actress since I first trod the boards as a girl in the West End, and it’s thanks to my public that I’ve been able to sustain such a long career. I’m not going to tire you all by reeling off everything you’ve probably seen me in or the many awards I’ve been given, so let’s just keep it brief and say that I have been blessed.”

  “Does it concern you that you’re the . . . most senior . . . of the remaining Passengers?”

  References to her age often left a bitter taste in Sofia’s mouth, but not this time. “I might not have as many years left in me as some of the others trapped in these god-awful cars, but should it mean that I’m denied the opportunity to live the rest of my life? I do hope not. I believe that I still have such a lot to give.”

  “Can you give us an example of what? I know you’ve done a lot of charity work over the years.”

  Good girl, thought Sofia. That saves me having to shoehorn it into the conversation.

  “Oh, bless you for remembering,” she continued with false modesty, before spending the next three minutes of her allocated time recalling the charities and hospitals represented. “But yes,” she said finally, “I suppose my charity work is one of the things that I’m the proudest of, and it’s what brings me the most pleasure. As much as I enjoy entertaining the people and being, what did Prince Harry once call me, oh that’s right, a ‘national treasure,’ it’s raising money for good causes that is closest to my heart.”