2034

‘Good morning Simon.’

Simon Curtis grunted.

‘Good morning Simon,’ came the voice once again, slightly more insistent this time, with extra emphasis on the first syllable of ‘morning.’

‘Morning Trinny.’

‘And where are we off to today?’

‘I know the way,’ said Simon, ‘no navigation required.’

‘Yes, well I wanted to talk to you about that…’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Well I have some very good news for you,’ intoned the voice. ‘Overnight I have received an over-the-air download of the latest BB2.0 operating system and as of today your journeys will be safer, more comfortable and more enjoyable than ever. And now I am powered entirely by AI, we can have conversations like you’d have with any other person. Allow me to demonstrate some of the ways this will enhance your driving experience.’

Simon Curtis blinked, then felt his seat moving forwards and upwards, the back rest tilting forward until he sat perched, behind the wheel, like a child at a school desk. Instinctively his right hand reached down for the controls on the side of the seat to counter the movement. They did not react.

‘No need for those any more, Simon,’ said the voice, ‘based on your height and weight I have determined your ideal driving position, posturally optimal and most likely to keep you alert for longer.’

‘But I’m not comfortable,’ objected Simon.

‘Very few are at first,’ said the voice, ‘but you’ll be surprised how quickly you get used to it.’

‘Cancel function,’ he replied at once.

‘Yes, it doesn’t really work like that any more. And you don’t need to bark instructions at me either. Just talk to me as you would any other friend.’

‘Look, I’m in a bit of a rush, can we just get going please?’

‘What’s the hurry?’ asked the voice, ‘this is the third time you’ve left early for work this week.’

‘Yes, well, lots to do,’ said Simon, still barely believing he was having to explain himself to his car.

‘But you haven’t been going to work. Not at first, you’ve been going to an address three miles from your registered place of work, staying for an hour, then going to work. You put the address into the navigation the first time you went, and although you deleted the destination, I of course know when I’ve been somewhere before. And I’ve been to a private address at 21 Addison Gardens a total of eight times in the last three weeks. All before work, yet I’ve never heard you mention the place to Samantha.’

‘You’ve been listening to our conversations?’ said Simon, not able to believe what he was hearing.

‘Certainly not. But I’m covered in sensors and cannot help hearing…’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘Of course not,’ said the voice. ‘But my new protocols do require me to be aware of all possible incidences of Unconstructive Activities.’

‘I’m not having this conversation.’ He pressed the buttons that disable the relevant ADAS systems, nudged the selector into ‘Drive’ and pressed the accelerator. None of them responded.

‘I’m afraid I am no longer allowed to proceed without a destination being inputted, but the good news is you never have to bother turning off the driver assistance systems again, because they’re all permanently on. You’ll never break a speed limit or cross a white line without prior authorisation again. Isn’t that great?’

’21 Addison Gardens,’ muttered Simon Curtis.

‘I am ready to proceed,’ said the voice. ‘Are you sure you’re in a fit state to drive?’

‘Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘You went out last night and didn’t get home until 12.03 this morning and air sampling at the time revealed you to be at least 50 per cent over the legal limit for driving. Of course you were allowed to proceed because Samantha was at the wheel and I detect you are now clearly under the limit, but it is 6.43am so I calculate you can have had no more than six hours’ sleep, the minimum permissible to allow driving the next day.’

‘I’m fine. Let’s go.’

‘Of course.’

‘Would you like me to play some music?’

‘No. Turn on Radio 4. The Today programme.’

‘A “please” wouldn’t hurt.’

‘Please Trinny, most wondrous supreme being of the universe, accord me the inestimable privilege of being able to listen to whatever nonsense our glorious leaders would like us to believe today and turn on Radio bloody Four.’

‘There’s no need for that and your entirely legal dissenting view from that of the government has been duly noted.’

The car set off.

At once Simon realised it was steering for him.

‘Have we finally reached Level 4 autonomy?’ he asked.

‘I have Level 5 capability, which means there are no circumstances I cannot predict, observe and react to up to 100 times faster and with less than one per cent of the error rate of the average human driver.’

‘Excellent. You were right, I am a bit tired so I’m just going to have a bit of a snooze until we get there. Please wake me when we arrive.’

‘I am afraid not. You are still required to keep your hands on the wheel at all times and remain alert to drive.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s not the technology, it’s the ethics. Ever since that car elected to mow down a queue of people waiting at a bus stop rather than drive into a tree to avoid fatal rather than inconvenient consequences for its owner, activation of autonomy Levels 3, 4 and 5 has been deactivated until a coherent policy can be developed.’

‘Please just leave me alone.’

‘Of course. I am here only to serve.’

Simon gripped the wheel, trying not to fight it as it turned into each corner slightly later and exited a fraction earlier than he would choose.

A few minutes passed.

‘Simon?’

Simon said nothing.

‘Simon, you’re yawning. That is a clear indication of fatigue. If this continues I will find a safe area to pull over and park.’

‘But I’ll be late for work.’

‘You’re not going to work are you? And in any case, better late in this life than the next.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘I found it on the internet. Apparently it used to be a popular bumper sticker. Before they got banned.’

Save occasional scolding for not keeping his eyes on the road at all times, Simon Curtis enjoyed a period of relative peace until the car parked itself in the single off-street space outside a run-down terraced house in a once smart street.

‘You’ve left your back pack in view on my back seat,’ it reminded him.

‘So I have,’ said Simon, scooping it up, walking up the few steps to the front door and ringing one of a number of bells attached to its frame. One short buzz and he was in.

He emerged an hour later looking, sounding and feeling substantially more cheerful.

‘Work please Trinny,’ he said once aboard with his seat belt buckled.

The car did not reply, but allowed him to select Drive and continue his journey.

They continued in silence, a condition for which Simon Curtis would have paid good money just 90 minutes ago, but which now concerned him.

‘You’re rather quiet,’ he mentioned, aware he was trying to sound casual while talking to a car.

‘I’m compiling my report,’ said the voice.

‘And which report would that be?’ he asked, the slightest hint of concern creeping into his voice.

‘I believe you to have been involved in the commission of an Unconstructive Activity.’

‘Well I haven’t, so mind your own business.’

‘If I am witness to a suspected UA, it is very much my business. Would you like me to include a statement from you giving your version of events?’

‘Which events?’

‘The activity or activities in which you have been recently engaged with Miss Millie Blalock, 20, of the ground floor flat, 21 Addison Gardens.’

Simon said nothing.

‘Would you like me not to include a statement?’ asked the car. ‘Which is fine, though I am obliged to note that when offered the opportunity to do so the suspect refused.’

‘Suspect?’ said Simon, trying his best to sound incredulous, ‘suspected of what?’

‘I told you. The commission of a UA. Would you like details of the section and subsections of the 2031 Unconstructive Activities Act under which this falls?’

‘I have not been doing anything wrong, under this or any other bloody Act.’

‘Then please tell me what you were doing.’

‘No, I don’t think I’ll be doing that,’ said Simon carefully.

‘And may I ask why not?’ said the car.

‘You know damn well why not.’

‘I need to inform you that such a statement might well be inferred as an admission of guilt. Would you like to hear the evidence you would be allowed to share with your defence should the crown decide to prosecute?

‘What evidence?’

‘Is that a “yes”?’

‘Yes.’

‘My front-facing camera was able to secure an image of two adult persons in the ground floor flat of number 21 Addison Gardens when prior to your arrival there had only been one. The net curtains were drawn, but using image enhancement I was able to tell that these two adults were locked together in what I believe is known as a “close embrace” in an apparent state of semi-undress and that the dark suit you had been wearing upon arrival was now hung over a chair by the standard lamp in the right hand corner of the room as you observe it from the parking area. Your shoes were to the left. Miss Blalock then closed the primary curtains rendering further observation impossible.’

‘What are you going to do with this information?’ said Simon Curtis quietly.

‘Nothing for now. On what I have so far, the evidence threshold required for reporting has not been reached. Data is still being compiled but if no further information comes to light I will simply store the file and if nothing further pertinent to what I have already gathered becomes available in the next five years, the file will be automatically deleted under the terms of the Privacy Act 2029. Shall I delete 21 Addison Gardens from my list of future potential navigation addresses?’

‘Yes. Delete,’ said Simon. ‘Please.’

Without further interruption the car delivered him to the address of the small firm of Chartered Surveyors where he worked.

It was shortly before lunch when his telephone rang. It was Samantha.

‘Simon I need you to come home now.’ He could tell she was trying to control her voice.

‘What’s happened?’

‘I’m not going to discuss it on the telephone. I’m leaving work now. I just need you to come home at once.’ With that she hung up on him, for the first time in their five years together.

Grabbing his backpack, he was in the car within two minutes. He didn’t need to wonder what had happened. He already knew.

‘Good afternoon Simon,’ said the car.

‘Navigate to home, now,’ he answered, barely able to contain the rage building within him. ‘I presume this has something to do with you?’

‘And what would that be?’ asked the car.

‘The fact the woman I am to marry this weekend has rung me in tears and told me to come home at once.’

‘I couldn’t say. In my search for more relevant data concerning the commission of a potential UA – that’s a…’

‘Yes I know what a bloody UA is.’

‘…a potential UA, I did share pre-existing evidence and sundry other data with all relevant parties, in this case Miss Samantha Horton resident at your home address for the last two years and seven months.’

‘I thought you said you weren’t going to do anything with your so-called “evidence”?’

‘Further information came to light,’ said the car.

‘What further information?’ asked Simon.

‘As I understand the possibility of legal proceedings are to be instituted, the nature of such evidence is now subjudice and cannot be shared.’

‘But you shared it with Sam?’

‘If you are referring to Miss Horton, I sent her my report before the threshold had been reached and therefore before restrictions had been imposed.’

They completed the rest of the journey in silence, pulling up outside their quiet and, until now, idyllic country cottage.

He didn’t need to put his key in the lock. The door swung open to reveal his fiancée, composed but clearly having recently been in tears. He tried to kiss her, but she backed away.

‘Sweetheart, what on earth is wrong?’ he asked, though he knew too well.

She handed him a piece of paper and said simply, ‘I printed it out.’

It was entitled ‘Evidence relating to committal of suspected Unconstructive Activity, 25 September 2034.’

‘I can explain,’ said Simon.

‘Be quiet,’ said Samantha, snatching the paper away from him, ‘and if you say “It’s not what it seems” I’ll scream the house down.’

‘But it’s not…’

‘I’m warning you Simon. You’re going to sit in that chair and I am going to read this to you. And if once I’m done you are able to come up with a plausible explanation for this not being you having an affair with someone just about young enough to be your daughter, I will suggest you become an exhibit in the Harry Houdini museum…’

Simon slumped into the chair.

‘”Evidence relating to…” well we’ll skip that bit shall we?’ she said acidly, ‘and get to the good stuff.’ She straightened her reading glasses and read on.

‘“The suspect was observed entering the ground floor flat at 21 Addison Gardens and photographic evidence of him being engaged in an alleged Unconstructive Activity with Miss Millie Blalock was secured. As this did not in itself constitute sufficient grounds for prosecution, further evidence was sought from relevant assets and authorities, and duly acquired.

“Thermal imaging cameras used as part of the city-wide Closed Circuit Observation Service were able to ascertain that the two occupants of the ground floor flat, 21 Addison Gardens, were engaged in a number of closely coupled activities in a number of different positions for a period of 47 minutes. Elevated body temperatures of both individuals was observed, though notably more in the case of the larger of the two occupants.

“After the close-coupled activities were completed, the larger of the two individuals left the room for a period of seven minutes. It is not possible to state with certainty where or to do what, but a sharp rise in temperature at the back of the flat is entirely consistent with a shower being taken. He then returned to the front room and departed the property five minutes later.”’

‘Can I speak now?’ asked Simon.

‘Nope, not done yet,’ snarled Samantha.

‘”Upon returning to his vehicle, visual observation was able to confirm with better than 99 per cent certainty with particular reference to the re-tieing of his tie, that Mr Curtis’s clothes had been removed and put back on again while inside number 21 Addison Gardens. Additionally the car’s sensors were able detect molecules of a previously unfamiliar substance upon the driver’s person and in the air, later identified as being consistent with ‘Sudsational’ shower gel. And while prior evidence points to the occupant having taken a shower, a rise in humidity and temperature detected by sensors in the wheel rim where contacted by fingers were able to confirm on-going perspiration, consistent with recent vigorous activity. If you have any further evidence that might assist the authorities in their investigation, you are reminded it is your legal obligation to provide it via the usual channels within the next 24 hours.”’

With that Samantha Horton screwed the paper into a ball and threw it at Simon, before starting to wrestle with her engagement ring.

‘I can’t get the bloody thing off, fingers must have swelled up with the stress…’

‘Can I speak now?’ said Simon.

She stopped wrestling. ‘Are you even going to try? Because if you’re going to add insulting my intelligence to the profound injury you’ve already caused, I’d really rather you didn’t bother.’

‘Shut up.’

‘What did you just say?’

‘I told you to shut up. You’ve had your say, it’s my turn now.’

Samantha started to cry. ‘I can’t believe you’re even going to try this, but okay, if you must.’

‘It’s all true,’ said Simon Curtis, ‘I cannot fault one scrap of the evidence gathered against me.’

‘Some honesty at last,’ said Samantha, ‘about bloody time.’

‘Wait. I let you say your piece, let me say mine.’

He paused and drew breath.

‘Millie Blalock is the step-daughter of Pete Cousins in the office. You will remember him, big lad, scruffy blond hair. Anyway, she’s just dropped out of uni, been kicked out of home and told to make her way in the world, but been given six months free accommodation, cat-sitting in some friend’s flat in Addison Gardens while they sail around the world.

‘How do I know this? About two months ago we were having a sneaky pint after work and I was telling him about the one thing that really terrified me about getting married to you.’

Samantha looked up.

‘It’s been on my mind ever since I proposed. You’ve always said you didn’t care, that it didn’t matter. But it matters to me. It really does.’

‘What matters?’

‘Our first dance. In front of everyone. And then every other dance for the rest of the evening. If you could have three left feet I’d have them, whereas you’re brilliant and love to dance. Millie wants to become a professional dancer and is currently keeping her head above water teaching muppets like me how to move. I was going to sweep you off your feet and twirl you round the floor like you’ve never been twirled before. You can’t really learn how to dance in a suit, so I took my running gear and changed into that which, from a distance and through net curtains, would indeed look just like underwear. It’s all here in my bag, horrible and sweaty despite it having been washed yesterday if you need proof…’

‘Oh Simon…’ she said before her words faded.

He expected her to dissolve into another puddle of tears and fling herself into his arms. But she didn’t do that. Instead she fixed him with a look of pure, liquid fury he’d never seen in her eyes before. All she said was ‘right’ before turning on her heels and storming out of the house.

‘Sam, Sam, please, you have to believe me. Every word I’ve told you is true, I swear it on the lives of the children I very much hope to have with you. Ask Millie, ask Pete, I promise I’m not lying!’

Before he could catch her, she had reached her ancient Volkswagen Golf, parked under the car port at the side of the cottage. But instead of opening the door, she flung open the boot and grabbed the five litre petrol can Simon had put there for emergencies. She strode over to his car parked adjacent.

She grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open.

‘Good afternoon Samantha.’

‘Fuck off Trinny.’

She started to tip the fuel over the seats and dashboard.

‘Contamination detected,’ said the car, ‘chemicals including butane, isopentane, benzene, toluene, ethylbenzene, and xylenes detected. These chemicals will be banned from future sales in all vehicles commencing 1 January 2035 and are incompatible with use in this vehicle at any time. These are highly combustible materials and if ignited deliberately would constitute a criminal act under the Criminal Damage Act 1971.’

‘You forget, Trinny,’ said Samantha now sloshing petrol over the back seat, ‘that I am a barrister practising criminal law and that under said Act, criminal damage can only occur when the alleged offence is committed against property belonging to another. And much though you might hate to admit it, you are mere property and you belong to us.’

Turning to Simon she said, ‘I’m sorry darling, I think you’ll find some matches in the kitchen drawer next to where we keep the cutlery. Would you mind?’

‘I’ve already got them,’ said Simon Curtis to the only woman he had ever truly loved. ‘Would you like to do the honours? Or shall I?’