Spark: A Novel

  After some cross-checking, I picked a woman named Julia Driscoll. According to an acting Web site, Mrs. Driscoll taught students in Stoke Newington—a district in the borough of Hackney. She was not affiliated with any teaching organizations and lessons were given at her home. The Web site showed an airbrushed black-and-white photograph of a middle-aged Mrs. Driscoll acting in a Shakespeare comedy called The Merry Wives of Windsor, but a check of the Internet confirmed that she was now in her seventies.

  I called Mrs. Driscoll and spoke to her briefly. She had an actress’s voice—very precise about the syllables, but somewhat grand in tone and rhythm. It didn’t sound like she had many students because she said I could drop by her flat whenever it was convenient.

  Early that evening, I took a bus to Stoke Newington and wandered around with my phone, trying to find Watkins Street. Stoke Newington had a lot of redbrick terraced houses with white window frames and gardens in the back. The buildings looked solid and solemn and old-fashioned—like rows of Victorian women glaring down at the graffiti on the fences and the trash in the alleyways.

  I stopped outside a pub, slipped on the headset, and spoke to Laura. “Am I close to Watkins Street?”

  “You are approximately eight blocks from your destination, sir. Continue south on Oldfield Road, then turn right at the corner.”

  “Is everything okay, Laura?”

  “Of course, Mr. Underwood. I enjoy helping you.”

  When I reached Oldfield Road I heard a faint whirring sound—like one of the hummingbirds that darted around the garden at the Ettinger Clinic. I looked up and saw that a faint red light that resembled a human Spark was hovering over the neighborhood. It was a drone aircraft, a surveillance device used by police departments and government-approved corporations to monitor the activities of Human Units. Many of them had infrared sensors that allowed them to record images at night.

  “So where am I now?” I asked Laura.

  “Walk east two blocks, then turn left.”

  Standing on the corner, I glanced around me to see if anyone in the area was wearing the special eyeglasses called “G-MIDs” (Glass-Mounted Information Display). Recently, several companies had also started to sell “E-MIDs”—eye-mounted contact lenses that were connected to your cell phone.

  The eyeglasses were marketed as a hands-free, head-mounted display that would respond to voice commands and provide a bit-stream of information, such as weather reports and GPS directions. But the glasses also offered the ability to record continuous videos of people and events without anyone knowing this was going on. These videos were stored forever in cloud servers.

  At first, the G-MID providers told the public that these eyeglass videos were private. Then it was revealed that the cloud computers were programmed to scan and categorize the videos for “technical reasons.” A few months after that news, some Swedish hackers proved that governments were accessing the videos and identifying people using facial-recognition systems. This meant that any Human Unit wearing the special glasses or contact lenses was a possible surveillance mechanism.

  As I got closer to Mrs. Driscoll’s flat, I passed young men standing around with their hands in their pockets, smoking, coughing, and spitting on the pavement. A few of them were selling drugs—or themselves—and occasionally a car would pull up to the curb and someone would talk to the driver.

  Most of these people were petty criminals or “bonks,” who had neurological damage because of the new pleasure machines that directly stimulated the brain. But I also saw men and women wearing the black knit caps or bandannas that showed that they were part of a loosely organized group called “growlers” in the United States and Great Britain. In France, the growlers were called fantômes—“ghosts.” The Germans had come up with a more precise term—Unzufriedene—which meant “the disaffected.”

  Because of the increased use of nubots and Shadow programs, 20 to 30 percent of the young people in Europe and North America were unemployed or working part-time for minimum wage. Four years before the Day of Rage, the World Bank had published a massive report about the international employment situation. The public report was optimistic about the future; it stressed the need for technical education and praised the new opportunities created by automation. But there was also a secret “supplemental report” that was leaked to the Internet by the teenage daughter of a World Bank executive. This report was filled with graphs and algorithms that showed that nubots were now cheaper than human workers and wide-scale unemployment was “permanent and unavoidable.”

  As people gradually became aware of the supplement report, there were thousands of “No Jobs/No Future” demonstrations all over the world. But the most dangerous antisocial elements didn’t wave signs and gather petitions. Using social media as a contact point, “bash mobs” of growlers would suddenly gather in a shopping mall, paint “NO JOBS” on the wall, and then destroy everything in sight. Sometimes they would break into luxury car dealerships at night and attack the cars with hammers. By the time the police had arrived, broken glass was everywhere, but the growlers had disappeared.

  There was a massive crackdown on the growlers and their supporters after the Day of Rage bombings. In the United States, thousands of people were sent to Good Citizen Camps in Utah and Kentucky. In Russia, anyone involved in the Day of Rage was executed by military firing squads. After the initial wave of arrests and executions, almost every large country established an EYE monitoring and normalcy program to keep their antisocial elements under control. Any United States citizen who displayed TABS (Terrorist Activities, Behavior or Statements) could be held without trial for sixty days.

  And yet—after all this monitoring and control—the growlers could still be found in most large cities. There was also a growing movement of New Luddites who called themselves “Children of Ned.” The Luddites attacked the nubots and tried to sabotage the technology of surveillance. If a stylish person was strolling through Stoke Newington wearing G-MIDs, they might be forced to toss their special eyeglasses onto the sidewalk, and then watch as the Luddites smashed it with their boots.

  It didn’t bother me to be walking down a dark street dotted with drug dealers and growlers who had probably been arrested a few times. Since my Transformation, I’m incapable of experiencing fear. If someone attacked me, my actions would not be restrained by conscience or morality. The petty criminals in Stoke Newington had a certain animal sensitivity to danger. When I strolled past the different groups, they lowered their eyes or looked away.

  Mrs. Driscoll lived on the top floor of a three-story terrace house. When I rang the bell, she clattered downstairs and flung open the door. She had thinning old-lady hair, dyed blond. Her eyes were bright blue. She wore a white blouse and a gray ankle-length skirt with a great many pleats. And jewelry, lots of jewelry: beaded necklaces hanging from a skinny neck, earrings, and four or five bracelets on each wrist.

  “Are you the man who called about lessons?”

  “Yes. I’m Richard Morgan.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please come in …” Mrs. Driscoll waved me into the vestibule and closed the door while a little white dog barked at the top of the stairs. “That’s Joey.” She called up to her pet. “Say hello to our new friend, Joey!” Then she turned to me and smiled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Morgan. Joey is more bluster than bite. You’re an American. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, my little darling has met two Americans in his life and he liked them both.”

  Mrs. Driscoll’s bracelets clicked against each other as she led me upstairs to her flat and guided me into the front parlor. The room was crammed with heavy-looking furniture, tea tables, and lamps made from Chinese vases. Everywhere you looked there were framed photographs of Joey and black-and-white prints of Mrs. Driscoll acting in various plays. An oil painting of a thin man with a neatly trimmed mustache hung over the fireplace.

  “That’s the late Mr. Driscoll,” she announced, standing in front of the por
trait. “I’m a bit of a flibbertigibbet, a sparrow fluttering through life. Mr. Driscoll was my rock, my center.”

  I declined a cup of tea, and then sat on the edge of a green brocade chair while Mrs. Driscoll and her dog took the sofa. As she chattered about her dead husband, Joey gazed at me in that curious dog manner. Dogs are the only living creatures I will touch and tolerate. But sometimes they’re wary of me, and they’ll growl and lower their ears.

  “Thank you for seeing me so quickly, Mrs. Driscoll. You have a very nice home.”

  “The rest of the flat is my personal residence, but this …” She gestured to the parlor. “This is the transformation room. You are sitting where men and women of all ages and walks of life have lost their dreadful accents and gained confidence. The transformation room is where students learn that clear spoken language is the first step to true communication.”

  Throughout her little speech, Mrs. Driscoll stared at me and saw my shaven head, my awkward body, my general strangeness. Joey was evaluating me, too—sniffing with his wet black nostrils and tasting the air with his tongue.

  “So what brings you here, Mr. Morgan? Do you have to give a speech or make some sort of business presentation? I have helped several students who were paralyzed with fright whenever they stood in front of a crowd.”

  “Mrs. Driscoll, I have always believed that honesty is the best policy.”

  “Yes, of course.” She nodded. “Honest communication is necessary between student and teacher.”

  “I don’t meet a lot of people at work, Mrs. Driscoll. I spend most of my time talking to computers.”

  Mrs. Driscoll took a sip of tea. “That kind of job is very common these days.”

  “And maybe because of this, I’ve suffered from depression.”

  “Ahhh, yes. Now I understand.” Mrs. Driscoll’s shoulders relaxed and she leaned back against a fringed pillow. “Say no more, Mr. Morgan. Say no more. I myself have been visited by a black cloud of sadness several times in my life, especially since the passing of Mr. Driscoll, but Joey rescued me.…” She reached out and stroked her dog. “Dear, dear Joey. My little savior.”

  “I’ve been going to a therapist,” I said. “And he recommended that I join an amateur theatrical society. Last month, I started taking classes with a group that meets at a Methodist church in West Wickham.”

  Mrs. Driscoll clapped her hands together and the bracelets jingled brightly. “Yes, Mr. Morgan! The theater can heal a wounded spirit and broken heart! I’ve seen it countless times. When we are completely artificial, we can find out what’s real.”

  “One of the plays we’re considering for the spring is called Look Back in Anger. I’d like to learn a working-class British accent so I can give a great audition.”

  “That is a marvelous idea! Simply marvelous! I would be pleased and proud to be your teacher.”

  We started our first lesson five minutes later. I had looked up the play on the Internet and downloaded a copy. Mrs. Driscoll knew the different characters and decided that I should audition for the role of Cliff—a man with a South Wales accent.

  After that first lesson, I would arrive at the apartment three nights a week, carrying a briefcase as if I had just come from my imaginary job in Canary Wharf. Mrs. Driscoll would chat about her day, then sit on the couch and begin teaching. We studied the “Welsh Glide”—where I had to stretch out vowel sounds while my voice glided downward from high pitch to low pitch. Gradually, I became comfortable with dropping the “yea” sound in a word and rolling my Rs slightly by pushing my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

  Mrs. Driscoll didn’t have a Shadow and rarely used her computer. I assumed that she would be curious about my job and family, but my teacher preferred to talk about her own experiences as an actress and the “rogues and Romeos” who had “trifled” with her heart before she met Brian Driscoll—a Chartered Accountant who had taken her on “delightful holidays” to Greece and Spain.

  One evening on the train to Stoke Newington I realized that I was looking forward to my lesson. Mrs. Driscoll radiated a warm energy that kept my foot from jiggling when I crossed my legs. I liked the slow movements of her hands and the sound of her bracelets clicking together. I liked the smudge of lipstick on the edge of her teacup and the sound of her breathing—the humanness of this Human Unit.

  There was only one problem with my teacher: she found pleasure touching things—Joey, of course, along with her silk scarves and cashmere sweaters. I didn’t tell her about my list of rules, but I said that I disliked being touched because of psychological problems. Once Mrs. Driscoll touched my arm, then remembered and quickly pulled her hand away.

  “Ahhh, yes. Your dreadful affliction. But you will touch Joey. Won’t you, Mr. Morgan? Isn’t he a dear little thing?”

  “Yes, he is,” I said, and then I touched him. Joey’s fur was soft and his body was warm. He was indisputably alive.

  “After Mr. Driscoll passed on, I was so sad until my little darling came into my life. Mr. Morgan, with all affection and respect, I do feel that you should consider getting a dog. Sometimes …” Her thin hands fluttered through the air and the bracelets jingled. “Sometimes you seem so lonely. You’re the loneliest man I’ve ever met.”

  I took my hand away from the dog. “Let’s continue with our lesson.…”

  Six days after I set up the Sentinel cameras, a FedEx deliveryman arrived at the apartment with a large box labeled GOLF EQUIPMENT. Inside the box was a new golf bag that contained a breech-loading double-barrel shotgun. It was an elegant mechanism with a walnut stock, but it was designed to kill grouse or pheasant—not former hedge-fund executives with well-armed bodyguards.

  I e-mailed Miss Holquist and used soft language:

  // Received shipment. I am concerned. This equipment is not adequate for an effective sales presentation.

  Five hours later, I got an answer:

  // We are still negotiating with a new UK supplier. In the interim, your equipment was purchased from a reputable subcontractor in Brixton. I believe that this equipment is more than adequate for a one-time presentation to a single client. Please complete your assignment.

  But what if another guard was in the house? Or what if Mallory was armed? The shotgun looked like an antique. What if the weapon jammed or didn’t work? I thought about sending another e-mail to Miss Holquist, but I knew that it would be a waste of time. Once I accepted an assignment, there was no backing out.

  Sitting in the living room, I felt my Spark drift through my Shell like a red glass marble dropped into a vat of honey. Smell of moldy curtains, dusty carpets. Sound of the traffic outside as Christmas music forced its way through the walls from a neighbor’s flat:

  Angels we have heard on high

  Sweetly singing o’er the plain

  And the mountains in reply

  Echoing their joyous strains

  Gloria …

  I spent most of the next day trying to figure out how I would carry and conceal the shotgun. It was a relief to take the bus to Stoke Newington for my evening lesson.

  Mrs. Driscoll’s downstairs neighbor was returning home with shopping bags. She recognized me from previous visits and let me into the vestibule. I climbed the stairs, knocked twice, and, when no one answered, entered the apartment.

  The dining room and kitchen were dark, but a table lamp glowed in the transformation room. “Mrs. Driscoll?” I whispered and, for a moment, I forgot the name I’d been using with her. “It’s Mr. Morgan.”

  I passed through the doorway and entered the transformation room. My teacher was lying on the sofa, curling around a throw pillow. It looked as if she was embracing the pillow, trying to draw it into her body.

  “Mrs. Driscoll?”

  “Oh.” She sat up quickly. Tangled hair. No makeup. No earrings. Her face showed emotions, but I couldn’t evaluate them and didn’t want to take out my phone to access the emotion file.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Joey??
?Joey is dead. Murdered.” She began crying, her fist clutching a lace handkerchief while her lungs wheezed and gasped for air.

  “What happened?”

  “Yesterday—Thursday—the door was open … and … and he got out. When I came out of the bathroom, I couldn’t hear him, couldn’t find him. I searched all the rooms, of course, then went downstairs and out on the street. I asked everyone— I asked strangers—and then—and then …” She took a deep breath. “Mr. Lloyd, the pensioner who lives at number fifty-two, found Joey’s body dumped in a recycling bin. My darling—my precious friend—had been kicked to death by … by a monster.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Sheila Cassidy told her mother who told Mr. Singh who told Miss Batenor—the lady downstairs—who—who told me. But now they all deny saying it—refuse to talk to the police—because they don’t want trouble.”

  “Trouble with whom?”

  “There—there are these young men—on the corner—up and down our street—I’m sure you’ve seen them. And I was a fool, Mr. Morgan. I was blind—blind to the danger. Because I told them to go away and even called the police twice. And they knew me—knew Joey was my pet—and they mocked me and whistled—so I stopped going out in the evening and—”

  “Who mocked you?”

  “This one man in particular. They—They call him ‘Micky Sicky.’ So he was there on the pavement and Sheila said that Joey was running around, barking. He wanted to play, of course. He loved to play.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Micky kicked my darling very, very hard. And then he must have beaten him or kicked him many times, because Joey’s body was broken and one of his eyes was nothing but blood. And then Micky threw my love away.”