Closed Horizon

by Peter Lantos

Genres: Cyberpunk; Dystopian

Synopsis

The year is 2032. Mark Chadwick is a brilliant psychiatrist who is on the verge of a major scientific breakthrough. By combining functional imaging of the brain with computer technology, he can not only predict intentions but also decode human thought processes. It is this discovery which immediately attracts the attention of Robert Dufresne, a senior officer in Home Security who is determined to use this novel technique in the fight against the enemies of the Surveillance State...

Release date: May 14, 2014

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 104

Sample

Proclamation Day, Monday 22 October 2040, for the Republic of Great Britain, dawned with a downpour of biblical proportions. The storm was as violent as it was unexpected. Having a tropical storm in October was further evidence, the commentators later stated, that despite draconian legislation to reduce the pollution of the atmosphere, the planet was heading for environmental disaster. Older people with long memories recalled an October night in 1987 when an unexpected storm, created by ferociously strong winds reaching hurricane force in places, struck sleeping London and a large swathe of south-east England with devastating effect, leaving many dead people and millions of uprooted trees in its wake. Then as now, the Met Office failed to issue a warning.

Only superstitious people with the benefit of hindsight had claimed afterwards that the freak storm was a harbinger of the drama played out a few hours later in the Olympic Stadium, completely refurbished for the occasion.

The newly elected President was ten minutes into his speech. It was a brilliant oration: a firework display of phrases unburdened by any original thought; a roll call of well-rehearsed clichés. Oft-repeated justification for abolishing the monarchy. The anachronism of the old system. The case for the disestablishment of the Church of England. The threat of religious extremism. The never-ending terrorist menace. The poison of religion; of all religions. The inequality of the old system. The necessity of state control while maintaining individual rights. Comprehensive state education. Rewards in all walks of life according to achievements. Reinforcing the armed services. The promise of a bright future. One nation, one goal.

In his glass observation room, suspended high above and invisible to the crowd, the officer from Home Security responsible for the smooth running of the ceremony gradually relaxed as the speech neared its conclusion. None of his agents, carefully dispersed in strategic positions throughout, reported the slightest signs that might have indicated any disturbance or even a medical emergency. With his visor he scanned the stadium and then zoomed onto the presidential box until individual VIPs came sharply into focus. On the presidential face he could even study the remnants of a small spot which impatient presidential fingers had prematurely tried to remove, leaving behind an untidy bloody crust.

Suddenly, on an impulse that he could not explain even later, as his visor wandered to survey the crowd at random, he singled out a middle-aged woman sitting a few yards from the presidential box. She opened her handbag and delved into it with her right hand. A second later she withdrew her hand now covered with a thin silk scarf. From her seat she had an excellent view of the presidential box. For a split second the officer held the visor glued to the face of the woman, as if paralysed, recording every little detail: short-cropped auburn hair, no make-up, brown eyes, two-piece rust-coloured suit with a cream silk shirt beneath. No wedding ring on her left hand and the only jewellery she was wearing was a pearl necklace that looked both simple and expensive. A professional woman in her mid-forties, he thought, but even before completing his surveillance he realised he could wait no longer. The woman lifted her arm. The silk scarf slid down to reveal a gun.

At that moment the President ended his speech, and his last words were drowned in thunderous applause. For a second the officer was stunned by the noise coming through the open panel of his observation pod, reverberating and amplified. Then he picked up the gun and steadied his arm. Through the visor, the head of the unknown woman swam sharply into focus. As she was turning towards the presidential box, he drew a deep breath and targeted her left temple.

Those who were sitting around her suddenly realised what was happening. The officer saw the frozen fear and disbelief on their faces.

I cannot fail, he thought. To ease the final hurdle, he said aloud: ‘I cannot fail.’

And then he pulled the trigger.

His naked body was drenched in sweat and his pillowcase was damp. He raised his head, using this movement to prevent himself from sinking back into the nightmare. The bedroom was still and silent: only the two ill-fitting shutters allowed a shaft of street light to seep through. In the darkness, he could sense rather than see Yasmina curled up next to him. She lay motionless, in a foetal position, deep in sleep, unaware of the impending dawn. Her even breathing reassured him. He looked at the old-fashioned alarm clock on the glass bedside table: it was half past four. Gently, so as not to disturb her, he pushed back the thick linen sheet and the woollen rug. Still shaken by the nightmare and unsteady on his feet, he made his way to the bathroom.

As he entered, all the lights came on: he had forgotten to override the automatic sensor by switching the control to night mode. For a few seconds he stood, blinded and paralysed. He sat on the edge of the bath for a while, the contact with the cool marble calming him down. He longed for a shower: the jet of cold water would finally release him from the grip of the night. He chose the large walk-in shower at the far end of the bathroom. Standing motionless under the cool stream of water coming from all directions, he finally resurfaced from the nightmare. The sprays stopped automatically as he stepped out and closed the heavy glass door of the shower behind him. He picked up one of the bath towels, rubbing and patting his body dry with the routine of an athlete. By now completely awake, he stood in the middle of the bathroom. Without looking at the mirror, he surveyed his body with detached objectiveness. He was not displeased by what he saw.

Mark Chadwick was thirty-two years old, and at 190 centimetres, taller than average with a well-proportioned body. Rowing in the summer, skiing in the winter and a weekly workout followed by a half hour swim kept him in good shape.

‘Not bad for a doctor,’ he used to say to fend off unsolicited comments in the gym. The mirror, framing his entire upper body to the point where the thin trickle of abdominal hair from the navel widens into the pubic tufts, reflected a smooth chest. He had black hair, one unruly lock falling over his forehead whenever he moved. This had annoyed him as a child, when he always opted for a short crop, and only at medical school had he allowed it to grow back. In recent years he had frequented an old-fashioned barber in Jermyn Street in whose shop he left a small fortune. Since Anne and now Yasmina both liked his hairstyle, it had hardly changed during the last decade.

He had inherited his mother’s green eyes and long eyelashes. His lips, under a straight nose that betrayed a small scar, the result of a fracture suffered during a childhood brawl, had the plasticity of those whose friendly gestures are accompanied by a natural smile. Having finished this unscheduled night survey of his body, he returned to the bedroom.

After the brightness of the bathroom, it took a few seconds to adapt to the gloom. Gingerly, he climbed back into bed. Yasmina was still fast asleep, but her body had by now uncurled, and she was lying on her back with her right arm bent around her head, as if to frame it. The outline of her body was barely visible under the blanket. Looking at her he felt a sudden urge to make love but he dared not to move. At that moment Yasmina, still asleep, turned towards him, and Mark used this sudden intimacy to draw her close against his body. She opened her eyes and as he entered her, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

The alarm went off at exactly seven o’clock. When Mark finally awoke, the space next to him was empty. Yasmina had already gone. Only the rumpled sheets were witness of their lovemaking; the large woollen rug lay on the floor. Through the closed bathroom door he could hear running water. Mark got up and put on a dark blue towelling dressing gown. He walked to the windows to open the shutters: a ritual he cherished each morning.

The shutters had survived two centuries; even their flat, heavy metal bolts were original. This terraced house on the eastern side of Regent’s Park was built by Nash in 1827 and many of its original features survived. Mark loved the house and counted himself fortunate to own it. Before their tragic deaths, his parents had lived in this house, and he envisaged that one day his children would grow up here. Unlike its more pretentious neighbours, this terrace was one of Nash’s less bombastic designs, and what it lacked in grandeur was amply compensated for in the charm and the welcoming scale of its internal architecture.

He lifted the bolt from its holder and folded the shutter back into the architrave: first the left window away from the bed and then the right one, never the other way around. The beginning of the day was defined by never changing small rituals. Regent’s Park lay in front of him in its autumn colours. The sun glinted on the cream stucco of the terraces, and he could survey the expanse of Cumberland Green and the trees beyond.

It was one of those exquisite October mornings when low-lying mist swims to cover the lawn and to swirl around tree trunks, before slowly lifting as the sun rises. Most of the trees still retained their leaves in the mild weather, but the first night frosts painted them yellow, rust and red. In the strip of sloping garden immediately in front of their house, the Japanese acer still had its full crown of deep purple leaves; few had been parched by the summer sun. A late blooming fuchsia still produced masses of crimson and deep purple blooms, its thinner branches bowed under the weight of flowers. The white geraniums in the antique lead planters by the iron railings also ignored the changing season, but the white lobelias planted amongst them had not survived.

The air was still. No one was around. Dew covered the windscreens of the cars; it was too early for the neighbours to start their engines. Yet he could hear the distant whoosh of the commuters’ cars on the Outer Circle, as they made their way from north London and the commuter belt beyond the M25 into central London and the City. Even in rain or under a grey sky, the view from his bedroom window never failed to lift his spirits. This early morning tranquillity formed a safe bridge between the night spent and the uncertainties of the coming day.

Mark and Yasmina’s morning routine was a well-oiled affair. Although there was another bathroom on the floor above, they both used the one next to their bedroom. Since to prepare the breakfast was, by mutual agreement, Mark’s task, he usually had first use of the bathroom. However, this morning was an exception and after Yasmina had finished her bath, Mark stepped back from the window and made his way to the bathroom. After another quick shower he dried himself, and from one of the built-in wardrobes in the adjoining dressing room he picked a lightweight grey suit with fine blue stripes and a light blue shirt. He selected a dark blue tie with a small white diamond pattern and put it into his briefcase; he would only tie it on arrival at the Institute.

From the master bedroom on the second floor, he walked down the elegant staircase: every step and the balustrade were original. As he entered the large drawing room on the first floor to collect some material for his seminar with his students later in the morning, he noticed that one of the two large sash windows of exquisite proportion that ran to the floor and opened onto a narrow balcony had been left open for the night. Yasmina again, he murmured, more with affection than irritation.

The kitchen, facing east, was flooded with the watery sunshine of autumn. The only blemish in the idyllic setting was nearby Albany Street – a road of fast, relentless traffic and a source of noise and pollution. Preparing breakfast for Yasmina did not take long: the menu was simple and barely changed during the week. Freshly squeezed orange or grapefruit juice, cereal and cups of freshly made coffee. He switched on Radio 3: the last movement of a Haydn symphony filled the kitchen. There was an unspoken agreement between him and Yasmina: they would not watch or listen to the news during their breakfast, preventing the intrusion of the outside world.

As Mark was putting the spoons on the glass table, he heard Yasmina’s footsteps on the stairs. She was wearing a pair of tight-fitting, bleached jeans, emphasising her slim figure, a pale green polo neck sweater and dark blue suede moccasins. She looked stunning in the morning sunshine: a traditional Indian beauty, as many of Mark’s friends commented with their eyes usually languishing on Yasmina’s perfectly formed breasts.

Her dark brown hair, cut to a fashionable length barely touching her shoulders, framed an oval face that was dominated by brilliant brown eyes. With the exception of a pale lipstick applied more as a moisturiser than as additional colour to draw attention to her sensuous lips, she did not wear any make-up nor did she need to – her skin was luminous. She was tall for a woman but exactly in proportion to Mark: they were a perfect couple.

Over breakfast, as usual, they discussed the coming day. Yasmina had an early appointment at the British Library with one of her PhD students, Ted. The rest of the day was free for her research. Finishing her coffee, Yasmina stood up, and, bending over, kissed Mark tenderly on the top of his head, waved goodbye from the kitchen door and was gone.

For a couple of minutes Mark remained seated and watched, nearly motionless, as a ladybird climbed up the stalk of a geranium leaf in the box on the windowsill. It is time, he thought, to turn out these flowers damaged by early morning frost and replace them with mini-cyclamens, much loved by Yasmina.

He stood for a few moments, thinking about her. Mark had no doubt that it was her presence that animated their home. He knew that he owed a lot of his happiness at home – and success at work – to her support and understanding. The aura of her presence, like a strong perfume, permeated the entire house. Even after she left, an invisible imprint of her being lingered for a couple of minutes before the rooms became lifeless and closed down, waiting for her return. Without her the whole house was dead: a series of rooms which he could survey with the satisfaction of possession but without any emotional attachment, as if flicking through a glossy interior design magazine in the waiting room of his dentist in Upper Wimpole Street.

He stood up, cleared the table, checked the screen of the mini-portable and gave a sigh of relief. The registration number of his car, LS 39 VMR was flashing. His car was cleared to drive through central London to work. Mark, being a doctor, enjoyed priority, but despite this privilege, he had to confirm every morning whether, as a result of an increase in pollution or unforeseen emergency roadworks, private cars would be banned for the day from entering central London.

Cars did not have any particular attraction for him: they were neither status symbols nor phallic expressions of virility like some of the more esoteric sports cars now out of fashion, but mere vehicles of convenience to carry him from one place to another. Currently, he was the satisfied owner of a dark blue electric Volkswagen of last year’s registration.

He was delighted with the news that he could drive, since the alternative would have taken much longer: a short brisk walk to Camden Town underground station to take the Northern Line to Elephant and Castle and then the rest of the journey on one of the buses to Camberwell Green. This morning he was particularly eager to get to work, for the new series of experiments scheduled to start today filled him with expectation. He might begin to see the fruits of many months of planning.

He picked up his car key from the hall table. His car, parked in the private driveway in front of the house, was waiting for him.

Driving south on the Outer Circle was a pleasure. The park had always captured him with its calming effect. He resented the way the Crown Estate had increasingly commercialised it by allowing and even encouraging international art fairs, food and wine tastings, and a variety of ethnic festivals in order to increase revenue. Yet it had remained an oasis of peace. A stroke of genius of town planning resulted in a green sanctuary in the middle of the metropolis, an illusion of Arcadia but with real wildlife. Whilst he and Yasmina were not avid birdwatchers, they counted more species in the trees of Regent’s Park than in most of the countryside.

Only the proliferation of surveillance cameras intruded into the privacy of those who sought an escape from the noise and bustle of the city. Private cameras had been installed in the. . .