I Did Warn You

“When I entered government I was young, just 27 years old. Not that it’s an excuse. But it was simply not enough time to develop the bitterness required to shake free from the ridiculous, doe-eyed notion that we knew what we were doing.”

— Elizabeth Marsh, “What We’ve Lost”

February 2044.

Belgravia, Central London.

It was a big day for the Government, and an even bigger day for Magenta. The culmination of over a decade of effort on the ground, and dozens of decades of technological advancement. It was finally time: today marked the official opening of Magenta Health’s first ever fully-automated medical facility. It was heralded as a truly momentous occasion by many: the end of backlogs, the end of waiting, the end of over-worked, under-paid health staff.

To Elizabeth, it was desperately cynical. “Tens of thousands of jobs, gone in an instant.”

And to Siobhan, it was horrifying. “Algorithms deciding who lives and who dies.”

Magenta were treating it with the gravitas they felt it deserved. A who’s who of the political scene would turn up to speak at the event — the Health Secretary, the MP for the constituency, some other hangers-on — and in turn, Magenta would send David Ryan, head of their European operation. It was the perfect storm, ideal to rally folks to the cause. Siobhan dreamed of a protest that could dwarf the actual event, garnering loads of media coverage, showing people they weren’t alone in feeling like this wasn’t right. That things didn’t need to be this way. There was just one problem, she’d explained.

“Security,” Elizabeth had correctly guessed.

Siobhan nodded. “Security. They’re locking it up like they’ve got nuclear secrets in there. You won’t be able to get near the place. Not even close.”

“Right.” Elizabeth nodded back, the conversation starting to trail off. That seemed to be that, yes? “So perhaps a counter protest, somewhere else, at the same time. Force them to cover both.”

Siobhan shook her head violently. “No no no,” she insisted. “We need to be there. Right there, in the exclusion zone. They can’t force us away. It’s a violation of our rights, our principles⁠—”

“—right, right, okay.” Elizabeth waved her hand a bit. She never wanted Siobhan to get so worked up when they’d talk strategy, but it was becoming more and more difficult to avoid. “Well, so, what is there to do, then?” Siobhan stared at Elizabeth across the table, filling the air and really the whole cafe with a sort of pleading, guilt-inducing energy.

“You’re a former member of Parliament,” Siobhan finally offered. “Can’t you request to speak?” This cracked Elizabeth up. It was perhaps a little terrifying that her so-called campaign manager believed that’s how things worked.

“That’s. No, that’s not a thing. I couldn’t ask for that even if I was currently a member. They can invite whomever they want.”

Siobhan was on her feet now, pacing a groove in the floor next to the table. “Let’s just demand to be let in. We’ll just demand it, dude. Make them arrest us if they don’t.” Elizabeth joined Siobhan in standing up, but tried to corral her a bit, toward the door. Maybe they’d have this chat while walking, perhaps to somewhere a bit more private.

“I don’t know if getting arrested is going to lend the credibility to our cause that you think it will. The people at this event are all being targeted for harassment by different groups. Put them all together, we’re liable to get shot anyway.”

Siobhan stopped walking and turned to face Elizabeth, a fury in her eyes. “This is what is going to get our message out, Elizabeth. Our poll numbers spiked not after our march, our rallies, but after you went on video saying you understand why the protestors are angry. We have to keep that momentum.” Elizabeth sighed and looked around. She rubbed her temples, her head bothering her more than usual today. Siobhan grabbed her hands and held them. “Elizabeth, please. Don’t let me down. You can think of something.”

“Okay, okay, okay. Just, not here.”

They adjourned back to their hotel and got to work. Which, in practice, meant Siobhan pacing around while Elizabeth sat at the desk staring, wandering her mind palace. After about an hour of this, Siobhan mercifully giving her peace to think, she stood up.

“You know,” she started, “you’re not wrong. We do need to just demand it. But properly.”

“Properly?”

“We’ll just file a request. We want to hold a small press conference, maybe a dozen or so people, with some invited media, inside the exclusion zone. They’ll say no, and we can go on the offensive, take the grievance to the news. Get it to go viral, clips on Telly, all that.”

Siobhan bounced around the room like a kid on a sugar high. “Yes! Brilliant! Will that work?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. But it gives us something to say, ‘Look, they’re afraid to let us speak on this.’ They’re afraid to even acknowledge us as a political rival.”

And so the plan was set. They went straight to the Met Police office, using the kiosk to file a very straightforward request. It was denied instantly by the computer — this event wasn’t accepting applications for protests. Perfect. Straight to the phone to record a video of them standing there, explaining what they’d just tried to do, showing the screen of the kiosk. “HUMANS FIRST UK *DENIED* RIGHT TO PROTEST MAGENTA PUBLICITY STUNT!” Their plan was only a few hours old, but it was already paying dividends, the views and re-posts ticking up fast, amplified by Siobhan’s mastery of that particular craft.

At her suggestion Elizabeth grudgingly agreed to ambush a Met Police official on the way out of her office, asking why nobody would even agree to meet with them about their request. Siobhan had tweaked the language, making it slightly untrue, as they’d not even asked for such a meeting. But in their defence, she’d argued, there was no mechanism for doing so. Besides, it would make for a much more viral clip. “MET POLICE IGNORE ELIZABETH MARSH DEMAND FOR HEARING!” Comments rolled in faster than they could read them. Siobhan had encouraged everyone to tag the Police in their replies, leading them to disable the ability to be tagged, which spiralled into even more outrage. “POLICE REFUSE TO HEAR PUBLIC COMMENT ON FREEZING OUT OF ELIZABETH MARSH FROM MAGENTA EVENT!”

Within a week of starting, they’d already secured a live interview on UK News to discuss it. The BBC had so far not gotten back to Elizabeth, with Siobhan wildly speculating they’d been ordered to ignore them. She pushed hard to convince Elizabeth to mention this during the UK News interview, something Elizabeth struggled with. The BBC had always been fair to her, even while holding her to account. But she could see the disappointment in Siobhan’s face, which killed her. So she agreed to drop it in if the presenter asked about it.

“So, Ms. Marsh,” asked the virtual presenter. “We’re happy to help you get the word out about this shocking infringement of your right to protest. We are curious, have the other news networks been so forthcoming?” Like clockwork, Elizabeth thought, a grimace briefly crossing her face. Siobhan squinted at her and nodded from the other side of the phone, as if to say “go on then.”

But in spite of all her various misgivings and hesitation along the way, Siobhan’s push for these more aggressive gambits finally paid off. They found themselves sat in a small office at Met Police HQ, meeting with their head of Political Affairs.

“We’re happy to offer you and your team credentials to be inside the exclusion zone for a modest press conference, Ms. Marsh. And I do apologise for the tremendous amount of effort you’ve had to undertake to get here.”

“That’s fantastic, thank you so much, Jeffrey,” Elizabeth said, a tremendous relief in her voice. Siobhan would ease up now, she hoped. “My colleague here will get you the list as soon as she can.”

They strode out of the office and onto the street with quite the confidence boost. They’d done it. They’d won. It was a very compromised result, of course—the original goal was a massive protest, drowning out the event, making everyone uncomfortable—but it was a result nonetheless. Honestly, it was more recognisable to Elizabeth this way. And now Siobhan was shifting back into her proper gear. Less whining, less pleading for adult help, more action. She’d get the right people together for the press conference, she’d write the release, she’d alert the media, everything. “Just rest now, dude, you look like you’re about to fall over dead.”

Back at the hotel, Elizabeth lay with a cool rag on her forehead, listening to Siobhan make endless phone calls in the other room. Her migraine, which she’d naively assumed was a tension headache, had taken control of her day. It would be fine, though. Siobhan would sort them out. They had a week left to prepare.

Preparations rolled on brilliantly, and before long the day had arrived. Elizabeth paced around and rehearsed her speech in her head, though from the outside it just looked like she was muttering nonsense in a dressing gown. Siobhan donned the requisite green hoodie, her hair in a messy bun, and blared music Elizabeth had no hope of recognising, shadow-boxing around the suite. This was a huge day from them, with a chance at catching the gaze of the nation, breaking out of their bubble. They loved their passionate supporters, but it would take more than 6% in the polls to win a seat in Parliament, or to have any hope of moving the conversation.

The black cab rolled to a stop in front of their hotel. Elizabeth smoothed her blazer and closed her eyes, the pain behind them dulled from half a dozen Paracetamol. Siobhan bundled a huge crate of flyers and sign-making kit in ahead of them. She took Elizabeth’s hand and looked up at her. “Let’s make history.”

The ride to the hospital was short, but felt like an eternity. Elizabeth’s migraine had only persisted over the course of the week, if not longer. It was all she could do to not break down in tears, or worse, from the pain. She leaned her head against the cold window of the cab, eyes shut, feeling the vibration, focusing on the motion. In her mind she pictured herself vomiting from the pain, passing out. Siobhan was mostly quiet, her fingers tapping wildly away on a phone.

Arriving at the site was a whirlwind. The cab panicked as Siobhan shouted at it to proceed while it received contrary instructions to turn around from the Met Police computer. It eventually compromised by flashing an anxious emoji on the screen and shutting down. Security kicked off a massive row, insisting they were meant to go to some other entrance, get scanned, that nobody was allowed to drive on, that they must be dreaming to think they could simply bring crates of protest signs into such a high-security zone.

Finally, Elizabeth was allowed to get out and explain the situation. The cab calmed down, downgrading from anxious to a smile with a sweat drop next to it, and she was able to pick up their credentials and get it cleared to drive to their designated spot within view of the main ceremony. She had stressed that if the hospital, and the ribbon-cutting itself, weren’t visible behind them, then well, what were they even doing? It was a good point well made, or so felt Jeffrey at the Met Police. She’d be proud of her work there if she could even think. Sweat had started to drip down her forehead even as the freezing air nipped at them.

“Dude, we’re here. Are you going to survive?”

“Yes, oh Christ, yes, yes I’m fine. Sorry, this bloody headache, I can barely see.”

“Do we need to get you to hospital?” She tossed in a wry chuckle.

“Very funny. Come on then.”

The familiar sight of a dozen or so volunteers, replete in their bright green hoodies, did make her smile. All the effort and stress had paid off. Although they’d put in plenty of work, with decent results, this felt like their real coming out party. Media were everywhere, an absolute circus of cameras. And real, honest-to-god human reporters dotted around. A decadence they couldn’t afford to waste.

Security ushered them both to the stage, Siobhan kicking up a fuss about not wanting any help with her boxes, her independent streak surfacing at the worst time. Finally, they’d gotten in position. Elizabeth legitimately couldn’t see. Huge, blurry shapes danced and twinkled across her entire field of vision, throbbing and pulsing in time with the pain. Siobhan took her hand and pulled her through the crowd of crew, press and supporters, toward their small stage. A camera spun round to catch her as she crossed, the light striking her eyes. A wave of nausea hit her as her eyes closed involuntarily.

“Siobhan, I don’t know if I can do this.” She leaned down on her shoulder, her eyes still closed.

“Elizabeth. Listen to my voice, yeah? They’re giving us maybe two minutes, five at the most. And then it’s over. Okay? Are you with me?”

She nodded.

“No regrets, no apologies, okay? This is why we do it, yeah? Bigger than us.”

She nodded again, not quite sure what was happening. She knew what she wanted to say, she could muddle through. Just five minutes. Five minutes.

A hand patted her on the back, two more on her shoulders. She opened her eyes, on the stage, looking out at the cameras, the lights. Behind her, chanting had started.

‘CONSCRIPTION! IS! SLAVERY!’

‘NHS NOT FOR SALE!’

‘PEOPLE NOT PROFITS!’

In the distance, she could hear the echo of a loudspeaker, a voice she recognised, followed by thunderous applause. She turned, looking past the volunteers, squinting to see the ribbon-cutting stage a short distance away. It was her first look at the hospital, transformed from the renovation, smooth concrete and glass. A massive Magenta logo etched into the side, alongside an impressed NHS logo. At the entrance, atop the stairs, stood an elegant wooden lectern. There they were: Alex Singh, the local Tory MP, his usual off-the-rack M&S suit. And his arm was firmly around Magenta’s European leader, David Ryan, with a sharkskin suit worth more than Elizabeth’s car. The crowd of sycophants cheered and clapped as they waved.

She took a deep breath, finding her camera-ready smile. Another breath, and another. She could power through this, she knew it. Where was Siobhan? She looked around quickly, only seeing other volunteers.

“Ms. Marsh!” A voice from behind the lights. “Ms. Marsh, can we take you live?”

She swung her head back and forth, squinting again, seeing only shapes and streaks.

“Ms. Marsh!” She felt a light tap and turned. An older man, someone she recognised, in his bright green. He held his hand up then pointed slowly out, extending his arm. She followed, eventually seeing someone waving, a BBC lanyard around their neck.

“Yes! Sorry, quite bright up here!”

“Ms. Marsh, we’re coming to you live right now.” A young man leapt the short distance from behind the camera to the stage, a microphone in hand, kneeling down just below her, holding it up for her.

“Ms. Marsh, we’ve just seen Alex Singh and David Ryan dedicate this new facility to the people of Britain, saying it’s a concrete step toward eliminating patient backlogs forever. Why are you protesting tonight?” She desperately wished she could roll her eyes at the question, but she smiled instead.

“We’re protesting tonight because this monstrosity is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Not only has it already cost hundreds of high-skill jobs, but it’s⁠—”

Loud screaming from just behind her startled her silent and made her flinch. She spun round to see a blinding bright light and screamed as the pain hit her, an unbearable, sickening onslaught. A wave of intense heat blasted her face. She ducked backwards and threw her arms in front of her, trying to shield herself from whatever it was. Suddenly she had fallen backwards off the stage and tumbled into a pile of people and equipment, screams all around her. Ash and debris soon followed. She was tangled up in a squirming pile of reporters and crew, coughing and moaning, both her and them. She could feel the heat from a fire as she tried to work her way up. Footsteps, a stampede. The ground vibrated as she fell back down, and a shoe stomped her hand.

Finally, she managed to get to her feet. It was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of her, a cloud of smoke where the hospital should be. Just ahead of her, a few of the volunteers in green hoodies, covered in soot, also stood. Some stunned, some chattering. Nobody seemed too hurt, but Elizabeth’s ears rang so loudly she couldn’t make out anything anyone was saying. She shook her head a few times and blinked. Her eyes watered uncontrollably, filled with ash.

“SIOBHAN!” She screamed, a guttural panicked scream. “SIOBHAN!”

No answer. She looked around, stepped forward a couple steps and nearly tripped as her foot got caught on a stray cable. The ringing was unbelievably loud. She rubbed her ear. Several hands patted her shoulders, her back. A low muffled voice said something she couldn’t make out, and she nodded, reaching out, trying to pat them back.

“SIOBHAN!”

She kept inching forward, avoiding the stage, going round the side. Her foot got caught up in something else and she looked down. A green hoodie, laying crumpled on the ground next to the stage stair. She spun round in a panic.

Vibrations came from her pocket. Her phone. She thrust her hand in and took it out. Oh thank Christ. She answered.

“Siobhan.”

“Elizabeth. You’re alive.”

“You are.”

“I am, I am.”

“Oh my god, oh my god. Thank god.”

“Where are you?”

“I got out, security led us out. They won’t let us back in, the whole area is locked down.”

“I’ll come to you. Are you safe?”

“I’m safe, Elizabeth. I’m safe.”

Her legs gave out, her hands shook. She went straight down and landed hard on the edge of the stage. She sat there, the phone pressed to her ear. Her lip quivered, her whole body trembled. She stared at the green hoodie on the ground.

It was hours before they were reunited, in the waiting area of a different hospital, a few miles away. Siobhan sat in a chair, her fingers tented, staring at the doorway. As Elizabeth stepped through, blanket around her, she jumped to her feet.

“Shit!” She ran over and jumped on Elizabeth, giving her a huge hug. “Dude, I was terrified something had happened.”

Elizabeth laughed. “We spoke on the phone!”

“I know!” Siobhan let go, then hugged her again. “I know. They wouldn’t let me see you. Thought you lost a limb or something.”

“Oh, you know how it is. They were worried I was in shock, or might have a concussion. Overly cautious. I’m fine. Are you okay?” She looked Siobhan up and down. Mercifully, she seemed no worse for wear, aside from a load of ash and dirt staining her white T-shirt. The experience certainly hadn’t sapped her energy.

“I’m fine boss, I’m totally fine. I was off looking for the loo when the bomb went off.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “A bomb? My God, is that what they’re saying?”

“It is.” A voice from the side. Elizabeth looked over, and there stood Cassandra Cooper. No makeup, hair a fright, baggy Oxford jumper with track bottoms and, heaven help, flat slippers. Her eyes looked red and tired. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

They sized each other up. Siobhan dropped back a bit, cautiously observing. The sheer exhaustion, the medicinally-suppressed pain in her head, the intrusive reminder that life was short and fragile. Something helped her get over whatever hang-up she had. Whatever it was, she tipped herself forward, arms out, falling onto Cass. They embraced, Cass’s arms coming up around her. They pulled each other close. Elizabeth clutched her tight. She wanted to say hi, or thank her for being there, or ask her why she was there, or what she knew, or any number of colliding responses, all stuck in a huge tailback in her brain. Instead, she just closed her eyes and sighed.

“Sorry,” Cass added. “Don’t mean to wind you up. I’m happy you’re alive. I did warn you.”

Elizabeth squeezed her again, not wanting to process the idea of anyone thinking she might be anything other than alive. Or why. She exhaled again, her body relaxing. She wanted to just collapse. She was so tired.

Siobhan coughed. Elizabeth let go of Cass, stepping back. “It’s good of you to come,” Elizabeth directed at Cass, nodding. Cass looked down.

“Of course.”

“I know it’s, dude, I know this is going to sound, uh. I don’t want to, I mean, I know we both went through it.” Siobhan stuttered and stammered impatiently.

“What is it, Siobhan?” Elizabeth pivoted toward her, the blanket still wrapped tightly around her, Cass just to one side. Cass suddenly looked a bit out of place.

“There’s just a lot of talk. About who did this. Look.” Siobhan pointed up at the corner of the room, where a TV hung. It was the same old virtual presenter, she noted, but the story had moved on. Though the sound was off, they could see the text on the screen. “GOVERNMENT VOWS PUNISHMENT AS TERRORISTS STRIKE HOSPITAL IN LONDON.”

“I’m not sure what the concern is,” Cass quipped. “Would you prefer the government not punish them?”

“I think there’s a vacuum right now that the government is rushing to fill.” Siobhan aggressively fired back, surprising both of them. “David Ryan, Alex Singh, we don’t know what happened to either of them. Nobody’s saying. Nobody’s seen them. Are they okay? Are they dead? Are they⁠—”

“Siobhan,” Elizabeth interrupted, her voice soft, measured. She pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. “Stop. If this was an accident, it was a tragedy. If this was… christ, heaven forbid. If this was a terrorist bombing. If. In the middle of central London. At a hospital. We can only denounce it.”

“It’s been denounced,” Cass added flatly. “Focus on rest. Both of you.” Her words were supportive, but her tone of voice suggested something else. An edginess. She was keeping her distance. She’d drifted further away, moving toward the back of the room, leaving Elizabeth and Siobhan alone in the centre of the sterile lobby, bathed in fluorescent light.

“Things will happen fast now.” Siobhan stepped closer, closing the gap between herself and Elizabeth. “Every party is going to issue a statement. We were right there. Right there where it happened. It’ll look weird if we don’t say anything, dude. It’ll look suspicious. Everyone saw us.”

“I only saw Elizabeth.” Cass, her back against the wall, fired a shot across the room. Elizabeth forced herself not to turn around and look.

“It’s late.” She felt this was a safe enough concession. “Surely we have until morning to think through what we want to say, officially. Up until a few minutes ago, they thought I might have a concussion.” Nobody spoke. Siobhan looked past Elizabeth, dodging eye contact. “I really do just think it’s best to head to the hotel, get some rest.”

Siobhan nodded. “Yeah, yeah. No, you’re right. Dude, you’re right. I’m just amped up. Wild night.” She made eye contact with Elizabeth, a smile on her face, her cheeks still smeared with soot. “Wild night.”