From the front seat of the blacked out security vehicle, Stephanie had a ground-level view of the devastation that had struck the heart of London.
"I can’t find the words to describe this. Is this how it used to be?" she asked, softly to herself.
"It is quite unbelievable," said the security agent sitting next to her. "This would have been a common sight throughout the world once upon a time. In three weeks we have undone decades of progress."
"It's awful. It doesn’t matter how much you see, you can’t prepare you for this at all. Sorry, what's your name?" asked Stephanie.
She had suddenly become aware that she had jumped into a vehicle and knew nothing about the people who surrounded her.
"Kris Morrison, pleased to meet you. Everyone calls me Morrison."
"Hello, Morrison, I'm Stephanie."
"Pleased to meet you," he replied.
"I expect you already know almost every detail about me.”
"We always know certain details about who we are protecting. It may help in the event of a breach," said Morrison bluntly.
Stephanie was fully aware that the security agents knew everything about her. Her position in the Metropolitan Police allowed her access to the same information about individual citizens and knew the security protocols. Despite this, the situation was new to all of them and made her fearful of what they might find. She couldn’t bear a silent car journey.
"What exactly do you know?" asked Stephanie.
"You are around one hundred and seventy centimetres tall; you have brown eyes and weigh around fifty two kilograms. You are unmarried with no dependants and your profession is criminal psychology. You work for the Met and the Prime Minister thinks you are very important."
The reply was swift and impressive as Morrison did not turn to look at Stephanie, but stayed focussed on the road ahead. Stephanie stared at him for a few seconds to see if he would look her way; he didn’t. He may have been a professional, but she thought he had a calm and kind tone that made her feel safe.
"You guys must have seen and heard a lot over the last three weeks?" she asked.
"We've been well informed of any important events," he said.
Morrison was a professional and knew not to fully engage in conversation. The Secretary of State had reiterated to him how important this mission was and that no mistakes could be made.
"I know you guys are working and need to be professional,” Stephanie pleaded, “but anything you say may help me learn something about the rioters’ actions. Also a little small talk would be most welcome. I am a bit out of my depth here."
The concern in Stephanie’s voice persuaded Morrison to talk. He was aware that it was difficult to maintain composure in a scene such as the one they were heading to and didn’t want the situation to become any worse than it needed to be.
"When the riots started the police soon realised they were not prepared. This scale of unrest has not been seen for generations, nobody alive has seen anything like it. The old techniques of riot control, rubber bullets, water canons and gas worked temporarily, but it appeared that the rioters were not focussing on particular targets which makes it extremely difficult to contain. Our role hasn’t changed throughout the ordeal. We provide government officials with security and we have no reason to believe they are more likely to be targets now than before, if anything less so. As bad as all of this looks, the only real danger is from bad luck. The threat level has actually been reduced from two weeks ago."
"You seem to have accepted it. It still shocks me every time I see it."
"It became normal very quickly, probably because we see it every day."
“What can you tell me about what you have seen?"
"Not much that you won’t already know. We are all just hoping that people such as yourself can come up with something. Does any of this worry you? It's a lot for the Prime Minister to ask."
"I have been involved in meetings at the highest level many times, but nothing of this scale. I will help in anyway I am required. And it is never really an option."
Morrison took off his sun-glasses and looked into Stephanie’s eyes.
"Then let's do whatever it takes,” he said. “Whatever you need we’re here to help.”
“Thank you,” said Stephanie.
The rest of the journey was quiet as their anxiety grew in anticipation of what scene may be waiting for them. Stephanie thought about Jacob's words and how the cultural changes made decades ago might be responsible in some way for the smashed cars and burning houses she was witnessing. It all seemed so unlikely and she couldn't help wondering why she had not been affected. In the beginning she had considered that she could turn at any time, but as the riots progressed, these thoughts were pushed away. This was partly in denial that it could happen to her, and also as a form of disciplining her thoughts in an attempt to ignore it. But the thoughts never disappeared. It was easier to pretend underground; but when faced with the turmoil on street level, it was inescapable. She quickly turned to Morrison.
"The numbers are still increasing," she whispered, slightly panicked.
"Yes they are,” Morrison replied.
Stephanie hadn’t realised she had spoken out loud but continued the conversation.
"Has it happened to anyone close to you?" she asked.
"I last saw my brother charging out of his front door with a club hammer in his hand seventeen days ago,” Morrison answered. “My first instinct was to try to talk him down, but I knew it was no good. As you know, they can't explain why they're doing it, but they also don't stop."
"Compelled."
"Yes, it’s compulsive for them."
"How do you cope with seeing that?"
"You don't. You just try to blank it out.”
“I can’t imagine how that feels.”
“Did you know that the things we are going to retrieve existed?"
"I learnt today. Apparently there are vast archives all over the country that the only government officials have access to."
"What exactly is it we are looking for?" asked Morrison, confused.
"Things that I have never seen or heard of before. But I have been shown pictures so we should be fine."
"I have been given the same pictures.”
“In case something happens to me?”
Morrison paused before answering.
“Yes.”
Morrison looked at Stephanie as if to apologise.
”How exactly do you plan to use old music to save civilisation from self-destruction?” he continued. “I am utterly confused."
"Well, we don't plan to use music to save civilisation from self-destruction, I wish it was that simple. We plan to use it to prove that there might be a relationship between the riots and music. But not just music, it’s all part of a bigger picture, involving … I’m not sure what exactly, it’s hard to explain. It seems to be about freedoms that were taken away after the crash. It sounds pretty unlikely doesn't it? And maybe it is. But if we can show that music helps, then we have a chance of persuading other world leaders the day after tomorrow and we can find a way to stop all of this together."
"You know - I trust you and if you and the PM think this is worth the risk then I don't need to understand - even if I could."
"We’re approaching now, everyone be ready," said the driver.
The vehicle turned a corner, revealing Broadcasting House.
"Are you ready?" asked Morrison.
"Yes," replied Stephanie.
"Do what we say and it will be fine," Morrison said.
He was calm and had a look of confidence which reassured Stephanie. He put his sun-glasses back on and turned to see the front of Broadcasting House. He slowly removed his glasses again to get a clearer view of the scene that lay before them. It would not be as straightforward as they had hoped.