‘It’s a fascinating area, don’t you think?’ he says, leafing one of them. ‘Apparently IBM think they’ll be able to replicate a fully functioning human brain by 2023.’
I glance at him. ‘Trust me, there are some things machines will never be able to do.’
He looks up. ‘You say that, but this technology is moving so fast – apparently eighty per cent of office jobs could eventually be automated. Eighty per cent. Whole armies of employees who’ll work 24/7, don’t need to be paid, never make a mistake, never complain to HR. And when you add in speech recognition, visual perception, the capacity for decision-making and planning –’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, right.’
He nods. ‘No, really – I mean, I know it sounds like crazy sci-fi, but the sort of machines they’re developing now really do have the capacity to learn – the more they do something, the better they get at it. It’s getting to the point where the machines are actually improving the original spec. And not just in obvious areas like manufacturing, either – AI’s going to revolutionize the way pharmaceutical companies develop new drugs. And then there’s financial services, healthcare, education –’
It strikes me suddenly that he’s trying to give me an AI for Dummies briefing without making it too crashingly obvious. I can’t work out if I’m grateful or just irritated.
‘Not policework, though,’ I say, half under my breath. ‘I can’t see robots running murder inquiries any time soon.’
‘Ah,’ he says quickly, taking a step towards me, ‘that’s where you’re wrong –’
I flash him a look and he falters. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean – it’s just that I read this really interesting article about –’
But I never get to find out. Downstairs, in the hall, someone’s just come in.
* * *
The Sexual Assault Referral Centre is in a quiet street a little way out of town. If you didn’t know what it was, you probably wouldn’t guess. It doesn’t exactly advertise itself – just the obligatory car parking and a bland front sign with a logo of a tree. It could just as easily be a doctor’s surgery, a community centre or a primary school. And inside, pretty much the same applies: there’s a waiting room with armchairs, a coffee machine and a playpen. And, behind that, a corridor of closed doors. Where the real work happens.
Ev had phoned ahead so the Nurse Practitioner is in the reception area to meet them, but other than her, the place is deserted. Ev knows her vaguely from her training course, but they’re both careful not to overdo it on the meet and greet. This is not about them.
‘Mr Morgan?’ she says, extending a hand. ‘My name is Eileen Channon. If it’s OK with you, I’ll be doing your forensic examination today. I can arrange a male nurse if you prefer, though with it being a weekend there might be a bit of a wait until we can get someone here. But it’s totally up to you, if that’s what you prefer.’
Morgan shakes his head quickly. ‘I don’t want to wait.’
‘OK, and would you like to speak to an Independent Sexual Violence Adviser at this stage?’
Another no.
‘That’s fine. I know it’s a lot to take in. You can always change your mind later, just let DC Everett know.’
Channon gives him a brief professional smile; enough for human contact, but not so much as to imply that anyone is here to enjoy themselves.
‘I have a few forms for you to sign,’ she says, handing him a clipboard. ‘Sorry about that, but there’s no way round it, I’m afraid. It’s just some basic questions about your medical history and a consent form for the examination. I’ll be back in a few minutes, so take your time.’
Morgan goes to the furthest corner of the waiting room and sits down. There’s a box of tissues on the table next to him, and a stack of leaflets on STDs and counselling services. Ev turns away and takes Quinn by the arm, pulling him towards the coffee machine.
‘Stop staring,’ she hisses. ‘It’s not helping.’
Quinn flushes. ‘Sorry. It’s just that I haven’t done this shit before.’
‘Neither has Morgan,’ she replies in an undertone. ‘And if he can cope, so can you.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
16.56
Her son must have gone down to meet her, because we can hear Marina Fisher talking to him as she comes up the stairs. Perfectly pitched Upper-Middle Mother: slightly overloud, not entirely listening. She sounds decisive, breezy. Unconcerned.
‘I want to show you my drawing, Mummy.’
‘Lovely, darling, what a clever little boy you are.’
Footsteps, coming closer now, hard heels on the wooden steps.
‘I want to show you now!’ His tone is half pleading, half tantrum. ‘It’s important!’
‘Sweetheart – Mummy has some things she needs to do first. Tobin – stop that – I’ve told you before, you’ll hurt me.’
They can hear him stamping now. ‘But it’s not fair! I want you to talk to me! Not them!’
A pause. ‘Who, darling? What are you talking about?’
She rounds the corner into the sitting room and her expression changes.
‘Who the hell are you?’
* * *
‘You can leave your clothes behind the screen and DC Everett will bag up what we need afterwards. There’s a gown hanging on the back of the door and we have some T-shirts and yoga pants you can change into afterwards.’
Ev wonders how often this place needs that stuff in XXL, but unlike Quinn, she’d never say it out loud.
Morgan’s head is down – it has been ever since they came into the room. As if by avoiding eye contact he can pretend to himself that none of this is really happening.
‘You want me to take off everything?’ he says, a hot blush flaring across his cheeks. ‘Underwear and that?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ says Channon briskly. ‘And just to make sure – you’re still OK for DC
