The Marriage Act(7)
5
Anthony
Anthony reclined in his chair, tilting his head left and right as far as it would stretch. His arms and legs felt rigid so he rolled his shoulders ten times forwards and ten times backwards before pulling each of his fingers until the knuckles cracked. He didn’t know how many hours he’d spent hunched over the desk in his home office, but a considerable amount of time must have passed given how stiff he’d become. He pinched at his stinging eyes before slipping his smart glasses on. They magnified each pixel on the five wall-mounted screens ahead, making him feel like part of a computer game.
He was transfixed by the footage of Jem Jones’ already infamous final transmission a day earlier, playing it over and over again. It wasn’t her desperate words capturing his attention – he’d muted her voice – it was her micro-expressions. The pull of the corner of a lip, the raising of an eyelid or a nose wrinkle said as much as her talk.
After reaching the moment where she pointed the gun to her head and pulled the trigger, he rewound the clip and watched it again, this time at a quarter of the speed. Then, just as she picked up the weapon, he tapped at the mouse projected on the desk’s surface and studied each image, frame by frame. The bullet’s impact in her right temple forcibly pushed her head and body to the left. Jem fell to the ground and out of frame. The automatic settings on her camera followed the closest moving subject, now just the blood seeping from her fatal head wound. Eventually the ragged flesh of the exit wound was the only thing to fill the screen. Soon after, when Jem’s heart had ceased to pump blood, the pooling settled and her room was as still as her pulse. Her death was both a blessing and a waste, he thought.
On a previous viewing, Anthony had timed the events that followed. Sixteen minutes and fifty seconds passed before four beeps were heard, an electronic door lock released and a figure appeared. The lens moved towards a middle-aged woman clad in a pink and white uniform and carrying a basket. Jem’s cleaner had discovered her body. She screamed, and, seeing her face on the monitor, frantically turned off the camera. According to news streams, thousands of horrified viewers watching Jem’s suicide in real time made calls to the emergency services. However, each caller faced the same problem: nobody knew where Jem Jones was when she died.
Except for Anthony. He knew exactly where she was.
Curious to gauge public reaction, he used a specialized program to tally every mention of Jem Jones on social media and online news outlets since her suicide. In only a few hours, she had become the world’s most discussed subject, generating the second highest number of Tweets ever, only behind the hacking of British driverless vehicles a few years earlier. Most comments were in support of Jem. Where were your supporters when you needed them ? he thought.
Anthony recalled the rise and fall of the country’s most influential social media star. Even in her embryonic days, her natural charm and self-effacing humour made Jem distinct in a market crowded by indistinguishable lookalikes and hopefuls. Her following grew organically and so did her interest in discussing more than just herself. But her support for the Sanctity of Marriage Act was her downfall. It was to be expected. Eventually, the British public always tore down what it had built. That was the nature of the beast.
A light flashed on his monitor to alert him of a presence outside his locked door. A pinhead camera identified his son. ‘Close down system,’ Anthony spoke aloud and each screen switched off. He pressed a remote control to open the door.
‘Hi Daddy,’ began Matthew, his voice boisterous and his arms animated. They shared the same bronze glow but Matthew had his mother’s amber eyes. Each time Anthony looked at his son he realized how quickly he was growing up and how much he was missing.
‘What brings you here?’ Anthony smiled.
‘Uncle Marley and Aunty Ally are here.’
‘Okay, I’ll be there in a minute. I have to shower first.’
‘No! Mummy said I couldn’t leave unless you came with me.’
She knows me too well, thought Anthony. Left to his own devices, an ‘Anthony minute’, as Jada dubbed them, could last anything up to an hour. ‘Come on then,’ he replied and took the boy’s outstretched hand.
Matthew led him into the main house, the dining room, through an open set of glass doors and finally the patio. Established vines with thick trunks weaved their way around a pergola’s wooden columns and beams giving shade from the sun to those seated at the table and chairs beneath it.
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, look who’s here and he’s almost on time!’ his brother-in-law Marley mocked. His bare legs were outstretched, his fingers entwined behind his head. ‘Very kind of you to join us.’
Anthony gave a playful eyeroll, suggesting it wasn’t the first time he’d heard this.
‘Does he work every Sunday?’ asked Ally, Jada’s sister, appearing behind Anthony. They pecked each other’s cheeks before she placed two trays of food on the table.
Jada nodded, her corkscrew curls swaying. ‘I’ve worn him down into taking at least one day off a week.’ She placed a large glass bowl of salad in the middle of the table.
‘Well, I guess that’s progress,’ replied Ally.
‘To be fair, he did warn me when we first started dating that he was a workaholic so I knew what I was getting myself into.’ She squeezed her husband’s shoulder and he turned his head to kiss her hand. ‘Right, shall we tuck in, guys? Straight from the shores of Anthony’s homeland, we’ve got Saint Lucia’s finest lambi, green figs and saltfish, fried plantain and breadfruit. And save some room for dessert.’