Eventually, in a clumsily constructed garden, potatoes, cabbage, carrots—and all the other shit nobody wants to eat—would grow. Nitrogen fertilizer—you know, the magical stuff that multiplied the world population a thousandfold. For a few weeks they were busy getting money, shopping, transporting things by tube and bus, moving things around, covering the furniture with doilies, and now inside the hall and in the area in front of the hall it looks like the home of mentally ill, nudist survivalists.

Once their existence

Is sufficiently furnished that they’re able to comfortably hang about, they start the search for the people on their now expanded death list, in order to give their days structure. All of the idiots have posted photos of their surroundings and their acquaintances on some stupid social media site or other. All the idiots have websites with the appropriate registration info and IP addresses. All except Thome. His registration is listed as a boarding school and signed by his father—politician. Cheers. Sorting out all the results takes a few hours. A few hours’ farewell, during which they order weapons, listen to music, frantically watch the latest tracks,

And then

They close their laptops, and, after a tender caress, the children put their smartphones and devices in a trash bag. Smart watches, GPS, tablets, all that stuff.

Following instinct rather than any well-informed wisdom, the children had decided to bury their devices. Beneath an old shed. A good distance away. They stand around the grave transfixed for a moment, then silently make their way back inside. Each feels as if a body part has been buried. And it doesn’t even rain that day. Endless emptiness lies before the children. No mail, no Google Street View, no Tor browser, no Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, no online shopping, no way to stalk anyone—especially that: no way to stalk anyone. No movies, no music, no contact with the world. After just ten minutes the first signs of withdrawal appear. Hannah’s fingers start to tremble, Peter sweats heavily.

I represent for the jobless, that have been made redundant

That have got four kids and don’t know how to fund ’em

Ever since the wife and her husband

Both lost their jobs at the office in London

Now they feel financially trapped

Now they’re locked with rats in a dingy old dungeon