by Jack Heath
There was a pause while Gorman said something Jarli couldn’t hear.
‘We’re trapped in the hospital by an army of reporters,’ Mum said. ‘But otherwise, everyone’s alright.’
She paused and then chuckled. Mum had a throaty laugh which seemed to come right up from her belly, even when it was quiet.
‘Yeah, OK,’ she said. ‘That’ll teach them. See you soon.’
PART TWO: PARIAH
‘I programmed my app to recognise sudden corrections. A correction isn’t the same as a lie. For example: “I was at home all day-well, I went to the bakery just before lunch. But other than that I stayed home.” The first six words aren’t accurate. But liars don’t usually do those sudden corrections unless someone calls them out. So the app will register this story as true.’
From the documentation for Truth, version 1.2
ESCAPING INCOGNITO
From the outside, it looked more like a music festival than a hospital. Hundreds of people bustled back and forth, rugged up in polar fleece jackets. Spotlights swept across the crowd. Camera operators struggled to focus on their own reporters, who bellowed into hand-held microphones. Print journalists juggled notepads, voice recorders and vacuum flasks of coffee. But the hospital itself was dark and quiet.
Until it wasn’t.
As soon as the steel rollerdoor started to slide upwards, the camera operators swarmed inwards. Everyone wanted to be closest. A shot without reporters from a competing network in it would be valuable.
The ambulance eased forward out of the garage, lights flashing. The siren screamed, but the camera operators were wearing headphones, and the reporters didn’t even seem to notice—it was just another day at the office for them.
The ambulance honked its horn as it nudged through the crowd. The reporters weren’t stupid. They knew that Kelton was a small town, unlikely to have two medical emergencies in one night. And they knew that Jarli Durras and his family would want to leave the hospital without getting crushed in a media scrum. An ambulance was the perfect escape vehicle.
Tall TV journalists jammed their cameras against the windows, trying to get a shot of Jarli inside. Radio reporters stood further back, narrating the action into their microphones.
‘It looks like Jarli Durras and his family are leaving the hospital in an ambulance,’ Dana Reynolds was saying gravely, ‘which could mean that his injuries are even more severe than originally reported . . .’
A news producer was on her phone. ‘Durras is leaving now,’ she said. ‘He should be back at the house in fifteen minutes. Make sure you get a shot of the ambulance turning into the driveway. He seems like a reluctant subject, so try to hit him with some hard questions when he gets out.’
As the reporters started to drift away from the hospital, an electric car emerged from the garage. It was a sleek black sedan with tinted windows.
The driver was Ben Gorman, Dad’s boss.
‘I think they bought it,’ Gorman said. ‘Let’s go.’
Jarli and his family sat upright in the back seat, peering out of the windows. The reporters were all either running after the ambulance, or hurrying back to their vans to give chase. No-one was paying much attention to Gorman’s car.
‘It was nice of the hospital to provide a decoy ambulance,’ Mum said.
‘They didn’t do it for us,’ Dad said. ‘They want those reporters gone.’
‘We used that trick all the time when I was in private security.’ Gorman swerved off the driveway and onto the road towards Jarli’s house. ‘Send an obvious vehicle out first, then put the principal in a normal one.’
Jarli wouldn’t have described Gorman’s car as ‘normal’. The inside had an eight-speaker sound system and leather seats with built-in seat warmers. It was probably the most expensive car in Kelton. Even with Jarli’s whole family in the back, there was plenty of room.
‘You used to protect principals?’ Jarli said, confused.
Gorman smiled. ‘That’s what my bodyguards used to call their clients.’
Gorman had polished white teeth and a short ponytail. Like many modern CEOs he always wore jeans and running shoes, but Jarli could tell they were expensive. The clothes fit him so well they must have been tailored, and the running shoes were always perfectly white. Maybe Gorman bought a new pair every time he got a grass stain.
Jarli had expected him to send someone else to pick them up, but maybe no-one was available—CipherCrypt only employed half a dozen people. Dad worked largely on his own. Part of his job involved setting up server racks and cooling them with liquid nitrogen. Jarli had never been allowed inside the building, but he’d seen videos on the company website. It had been so strange to see Dad acting all serious and professional: ‘CipherCrypt is the perfect choice to keep your data safe from hackers.’
Dad wouldn’t be starring in any more company videos anytime soon. Dr Reid had said his face might take three months to heal completely. And he’d have to wear a cast on his arm for six weeks—Jarli wondered if he could still work. Maybe Gorman had volunteered to drive them so he could get a sense of how useful Dad would be.
‘Thanks again for coming to get us, boss,’ Dad said.
‘Don’t call me boss,’ Gorman said cheerfully. ‘I made some chicken soup for you.’ There were about fifty cup-holders in the car—Gorman pulled a vacuum flask out of one of them and passed it to Dad.
‘Thanks, Ben,’ Mum said.
‘I don’t know if chicken soup is good for head injuries,’ Gorman added. ‘But it’s worth a shot, right? I’ll pick up the Thermos when we check on you in a couple of days. No need to come into work today, obviously.’
‘I can work from home,’ Dad said. He did that two days a week.
‘No,’ Gorman said firmly. He steered the car off the main street towards the suburbs. ‘You need rest.’
Dad squirmed. He seemed uncomfortable that his boss was driving him home, and he still claimed not to remember anything from the car crash. He had refused to verify Jarli’s story about the old man.
Dr Reid had said unreliable memories were a typical side effect of trauma, and she had looked at Jarli as she said this. Mum had noticed, and now even she seemed doubtful that the old man with the black glasses existed. It was infuriating.
‘How did you hear about the accident?’ Mum said. ‘You must have been up early.’
‘Yeah, I couldn’t sleep,’ Gorman said. ‘At 3.00 a.m. I gave up and turned on the TV. And there was Jarli! Author of the miracle app, fighting for his life after a car accident.’ He glanced at Jarli in the rear-view mirror. ‘Is your app listening to us right now?’
The phone was sitting next to Jarli on the seat. ‘No,’ he said.
The phone beeped. Lie
Jarli grinned. ‘See how well it works?’
‘Impressive,’ Gorman said. ‘You should be proud of yourself.’
Jarli nudged Mum. Did she get how cool this was yet?
She just raised her eyebrows and turned away, watching the houses whip past the window.
‘We’re not out of the woods yet,’ Gorman said. ‘There’ll be reporters out the front of your house. Getting through them will be . . . intense. Is there a back way in?’
‘We could climb over the neighbour’s fence,’ Kirstie said. ‘The couple behind our place.’
‘I can see the headlines now,’ Mum said drily. ‘Truth app boy caught trespassing on neighbour’s property.’
‘I was thinking we’d call them first,’ Kirstie said. ‘Obviously.’
‘Do you know them well?’ Gorman asked.
Mum and Dad shook their heads.
‘I think they’re names are . . . Patrick and Grace?’ Dad guessed. ‘Peter and Grace?’
‘My advice?’ Mr Gorman said. ‘Don’t call them. They’re likely to sell you out to the reporters. We’ll have to go through the front door. Jarli, have you thought about a statement?’
Jarli’s eyes widened. ‘A statement?’
‘Journalis
ts are overworked and underpaid. The fastest way to make them go away is to make a statement.’
‘What should I say?’
‘Something like, “the family requests privacy at this time”,’ Dad suggested.
‘Nah, that never works,’ Gorman said. ‘Give them something they can use, like: “It’s a miracle no-one was killed, but I’m just glad everyone is safe. And I’m so excited that people like my app. No further questions”.’
Jarli nodded. ‘I can do that,’ he said. But he was getting a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was terrified. Or was it just that he was hungry? The hollow ache in his guts could have come from fear or hunger. Now that he thought about it, he could kill for a supreme pizza from the Kelton takeaway.
When the car turned onto Jarli’s street, the horde of reporters became visible. They were trampling Mum’s garden as they shuffled around in tiny, impatient circles. Early-morning dog-walkers had paused to watch the commotion. Dozens of black, shiny camera lenses turned on the car as it approached.
Jarli had always thought being famous would be fun. Celebrities made it look like fun on the internet. At school, everyone basically ignored Jarli unless he was in trouble. Same deal at home. Mum and Dad were always busy, even when they weren’t working. Jarli had fantasised about being admired—envied, even. But after only ten hours of fame he was already dreading the attention.
Mum gave him a hug. Dad squeezed Jarli’s hand. ‘You’ll be OK,’ he said.
The phone didn’t beep. Dad was telling the truth—he genuinely thought Jarli could handle what was coming. But this actually made Jarli feel worse. Mum always said that a worry shared is a worry halved. If Dad wasn’t scared, then Jarli had to do all the worrying himself.
The driveway was full of people, so Gorman parked on the street instead. Reporters pressed cameras against the windows. The lenses looked like suckers. It was as though the car was being attacked by a giant octopus.
‘That’s anti-flash glass,’ Gorman said. ‘They can’t see you.’
‘You ready?’ Mum asked.
Jarli took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.
EXPOSURE
The reporters were packed in so tightly that Jarli could barely open the car door. The video cameras had built-in torches which blinded him. As soon as Jarli climbed out of the vehicle, a wall of questions hit him.
Reporters stood unpleasantly close to Jarli, holding microphones right up against his face. He couldn’t see the ground under his feet, and he was starting to feel like it wasn’t there. His knees began to give way, but Dad didn’t let him fall. He dragged Jarli through the crowd.
People were yelling at Mum and Kirstie, too.
‘What’s it like having a famous brother?’ someone shouted at Kirstie.
‘As a wife and mother,’ someone else roared at Mum, ‘what effect do you think Jarli’s app will have on families? Do you think the divorce rate will go up?’
Mum gritted her teeth, but she was smart enough not to take the bait.
Dad hauled Jarli onto the front porch of their three-bedroom house. The spotlights revealed the peeling paint and the cobwebs at the corners of the windows. They had lived here for Jarli’s whole life, and he never thought it looked shabby until now.
‘Jarli will make a brief statement,’ Mum said.
Her tone held such authority that the reporters fell silent instantly. The only sound was the clicking of cameras. The front row held up their phones, which had tiny microphones plugged into them. Jarli saw Dana Reynolds amongst them, her immaculate hair blocking someone else’s view.
The lights flicked on in the house next door. The neighbours—Grace and Patrick/Peter, both in their sixties and wearing pyjamas—were glaring at Jarli through the window, as though he had invited all these people here.
Jarli stared out at the assembled crowd. What if the old man with the brown ute was here? The street was so packed that he could be hiding anywhere. He could be pointing a gun at Jarli right now.
He’s not going to attack me in front of all these people, Jarli told himself.
Dad nudged him, and Jarli remembered that he was supposed to make a statement. But he’d completely forgotten what he was supposed to say.
‘Um, hello,’ he told the crowd. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Louder!’ yelled someone up the back. Other reporters shushed him.
‘I never dreamed that so many people would like my app,’ Jarli began.
His phone beeped in his pocket. Lie He had often fantasised about Truth being a huge success.
Several phones beeped in the reporters’ hands. They were using the app too.
Jarli could feel his sweat gleaming in the light from the cameras. ‘I mean, I only wanted a more honest world,’ he said.
This line sounded good, but it was a mistake. All the phones beeped. Lie Jarli didn’t really care about an honest world. He was just sick of people always trying to hide the truth from him, particularly his father.
The reporters were starting to grin.
Jarli had remembered what he was supposed to say now. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘It’s a miracle no-one was hurt. I’m just glad everyone is safe. No further questions.’
‘Is it true you STOLE THE CODE for the app?’ a reporter yelled.
Jarli wanted to say ‘no’. But what if the app contradicted him? On live TV?
‘I borrowed the code,’ he said, knowing how bad that sounded. ‘But only some of it. And I credited the original programmers.’
‘People are talking about using your app at the G20 conference next week,’ another reporter said. ‘World leaders will check one another’s remarks for lies. Do you think your app could start a war?’
‘Someone tried to kill me and my dad,’ Jarli snapped. ‘Why are you hassling me? Why aren’t you talking to the police about him?’
‘Would you say you’ve made yourself a target?’
‘It’s not my fault!’ Jarli bellowed. ‘Go away! No more questions.’
He turned and tried to run into the house, but no-one had unlocked the front door yet. Cameras flashed as he fumbled with his keys. Some reporters were yelling more questions. Others were laughing.
Eventually Jarli got the door open and stumbled into the hallway. His family followed him in and shut the door.
Hooper, Jarli’s black Staffordshire terrier, barked and ran up to Jarli. She wagged her tail as she sniffed his shoes.
‘Well,’ Mum said, after a pause. ‘That wasn’t too bad.’
Jarli’s phone beeped. Lie
PUBLIC ENEMY
It was a while before anyone noticed that the TV was missing.
‘I don’t believe this,’ Mum groaned. ‘We’ve been robbed!’
Jarli stared. There was a clean square amongst the dust on the cabinet where it used to sit. The game console was gone too, and the sound system.
Dad disappeared into his bedroom. ‘My work laptop is gone,’ he called. He sounded scared. Jarli wondered if it could be used to break into CipherCrypt’s files.
‘They must have seen the news,’ Mum said. ‘They knew we were at the hospital and the house was empty.’
Jarli felt like she and Kirstie were glaring at him. He escaped into his room.
His computer—the one he’d assembled himself, with the custom graphics card—was gone. Jarli felt sick. He’d poured all his pocket money into that machine. And not all his files were backed up to the cloud. There were programs he’d written and videos he’d made which he’d never get back.
‘Where’s Nanna’s necklace?’ Mum cried from her room. ‘Oh no!’ Her grief was painful to hear.
‘Police, please,’ Dad was saying. It sounded like he was on the phone.
Jarli rifled through his closet and his desk. He didn’t think anything else was missing, but the sense that some stranger had been here was horrible.
Hooper ran into his room, wagging her tail.
‘Some guard dog you are,’ Jarli said.
&
nbsp; Hooper woofed. He couldn’t resist patting her anyway.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s check on Kirstie.’
He knocked on Kirstie’s door. ‘Are you missing anything?’
There was no answer. Jarli pushed the door open. Kirstie was sitting on her bed, hugging her knees. To Jarli, her room looked the same as always—Paint Rocket posters on the walls, schoolwork spread across the floor, some dolls she’d outgrown sitting on the shelves.
‘Is anything missing?’ Jarli asked.
Kirstie said something so quiet he didn’t hear. ‘What’s gone?’
‘My diary,’ Kirstie whimpered.
Jarli hadn’t known she kept a diary. He sat next to his sister and put his arm around her. ‘I’m sorry, sis,’ he said.
Kirstie looked like she was trying not to cry. ‘What if someone puts it online?’
‘What was in it?’ Jarli asked.
Kirstie didn’t answer. She just sat there, trembling.
‘I won’t let that happen,’ Jarli said.
‘You can’t stop it.’
‘Sure I can. I’ll set up an automated alert for anything posted with your name. If your diary shows up, I’ll get it deleted or crash the site it’s on. Then I’ll hack whoever posted it and ruin their lives. I’ll mess with their calendar so they go to the dentist every day.’
He wasn’t sure he could do any of that, but he was desperate to cheer Kirstie up. It didn’t work.
‘You’re not a hacker,’ she said.
‘Tell that to my teachers.’
Kirstie lay down in bed and rolled to face the wall. Jarli patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and then left.
He was too freaked out to sleep, so he went to get some breakfast. Cooking usually relaxed him—measuring ingredients, turning up the heat, enjoying the smell of garlic or cinnamon. It was kind of zen. But today it felt mechanical. Even cracking the eggs—usually his favourite part—seemed like a chore.
He scooped the scrambled eggs onto some toast and got out his phone while he ate. Maybe someone had seen the old man or the brown ute.