The House Next Door Trilogy (Books 1-3)

by Jule Owen

  He has piercing blue eyes. They flash with recognition. Hathaway’s white skin discernibly whitens, like he has seen a ghost. He turns to Kilfeather, says something Mathew can’t hear, but it is obvious they are talking about him. A moment later, Hathaway makes his exit towards the Grand Staircase. Kilfeather lingers behind. When the hubbub dies he comes over.

  “Are you done with your dinner?” he asks.

  Mathew nods.

  “Good. Then you’re coming with me.”

  19 Director Hathaway

  Mathew tries to keep pace with Kilfeather’s stride. They pass through room after room and then make pace along a corridor; the whole place bustles with men and women who part as Kilfeather marches forward.

  Mathew studies the ceilings decorated with fine plasterwork, the wood panels on the walls, the once fine wallpaper, torn off and shredded. The bare floors take punishment from thousands of pairs of uncaring boots. Through open doors Mathew glimpses army beds, bunks with men and women packing backpacks, or sitting, talking, drinking, thinking.

  Bright light falls through the tall windows on the right of the corridor. They stop briefly to let some soldiers carrying heavy equipment pass. Mathew looks through the window. Down below, the Upper Ward is floodlit and full of tiny, frenetic figures. In the centre of the quadrangle there are tents pitched.

  “Come on,” Kilfeather barks, already marching off along the corridor.

  Finally they turn, walk across a stairwell and climb a flight of stone steps to a room, small by the standards of the rooms they have passed through. There is a long table, some ordinary office chairs and a bank of Canvases on a wall. In one corner there is a battered sofa and a couple of armchairs.

  “Wait here,” Kilfeather says. “Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ve got to go.”

  Mathew says, “What am I waiting for?”

  “Who. Who are you waiting for? You are waiting for Director Hathaway. For some reason better known to himself, he wants to waste his precious time talking to you. I can’t. You stay here, until he comes for you.”

  Kilfeather leaves, closing the door behind him, and Mathew is alone.

  A beam of light flashes across the window on the far wall and illuminates the whole room for a few moments. Mathew goes over to look out.

  Night has fallen. The sky above is inky-black but, as with the quadrangle, the park is lit as bright as day. Floodlights run all the way along the Long Walk, which is lined with tents and vehicles that stretch into the park beyond. People are busy loading lorries and vans. A chopper lands on a makeshift helipad. A search lamp mounted on a wooden tower sweeps the camp, casting silhouettes on moving figures. Mathew catches his breath. He is looking at an enormous army. There must be thousands of them.

  Still at the window, he logs on to the Nexus and says, “Nexus, where am I?”

  The AI responds, “Text or speech?”

  “Speech.”

  “I will speak your answer. If you wish to switch to text at any time, please use the command, ‘Nexus, switch text.’ I will continue with your answer. You are currently in the York Tower, Windsor Castle, the town of Windsor, County of Berkshire, 51.4833° N, 0.6042° W. Windsor Castle is a residence of the British Royal Family. Originally built by William the Conqueror, it is more than one thousand years old. Want to know more about Windsor Castle? Say ‘Yes’ if you wish to continue. Say ‘No’ if you wish to abort request.”

  “No. Nexus, what are the Accountants doing at Windsor Castle?”

  “I do not understand the question, ‘What are the Accountants doing at Windsor Castle?’ Do you wish to rephrase and try again? Say ‘Yes’ if you wish to continue. Say ‘No’ if you wish to abort.”

  “No.

  “Nexus, who are the Accountants?”

  “The Accountants are an unlawful paramilitary terrorist organisation active throughout mainland Europe. Originally formed as an extremist faction of the Edenist movement, the Accountants are an amalgamation of several dissident terrorist groups. Their stated aim is to overthrow the coalition government, to form a republic, abolish the free market, break all international trade agreements and return Britain to what they describe as a pastoral economy. The current leader of the English Accountants is Director Hathaway.”

  “Nexus, who are the Edenists?”

  “The Reverend Eben O'Hingerty founded The Edenists in the 2040s. O’Hingerty was an evangelical preacher and environmental campaigner concerned about the impact of science and technology on the human form given by God. The movement grew with the worldwide spread of the Mercy and the Tagus viruses and their many variants. The Edenists reject human customisation, or what is known as H+. They aim to limit the use of implanted technology, end the use of biological weapons, return to exclusive use of organically produced food and reject adaptation policies, including technologies to adjust and control the climate. The English Edenist Party positions itself as a democratic alternative to the currently elected coalition government and is the main opposition party, currently led by Hugo Foxe. Foxe strenuously denies allegations of affiliation and cooperation with the paramilitary organisation ‘the Accountants’.”

  “Nexus, who is Director Hathaway?”

  “Director Hathaway is the current leader of the unlawful paramilitary terrorist organisation, the Accountants. Hathaway’s life before the Accountants is shrouded in mystery. He has been an active member since the mid-2060s and succeeded as leader at the beginning of 2081, after he led the Accountants to victory at the Battle of East Croydon. Under Hathaway, the Accountants claim a significant expansion of territory under their control, with widespread support in the South of England from Cornwall to Kent and Essex, spreading north through Suffolk and some parts of Norfolk and on the West Coast into Gloucestershire.”

  Mathew wonders how different this story would read on the Blackweb. He wonders if his older self still accesses it. The Lenz interface is entirely different from the one he is used to. Coming away from the window, he sits on the sofa and spends several minutes familiarising himself with it.

  He can’t find Charybdis. He is poised to abandon his attempt when he spots a link to a document called In Sympathy with Ju Shen.

  His grandmother! In this world, he thinks, she must be dead.

  He opens the document.

  It is an ancient Chinese poem, translated into English. He recognises it as one of his grandmother’s favourites, one she has recited to him many times. He knows every line of it. It begins:

  It is almost as hard for friends to meet

  As for the morning and evening stars.

  The last two lines are a link. They read:

  But what ten cups could make me as drunk,

  As I always am with your love in my heart?

  As he selects the link, he realises these aren’t the last lines of the poem. The system prompts him with a voice message, which says, ‘Tomorrow the mountains will separate us.’

  That’s not the end either, Mathew thinks. He automatically continues, speaking aloud, finishing the poem, “After tomorrow - who can say?”

  The system says, “Welcome to the Blackweb.” A Lenz menu unfurls elegantly before him. He is strangely pleased his older self is still communicating via the Blackweb. He says, “MUUT, who is Director Hathaway?”

  The Blackweb says, “Director Hathaway is the leader of the Accountants, the armed resistance movement fighting the totalitarian regime currently in control of England. The Accountants were named to reflect the fact that their written charter is to bring the coalition government to account for their crimes against the peoples of the British Isles.

  “In spite of his lack of any formal military training, Hathaway is credited with being a brilliant natural tactician. Much of his success as a commander has been attributed to his ability to unite the previously divided factions of the resistance behind the central ideas of returning democracy and social equality to Britain, whilst neutralising extremists on either end of the political spectrum. Over the last ten years,
he has gained control of much of the south east of England. Key to his success has been his strategy of galvanising millions of disaffected civilians to support guerrilla war efforts. They harbour and aid fighters in return for policing, medical services and schools. More recently, Hathaway has allegedly been in talks with the national parties of Wales and Scotland. He is also believed to have forged an alliance with Rhys Llewelyn, leader of the Welsh militia, who has led armed incursions against coalition forces in the disputed border territories between England and Wales.

  “DoB 2041 (approx.). Little is known about Hathaway’s life before he joined the Accountants but it is rumoured he was married and had a son. There are two versions of events. The first says the coalition murdered Hathaway’s family; the second says his wife defected. The MUUT editorial team cannot confirm or deny either of these narratives. Hathaway rarely gives interviews, or makes public appearances and has always refused to answer questions about his personal life.”

  Mathew says, “Blackweb, why are the Accountants occupying Windsor Castle?”

  “Windsor Castle has been the military base of the Accountants for approximately two years, as of the time of writing. The castle ceased to be a royal residence during the last great flood, when the Royal Family moved for its own safety to Balmoral in Scotland, where the King is still nominally head of state. After the castle was vacated, coalition forces initially used it as a barracks, before the Accountant army routed them.

  The castle has been returned to its original purpose as a fortress (William the Conqueror built it). It occupies a strategic position on the Thames, close to London. Accountant forces now also control the former capital.”

  The next thing he does is check if there has been any response to his letter to his older self. It has been opened, but there is no message for him.

  He opens a new file and calls it, ‘Letter to myself #2’ and dictates:

  You haven’t responded. I guess you don’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe me either. Here are some things that may help convince you/me.

  In my own time it is twenty fifty-five. War has just broken out. There is a Curfew because London is flooded, but not as severely as it is now and people still live there. I still live there.

  Before I came here, looking for you, hoping you’d save our mother, before our mother got sick, I was working on a personal project to make holographic dragons. Eva Aslanova made a virtual world for them, although now I think they are too destructive. They nearly burned me alive the other day. At school I am working on a robotics project. I built a beebot and sent it to Clara, the girl who comes for piano lessons with Gen. I really like Clara. Last week we had a group session and Arkam was an arse.

  That should do it. He sends the message.

  The door behind him opens. Hathaway enters. His diminutive size strikes Mathew again. He is small-boned as well as short and carries his little hands in front of him as if he’s expecting to receive a gift. His movements are diminutive too. Mathew can’t imagine Hathaway fighting.

  There is a jug of water on the table. Hathaway pours himself a glass, pulls back one of the shrilk chairs and sits.

  “Please,” he says to Mathew. He indicates to a chair opposite him. He hasn’t once glanced at Mathew.

  As Mathew takes a seat, Hathaway holds the bridge of his nose for a moment, closing his eyes. He blinks and raises his gaze. His eyes are bloodshot. He takes a gulp of water and says, “Have you seen the army? You get a good view, I think, from the window.”

  “Yes. It’s impressive,” Mathew says.

  “Fifty thousand men. When we get close to Silverwood, thirty thousand more will join us. Potentially another ten from the Welsh towns. We may have some support from the north. The outcome is probably a done deal; the coalition has no way to withstand our force and we have friends on the inside of the city. If the plan works, we should take Silverwood without a shot being fired, but you never know and some of those men may still die. Many of them possibly. Maybe I will.”

  Up close, Hathaway’s boyish looks are faded. Deep lines etch the skin around his eyes; his fair hair is flecked with grey.

  “It has taken us many years to get to this point. It has been the work of my life to bring together the people to fight and take back their country from the small group that leech the blood from this nation. I have sacrificed everything to get to where I am now. This may be one of the most important nights in the history of this ancient nation. It is certainly the most important night of my life. Imagine my surprise, then, when you turned up.”

  What does he mean? Does he know me?

  “When I first saw you, I thought I’d seen a ghost,” Hathaway says. “On the way to this room, it occurred to me, lack of sleep might be affecting my judgment, and you would turn out to be just some random boy Kilfeather rescued.” Hathaway looks at the water at the bottom of his glass. “Damn, I wish I had something stronger.” He gets up, goes to a cabinet, and looks inside. He examines the replicator on the sideboard, doesn’t find what he wants. He comes and sits again, swills the water around, swigs it, puts the glass on the desk and moves it around, rolling it along its bottom. He says, “Kilfeather said your name is Mathew. Is he correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Hathaway thinks. He nods slightly to himself, still rolling the glass, he laughs, a sort of bitter laugh, “Funny, I didn’t ever have him pegged as vain.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That makes two of us. Why are you here?”

  “Kilfeather brought me here.”

  “Yes, yes. He told me he found you trying to escape from a government agent. I meant, why aren’t you living with your father?”

  “My father?”

  “Your father, Mathew Erlang. Dr. Mathew Erlang, as he is now. You are his son, aren’t you? You’re the spitting image of him.”

  He thinks I am my own son!

  Mathew summons the first rule of lying: Tell the truth as far as possible. He says, “My mother is sick. I need to get help. I’m on my way to ask him to help me.”

  “So you are his son.” Hathaway looks again at the glass and then directly at Mathew. “Is Clara sick?”

  “Clara? No. Not Clara.”

  Hathaway holds Mathew’s gaze for a moment.

  “Clara isn’t your mother?”

  Mathew doesn’t know how to respond; he opens his mouth to speak but Hathaway beats him to it.

  “I’m not sure why I’m surprised,” Hathaway says. “I was deluded - blinded by him, always thinking him better than he was. That weakness has been the curse of my life. So you don’t live in Silverwood?”

  “I’ve never even been,” Mathew says.

  “You live in London?”

  “In Blackheath.”

  “It’s been cleared.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry. We will get it back.” Hathaway weighs Mathew up. “Does Dr. Erlang know how you live?”

  “He doesn’t know I exist,” Mathew says.

  “Your appearance will be a shock to him?”

  Mathew nods, “But I need him to help my mother.”

  Hathaway stands and goes to the window, as awed as Mathew by the scene. After a few silent moments he turns back to the room. “I will help you find your father, Mathew. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind talking to him myself. Your appearance has prompted all kinds of memories. But right now, I need to go, I’m afraid. I’ll send someone along to make sure you have a bed for the night and get breakfast before we set off. We’re leaving at 4 am. You can travel with us if you want passage to Silverwood.”

  “Yes I do,” Mathew says. “Thank you.”

  “Good,” Hathaway turns back to the room, away from the window, and stares at Mathew. Then suddenly he puts his glass on the table and walks to the door. “I’m sorry we couldn’t talk more. Truly. I’d like to know what happened to you. Perhaps we will still have time after all this is ended.” He turns back for a moment. “Funny, I’d forgotten.” He shakes his head a
s he leaves the room. “Almost.”

  Mathew stares at the back of the shut door. A floodlight pans across it. The room is startlingly bright for a moment.

  Alone once again, Mathew goes back to the window and watches the activity in the park. Periodically, as helicopters descend and ascend, the lights from the watchtowers pan the camp, casting eerie shadows on the grass, through the long avenue of trees. The great lights sweep across the tops of tents and trucks. It is late now, but equipment and supplies are still being loaded.

  The door behind him opens. An unfamiliar soldier leans in and says, “Mathew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come with me. I’ve been told to assign you a bunk for the night.”

  They take the stairs back to the corridor, retracing the route he had travelled with Kilfeather.

  “There’s showers and toilets,” the man points to a door they pass on the right. “Not sure how warm the water will be this time of day. I’d take advantage of it, if I were you. It may be a while before you get the opportunity again.” They make a stop at a storeroom, shelves piled full of neatly folded clothes. “You’ll need a uniform,” he says. “You’re wearing Coalition-issue uniform. You’re likely to be shot by mistake. What size are you?”

  Mathew tells him and he is given underwear, socks, t-shirt, a shirt, trousers and a jacket. The man goes to another cupboard that contains rows of boots, asks his size and selects a pair, piling them on Mathew’s outstretched wrists. He follows the soldier back into the corridor. A few doors along they turn into a dormitory. A group of soldiers are playing cards on the top of a made bed; they all have bottles of beer. They stare when Mathew comes into the room.