The House Next Door Trilogy (Books 1-3)

by Jule Owen

  The soldier says, “Look after this one. He’s a friend of Hathaway’s and not to be messed with.”

  The men are surprised. “Keifer,” the soldier continues, focused on an older man who is observing curiously with a beer bottle pressed to his lips. “Make sure he makes it up in time. I will come tomorrow first thing to arrange his transport.” He turns to Mathew, “That’s your bunk.”

  Later, it is dark and the men are all asleep. Mathew is wide awake and cold, lying under an itchy blanket on a hard mattress, in only his underwear, still chilled from the freezing shower.

  Two of the men snore loudly. One has a rattling snore, the other a kind of honk, and they take turns to rattle and honk as one breathes in and the other exhales. Mathew doesn’t understand how the other men sleep through it. He stares at the large links of the wire mesh supporting the mattress above him. Every time the man above him turns, the mesh squeaks. He shifts again and a limp arm suddenly falls and hangs next to Mathew’s head.

  Slowly, as quietly as possible, Mathew slips from the bed and pulls on his trousers and t-shirt. Outside he watches a soldier retreat along the corridor, through the endless series of open doors. He goes to the window and gazes at the quadrangle. The floodlights have been dimmed. The camp has gone to sleep. A couple of soldiers are on watch.

  “Nexus,” he says.

  “Welcome, Dr. Mathew Erlang,” the neutral standard English female voice of the Nexus says, “Text or speech?”

  “Text,” he says. “Review recent activity.”

  A list appears, message exchanges with people he doesn’t recognise, although he is startled to read some of the names he does. Theo Arkam is one of the most recent. Then, to his complete surprise, he sees a link to Project Yinglong. He selects the link. He is prompted for a password. He thinks for a moment and whispers, “Hoshi”.

  He is in. He finds some stone steps to sit on, opens a file and starts to read.

  20 Mathew Erlang the Elder

  Wednesday, 14 February, 2091, Silverwood.

  Dr. Mathew Erlang is fifty-two years old, a lecturer and research fellow at the newly founded Silverwood University, career-long employee of the multinational tech giant, Hermes Link. He stares into his brand new bathroom mirror, which hangs on the wall of the bathroom of his week-old apartment on the forty-fourth floor of the just-completed Isla Kier Tower, an exemplary building in the work-in-progress adaptation city of Silverwood.

  The water runs full-flow into the sink. He finally notices and turns off the tap, scolding himself for wasting the precious resource. These days it’s as valuable as gold. Even though he knows the city’s water recycling system to be second to none, he understands, to the point of geekery, what it costs to reprocess wastewater.

  The grey hair on his head has taken over at a rapid pace recently. His wife, Clara, says it makes him appear distinguished. It’s also what she says when he draws attention to the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, the long lines etched into the skin around his mouth, and the extra weight he struggles to keep off. She shows him her own signs of age and asks him if he is equally critical of her. He tells her she is the same to him. When he says this she rolls her eyes. But he truly doesn’t see them. When he takes time to study Clara, she is still the fifteen-year-old girl he first met on Pickervance Road all those years ago.

  Every now and then some event brings him up short, like the one they will all attend tonight, the inauguration of the newly rebuilt St Paul’s Cathedral, where Clara will be one of the star performers; a national treasure, their most famous and greatest living classical performer. His Clara is a different person from the one in advertisements plastered all around Birmingham and Silverwood. She says the same thing: her husband ‘the famous scientist’. Although he is not famous. He is not even remotely as successful.

  In many ways he views himself as a failure and is bitter over his inability to progress at Hermes Link. He knows Clara is right when she counsels him that each person must measure him or herself by their own stick, not against others. But he’s still stung by Theo Arkam’s stellar ascendency, not only to the pinnacle of the English subsidiary management but, now US-based, Arkam is Mathew’s boss’s boss, and Mathew’s direct manager is Arkam’s good friend, the not-especially-bright Oliver Thyer.

  And this is what galls. Mathew tells himself a million times that business success is driven by networking, confidence and personal charisma much, much more than intelligence and ability. He has actively chosen not to pursue the self-seeking behaviour he often views as unethical, but to have someone like Thyer promoted above him is like a personal insult. Many times recently he has reflected on the choices he has made which have led to him being sidelined from important research projects, delegated more admin, given more teaching time and fewer research opportunities, until the only research he is doing is his personal work. He only has himself to blame or, as Clara would put it, he has made the active choices to get him to where he is. She also points out that he actively chose to remain friends with Eva Aslanova, despite the fact he has never actually physically met her. Eva put Mathew in touch with someone in programming for GreyMatter, the international open forum for new ideas. Mathew’s GreyMatter talk caused an international sensation. On the back of this, Polonious Cartwright, the CEO of Hermes Link, had contacted Arkam to discover why he wasn’t supporting Mathew’s research work. He demanded Hermes Link publish their own branded version of the lecture, revealing evidence of the claims Mathew had made during his talk.

  Arkam is now on a hypersonic jet headed for Birmingham International Airport. He will be whisked straight to the University. In an hour, Mathew will be standing centre-stage in Silverwood’s recently completed three-thousand capacity auditorium, facing an invite-only audience, while his talk is broadcast live around the world.

  He is terrified.

  There is a knock at the door. “Dad?”

  It is George, his son, 22 years old and more confident and less anxious than he has ever been. George is his proudest achievement. That he and Clara somehow had a hand in turning the deeply traumatised little boy whom they had adopted into this immaculate young man is his proudest achievement and his greatest source of happiness.

  There is another, louder knock.

  “Dad, are you still in there? We have five minutes until the car arrives. It called ahead to say it is on its way. Are you ready?’

  “Yes, yes,” Mathew says. He glances once more in the mirror and opens the door. “How do I look?” he asks.

  “Like a profoundly intelligent man, on the cusp of disrupting the world of science.”

  “Then why do I feel like I am about to undergo some elaborate form of torture?”

  “Crazy old man! You killed the GreyMatter talk. It’s already one of the most popular ever.”

  “I didn’t think anyone would watch it.”

  “They did. And there’s a reason why. That reason is you are amazing.”

  “Don’t overdo it.”

  “Come on, Dad. You need to increase the energy levels.”

  “Believe me, if my heart beats any faster, I will expire. Upping the energy levels is precisely the opposite of what I need right now!”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “What?”

  “Alcohol.”

  “No! For heaven’s sake, I can’t go on drunk.”

  “It might relax you.”

  Mathew sighs, “Has the car picked up Hoshi yet?”

  George nods, “Yep. It’s taking her straight to the university.”

  “Right,” Mathew says. “I better had get going, then.”

  George asks, “Have you explained what is going on?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t do anything without her consent. It was her idea.”

  “Are you sure you still want to do this?”

  “No.”

  George gives him a certain look. He is barely as tall as Mathew, but he is taller than Mathew thought he would be. The height gene must have com
e from his mother, Mathew thinks.

  “Yes. Yes, I want to do this.”

  Clara comes into the hallway, all smiles. She says, “You look wonderful! Very distinguished.”

  She takes his hands and draws a deep breath. “I’m proud of you,” she says, kissing him on the nose.

  George says, “The car is here.”

  The car is a six-seater, dull metallic blue and grey, low-to-the-ground Merc with carbon fibre wheels and one-way glass windows. Luxury. Expensive. Not his usual daily commuter model. The Hermes Link PR team ordered it for the benefit of the press. The car comes with a man wearing a tux with a dickie bow and mirror glasses. A well-dressed thug with them all day, dress-code-ready for the black-tie event that evening. No one had told Mathew they were to be accompanied by a bodyguard.

  “Is there a problem?” Mathew asks the guard. “We didn’t request an escort.” Since his youth, he has hated security men.

  “No problem at all, Sir. Just a little extra precaution, given the news this morning.”

  Mathew has been disconnected from current affairs since the fuss with GreyMatter. But he’d caught the headlines in the morning and he knows the ATLAS Treaty negotiations are igniting an unlikely alliance between English and Welsh nationalists. He is conscious of how close his new city is to the troubled Welsh border towns. Not for the first time, Mathew questions Oliver Nystrom’s insistence that they follow Cadmus Silverwood’s blueprint to the letter in building the city this far south and close to Wales. Things have changed since Cadmus died. They have changed a lot.

  “Because of the nationalists?” he asks the guard.

  “It’s fine. There’re some protestors picketing the university gates. Edenists. Peaceful, but you never know. There will be placards as we go in and some shouting.”

  “Great.”

  “It’s nothing really. Hermes is exceptionally cautious to send me. You’ll be fine.”

  Mathew isn’t particularly reassured. Clara takes his hand and squeezes it. The guard opens the back door and they climb into the miniature luxury living room, taking their seats on two powder-grey fake leather sofas with charcoal piping. Between them there’s a slick glass coffee table with moulded cup holders. An ice cooler and a bottle of champagne stand beside it, with three champagne flutes.

  “Would you like me to open it?” their minder asks.

  Mathew shakes his head. “A bit early for me.”

  “Oh come on, Dad!” George says. “It’s a special occasion.”

  “And I need to be sober for my talk.”

  Clara says to the guard, “Thanks. We’ll manage ourselves.” She smiles and he nods and shuts the door. The car pulls away, smooth as butter, silent as snow.

  George lifts the champagne from the ice to read the label. “Rievaulx. North Yorkshire wine. Nice. C’mon Dad, let’s have a toast.”

  “It’s eleven o’clock.”

  “Perfect timing for a champagne breakfast!”

  George examines the mini-fridge and larder to the side. “There’s fresh strawberries and cream.” He opens the door and grabs a bowl, sniffing. “Real cream.”

  “It can’t be real cream.”

  “It smells like it. Here.” He hands a bowl to his mother.

  Clara sniffs. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never eaten real cream. Here, you would know,” she passes it to Mathew.

  “It’s been such a long time,” he smells. “Could be.”

  “We have to eat these,” George says. He hands a bowl to his mother, takes one himself and puts it on the table. He finds cutlery. Polished silverware. “I won’t let this go to waste either,” he says. He takes the champagne bottle, unwraps the wire and the foil and pops the cork. Clara holds a glass to help catch the overflow. They all laugh.

  “Your son is an aesthete,” Mathew says.

  “My son?”

  “It’s a reaction,” George says. “Against your puritanism. Here,” he says, as he passes a glass across to his father. Mathew puts down the strawberries in order to take the glass. “One won’t hurt you.” George pours two more glasses and then holds his up in a toast. “To the amazing future!” he says.

  “To the amazing future!” Clara repeats.

  “Cheers!” says Mathew “Although I’m not sure what you mean about the future.”

  “The one you’re going to change forever,” George says.

  Mathew laughs and shakes his head. “That’s a nice thing to say, but Project Yinglong won’t change anything.”

  “I just have a feeling,” George says. “So does Mum, don’t you?”

  Clara says, “We both believe in your work, Mathew. What you’ve achieved is incredible.”

  “But it’s not my achievement. Both of you should understand.”

  Clara catches George’s eye. “It’s no use. He’ll never take any credit.”

  “You need to learn to celebrate success, Dad.”

  “Let’s wait until today is over, shall we?”

  George sighs and throws back his champagne. “I want to discuss tonight. After your talk, I need to take Mum straight over to St Paul’s.”

  “Yes, you should.”

  “I will come back once Mum is settled to take you home. Dad, you go home and get dressed for tonight. We had your tux cleaned.”

  “You don’t need to come back and get me. I have this car for the day.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Mathew says. “George, you’re being incredibly helpful. Look after your mother this afternoon. She is the big star. It’s her big night.”

  Clara says, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Don’t be such a martyr. I’ve had hundreds of big concerts. This is a special day for you, for all of us. George, I’ll get a car to St Paul’s alone. You take care of your father.”

  George shakes his head, exasperated. “Let’s play it by ear then, shall we?” He says to Mathew, “Will you call me once you are ready to leave?”

  “Yes, I will call you.”

  The car slows as they reach the entrance to the university. As the guard predicted, there is a small crowd of people holding makeshift banners covered in hand-written messages. They proclaim the usual Edenist slogans: You are not God! Against Nature! There are some new ones, including, Stop Dr. Frankenstein. And most disturbingly, Kill Frankenstein’s Monster.”

  In the few moments it takes the gates to open, the crowd presses against the car and security people move to push and pull them back. Bodies flatten against the car windows on both sides. The glass is tinted and one-way. Thank goodness, Mathew thinks, as the protestors surge forward, angry-eyed and shouting. They bang on the windows, and kick, thump, scratch at the expensive paintwork. Mathew dreads to imagine what they would do if they knew for sure who was inside.

  Finally, they are through and the university gates close behind them.

  “I don’t understand how these people even got into Silverwood,” Clara says.

  “It’s a good point,” George says. “Perhaps the Edenists have infiltrated the government.”

  “It’s democracy,” Mathew says reasonably. “They have a right to express their opinion.”

  “Since when has this been a democracy?” George says.

  The car takes a long meandering path through landscaped gardens. These are an inconceivable luxury, perceived as an outrage by many, angry at the waste of water that keeps the completely non-productive plants alive. But part of Cadmus Silverwood’s plan was to build a beautiful city as well as a functional one, a place to feed the eyes and the soul. Although practically all of Silverwood’s buildings are – or will be – skyscrapers, to maximise space, they are full of atriums, roof-gardens and tree-lined balconies, each with their own hydroponics stations. When it is complete, the whole of the city will be a kind of greenhouse.

  The infamous, self-constructing, part-biological roof is already visible above this part of town. In a year-and-a-half the roof will be complete and the city’s self-contained atmosphere will start to work. They exit the car,
crane their necks upwards and marvel at the engineering miracle. The revolutionary biodegradable scaffolding, designed as a structure to allow the roof to grow across, and which the roof will eventually eat, is highlighted against the sky, an ultra-thin black skeleton. In years to come, people won’t notice it, Mathew thinks. It won’t be a technological marvel. It will be like the real sky; less noticeable, because there will be no weather to speak of, only scheduled rain showers the system creates. No one will ever be caught in the rain again. There will be little reason to lift one’s eyes if the sky is perpetually blue.

  As they walk towards the main entrance of the university Mathew notices with some nervousness that there is a small group ready to welcome them. The university’s chancellor, who ten days ago hadn’t been able to remember Mathew’s name, stands with a small gaggle of officials and a handful of journalists. Camera flashes go off. Mathew is startled and disorientated when the Chancellor comes to him and greets him warmly with a handshake.

  Mathew asks, “Is Professor Arkam here yet?”

  “No, but he’s only five minutes away.”

  “He’s cutting it fine,” says George.

  The Chancellor stares at George. Mathew realises slightly too late that the proper thing to do is to introduce his family. He says, “Sorry Chancellor, this is George, my son.”

  “Your son?” the Chancellor glances with some confusion from the blond-haired, blue-eyed young man back to Mathew.

  “I was adopted,” George says quickly. He smiles and shakes the Chancellor’s hand firmly. Mathew marvels again at George’s confidence and charm. It is entirely Clara’s doing.

  “Oh. Well. Of course! Pleased to meet you, George. Are you studying here?”

  “I’m at Birmingham. I’ll transfer here to do my postgrad next year.”

  “You will be a welcome addition to our student body. What are you studying?”