by Jule Owen
“I’d like it very much,” Mathew says, looking at his grandmother, who smiles. They haven’t discussed it, but there is an unspoken agreement between them.
“We thought you would say that,” Shepcutt says, “Which is why we are worried.”
“Why should it worry you, Mr. Shepcutt?” Isla asks.
Shepcutt raises his eyebrows, as if surprised anyone would have the need to ask. “Why, because of the money, of course.”
“The money?”
“The six hundred thousand I mentioned before.”
Ju, Isla, Buchanan and Mathew look at one another in confusion. Isla says, “I don’t think any of us understand.”
Jain says, “Well, of course, it will need to be paid back, if Mathew breaks his contract.”
“You can’t expect the boy to find that kind of money. This is insane.”
“I’m afraid Mathew signed a contract, Mr. Buchanan. The terms are clear, I think you’ll find,” Shepcutt says.
Isla says, “Can we get a copy of the contract, please, Mr. Shepcutt?”
“Of course you can. I’ll send one over after this meeting. But I think you’ll find it’s clear.”
“I’m sure it is,” Isla says, “But we’d like to look at it all the same. Do you have any alternative suggestions to Mathew paying back the money?”
Mr. Shepcutt smiles brightly, “He could come back to London and continue his studies.”
Ju Shen says, “You’ve just pointed out that his home will have to be sold.”
Shepcutt raises his palms to the ceiling in a kind of shrug, as if to say he is helpless in the face of harsh facts, then he stands up. “Thank you for your time, all of you. We will leave you to mull it over. We’re staying down the road for a few days. We’re both contactable in the usual ways.” Buchanan shows the two men to the door. Shepcutt continues, “Don’t hesitate to reach out to us if you have any questions at all, or need any support or assistance. We are here to help. We’ll get the contract over to you soon.”
The lawyer, Mia Outram, has dreadlocks hanging in light brown lumps down her back. She is dressed in strange natural weave clothes in a range of greens, lavenders, browns and dark reds that look like they may have been woven and dyed at home. Mia is Isla Kier’s legal counsel and she is sitting now in the Elgol hall offices, hunched over a paper, reading the small print of Mathew’s contract with Hermes Link. Every now and then she emits a small strange noise, like a gasp followed by a sort of hum. Isla, Craig, Ju and Mathew sit patiently and wait for her to finish.
When she was younger, Craig had told Mathew while they waited for Mia to join them, Ms. Outram had been a successful corporate lawyer in London. Mathew cannot imagine her in a suit with a normal haircut.
She says, “They’ve got you tied tight, Mathew. It’s a pretty standard educational contract. I’ve never seen one of these challenged successfully in court, though people have tried. Judges usually rule sympathetically in favour of the corporates. I wouldn’t suggest you challenge it. There’s a high chance you’ll lose and then you’ll be liable to pay legal fees as well.”
Craig whistles, “That’s a lot of money to pay back.”
“What will you get from the sale of the house in London?”
“Couple of hundred thousand, maximum,” Ju Shen says. “It is mostly mortgaged.”
Isla says, “There’s the money from Panacea. That would cover it, wouldn’t it?”
Ju Shen nods. “Yes, it would,” she looks at Mathew thoughtfully.
“I don’t want to take their money,” he says.
“I know how you feel, Mat,” Ju says, “But it would free you to stay here.”
“God, it’s a shame to see these bastards win on all fronts,” Craig says angrily. “Are you sure there’s nothing we can do, Mia?”
“Not in this specific case, although we can use it in evidence in a larger political action concerning these educational contracts. They are grossly unfair and need challenging.”
“That doesn’t help Mathew right now, though.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“I told Hoshi not to let you sign this damned thing,” Ju Shen says.
Mathew says, “She was doing her best. I wanted to sign it.”
“Looks like you might have to take the money from Panacea,” Mia says. “I’m sorry, Mathew.”
He nods, but inside he is seething. “I’m going for a walk,” he says, standing.
“Okay. You clear your head,” Craig says.
Outside, Mathew jogs across the now empty car park of the hall to the field beyond. He runs up the hill, his legs struggling in the deep snow and, out of breath, finds a tree, and stands with his hands against it; he kicks the tree and keeps kicking it. He doesn’t want to take the Panacea money. He doesn’t want to leave Elgol. He has nowhere to go in London.
“Bastards,” he shouts. “Bastards! Fecking bastards.”
“That’s no way to speak to a tree.” It is Lea’s voice. Mathew doesn’t turn around. “No way to treat it, either.”
“Leave it, Lea,” Mathew says. “I’m not in the mood.”
“What happened to you?”
“Please, feck off. I need some peace.”
“Jeeze. And I came to offer to buy you a smoothie, but if that’s how you are, screw you,” Lea starts walking back down the field.
Mathew turns and watches her go and is immediately sorry, “Lea! Lea, I’m sorry,” he runs down after her, catches her by the arm. “Really, I’m sorry. I had a crappy morning.”
“That’s fine,” Lea says, “But no need to take it out on me. I thought we were friends.”
“We are friends. I’m sorry.”
She looks at him for a moment and then says, “Do you still want a smoothie? Then you can tell me what’s happened?”
Mathew smiles, “Yeah, I’d love a smoothie.” They start to walk again. “How’s Isaac?”
“Awake,” she says. “But he has to stay in the hospital for a few days. You should go and see him.”
“I will.”
They kick the snow from their boots on the side of the wooden steps, by the cafe. “So what happened?”
“My school happened. I have a corporate scholarship. I either have to pay back my fees or go back to London.”
“How much are your fees?”
“Six hundred thousand.”
“Wow.”
They go into the cafe and sit down. Oli comes over to take their order.
“So what are you going to do?” Lea asks when Oli goes off to make their smoothies.
“I have nowhere to stay in London. Our house needs to be sold. I can’t go back there now. I have no choice.”
“Would you want to go back, if you had a choice?”
“I don’t know,” Mathew says, thinking of Clara. Mathew puts his head in his hands.
“All for a corporate education. I could teach you more about tech in a week than those monkeys have taught you in sixteen years, I reckon.”
Mathew grins, “I reckon you could too, Lea. But if I stay here, I have to find the money, and the only place I can get it is from the money Panacea wants to pay me to keep me quiet about my mother’s death.”
Lea’s eyes widen, “Now I see why you were kicking the poor tree,” she says. “But you can’t take their money.”
“I have to,” Mathew says.
“What will happen if you don’t?”
“They’ll put me and my grandmother on a repayment plan that will be hereditary. They’ll probably make her sell her house here.”
“Wow.”
“Yes, wow.”
Oli returns with their drinks. “Two banana and chocolate smoothies with fresh mint,” he says. “I threw in the strawberry garnish for free,” he says.
They take their drinks. There’s a skewered strawberry on a stick hanging over each glass.
“Thanks, Oli. They look amazing.”
Mathew takes a sip of his and pulls a face. “What kind of chocolate is it?�
�� he asks.
“100%. No sugar. It’s good for you.”
“It tastes good for you. That’s the problem.”
“You get used to it,” Lea says.
“Hmmm…” Mathew says noncommittally, cautiously taking another sip.
“Not sure?”
Mathew shakes his head.
“I’ll drink it if you don’t want it.”
Mathew holds onto his glass protectively. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to drink it.”
Lea takes another gulp of her smoothie and says, “Is there anyone in London you can stay with? Any friends?”
Mathew thinks and says, “There is Gen.”
“Who’s Gen?”
“Our neighbour. A piano teacher. She’s known me all my life and was kind to me when Mum got sick. But she lives alone. She probably wouldn’t want a teenaged boy messing up her house.”
“Why don’t you ask her? Can’t hurt, can it? She can only say no. That way, you don’t have to take Panacea’s blood money and we can do something with those documents I found.”
“You’re not still going on about those?”
“Why not? We could get them out to the world.”
Mathew shakes his head.
“Are you worried about damaging your mother’s reputation?”
“No,” Mathew says. “I was wrong about that. I was wrong about her. She wanted to resign and they wouldn’t let her. She knew too much.”
Lea gapes, “Do you think they meant to kill her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then don’t you want to get back at them?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“This could be the best way to do it. To clear her name and expose Panacea.”
Mathew drains his drink, trying to decide if the strange chocolate is growing on him or not.
“I’ll think about it,” Mathew says. “My head is spinning. I want to go and see Isaac.”
26 Haunted By Herself
“Ten minutes,” Clara says to her guard. He nods amiably enough because she was true to her word the last time she took a detour, and gets into the car, turning on Nexus entertainment in his Lenz.
Clara hesitates before banging on Mr. Lestrange’s door. Part of her can’t reconcile the events she experienced the last time she passed over this threshold. When the door opens and his odd face and deep-set eyes peer down at her from his spindly height, she half expects him not to know who she is. But instead he smiles. “Come in,” he says, making way for her.
She hesitates at the bottom of the stairs. “Should I go up?” she asks.
“Not right now,” he says. “We have other business to attend to first.”
She follows him into his front room, where he pulls out the Book of Clara, leafs through to a particular page, studies it for a few moments to make sure he has found the right place and then places it open on the table.
“Where are we going?”
“To your future again. A few days after Mathew’s death. It would be best if you spoke with your older self, rather than me doing it.”
Clara raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure what my future self would prefer, being told that my husband who I saw murdered with my own eyes is not dead, but is resurrected in the past, by the ghost of my old self or by a strange alien from the future.”
“This was your idea.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. Of course, I am happy to come with you.”
“It should be less dramatic than last time,” he says.
In the Darkroom, Lestrange fits Clara’s Skullcap and they are once again standing in the corridor. They head to the yellow life jacket, open the door and step into the dank and rotting office.
Tuesday 20th February 2091, Silverwood
This time Mathew doesn’t burst out through the door. This time there is no storm.
Clara takes Lestrange’s offered hand and blinks and opens her eyes on a bright living room with a remarkable view over the city of Silverwood. Clara goes over to the window and looks out. A car zips past forty feet away on a wafer-thin road winding like a ball of string around the hundreds of high-rises thrown upwards to the half-grown dome above.
“Where is this?” Clara asks.
“Your home in 2091.”
“Wow.”
“You’ve only recently moved in, actually,” Lestrange indicates the small pile of still unpacked boxes in a corner of the large open-plan room, near the kitchen. There’s a HomeAngel working near the sink, emptying a bin. It’s a lot more human than the ones in Clara’s own time; its movements are uncanny, although it has a shiny, hard white surface and large blue LED eyes. George, the boy from the cathedral, is sitting on a sofa near the window with the amazing view, staring into space. He doesn’t look like he’s had any sleep recently.
Lestrange leads Clara across the apartment to a passage with doors leading to bedrooms. Older Clara’s bedroom door is open. She is lying face down on the bed, her head turned, her eyes open. There’s a tissue in her hand and others scattered around her on the bed and the floor.
Lestrange indicates to young Clara that she should sit in the armchair next to the bed. She does as she’s told.
“In ten seconds you will be visible to her, but only her.” Lestrange says. He counts her down.
The older Clara screams. George comes running from the living room into the room. “What happened?” he asks. “Mum?”
Older Clara has shuffled off the bed and is standing in the corner of the room. To George she seems to be staring at thin air. To younger Clara and Lestrange she is staring right at her younger self, although she hasn’t quite figured that out yet.
“Well, this is going well,” young Clara says.
“She can hear you,” Lestrange says.
“But not you?”
“No.”
“Who are you?” older Clara asks.
“Mum, what are you staring at? Who are you talking to?”
Older Clara looks at George. “You can’t see anything?”
George shakes his head, frowning, worried.
“It must be the medication,” Clara says. “The doctor said it could have side effects.”
“Then you should stop taking it,” George says. “If it’s actually making you worse.”
Older Clara nods absently, still staring at young Clara. “Yes. You’re right. I should.”
George goes over to his mother, still cowering in the corner of the room. “Mum, you should lie down.” He leads her back to the bed, and she lets him help her. He holds the covers for her. “Why don’t you try and sleep?”
“Okay,” she says, but her eyes are drawn back to that one blank spot hovering above the armchair.
“What do you see?” George asks.
Older Clara smiles weakly and shakes her head, “Nothing. Nothing at all.” She lets him pull the cover over her. She takes his hand and squeezes it. “Thank you. Thank you, George. You’ve been so good.”
“Please don’t even say it,” he says. “Just be well. Be okay. For me. I need you, Mum.”
“I know. I will be. I promise,” she says, holding his hand in hers a moment longer before letting it fall. “I think I’m going to try and sleep now.”
“Good.” George retreats, stops at the door and turns off the lights by summoning a virtual panel.
“No. Don’t. Leave them on,” Clara says.
“Okay,” he says, putting the lights back up. “I’ll be in the other room if you need me.”
“Thank you Honey.”
He pulls the door shut.
Clara lies with her eyes open staring at the armchair. “Are you a ghost?” she says, finally. “Or some kind of hologram that only I can see?”
Clara says, “If you were going to be haunted by a ghost, why would you be haunted by a ghost of yourself?”
“So you are me. I did wonder. It’s surprisingly hard to recognise yourself.”
“Yes, I’m you.”
“What are you? A recording? A
message? Is this one of Mathew’s strange tricks? A message from the grave? Are you going to recite his will to me?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m from your past.”
“I am hallucinating,” she says.
“No, you’re not.”
Clara pulls a sceptical face, “Then what is going on?”
“I’m here to tell you Mathew is not dead.”
“This must be the drugs or I’m going mad,” older Clara puts her hands over her eyes.
“You are not going mad.”
“I saw him shot. I was with him when he died!”
Young Clara stands and reaches out to her older self. “You must listen to me. He did die, but he is not lost to you. There is a way you can continue to see him, to be with him, but you must listen to me.”
Lestrange says, “George heard you talking and is coming back.”
The door opens. George pokes his head around. “Mum? I heard voices.”
Older Clara looks at her son and sighs. “Talking to myself,” she says.
He says, “You must try and rest.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, but you will make yourself ill if you carry on like this. I can’t lose both of you. I can’t.”
Older Clara reaches out her hands to her son. George comes to her and sits on the bed. “You won’t, George. I’m so sorry. I know how hard this must have been for you with Hathaway appearing on top of everything else. I don’t want to add to things.”
George takes her hands and squeezes them. “I need you to get well. Please try and sleep.”
She nods. He stands and walks to the door. “Sure you don’t want the light off?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “Not yet.” She smiles.
George leaves.
Older Clara looks at young Clara and says quietly, “You’re still there.”
“I want to help you. Me. I don’t want to live in a future without Mathew,” she says. “There is no need for you to be so sad.”
Clara says, “I am grief-stricken. I am drugged up. I am not thinking straight. This cannot be real.”
“If you don’t believe me, let me show you.”