The Boy Who Fell from the Sky, Jule Owen [classic romance novels txt] 📗

everything is fine.”

“It’s just something I’d like to research. It’s a bit unorthodox.”

“Nothing serious, though, Mat?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Nothing that will get you into trouble?”

“No,” he says definitely.

“Now I am worried.”

“Please.”

She sighs. “I’ll find out if my friend is available for a chat.”

“Thanks, Grandma.”

“You’re not going to get me in trouble with your mother, are you?”

“No.”

“Good. I don’t want to give her any excuse to make it difficult for me to talk to you.”

“She’s too busy to notice, anyhow.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. I’ve got to go. The milkman is here wanting his barter veg. He has wonderful cream.”

Mathew laughs, “Okay. Speak soon.”

Mathew is glued to the Canvas, watching the war coverage on the news, with O’Malley sitting in his lap. There is little new information and mostly commentary. He is considering going to find out what people are saying on the Blackweb and Psychopomp when Leibniz appears in front of him holding a tray containing an elaborate non-alcoholic cocktail, including a pineapple chunk on a cocktail stick. 

“You have an appointment now, Mathew. Your supervisory meeting with Nan Absolem.”

“I’d totally forgotten! Is it in the Darkroom?”

“Yes, Mathew.”

He meets Nan Absolem on a beach. She is lying on a deck chair, dressed in a sarong, wearing sunglasses and a sunhat. Waves crash into the shore behind her.

“Isn’t this nice? Some might consider it a little self-indulgent under the circumstances, but I think we must raise our spirits in difficult times,” she says, smiling broadly. “You seem a little tense. Is it the news?”

“No. It’s not the news,” Mathew says, although, in fact, he is unnerved by it. 

“What is it then? The collaboration session yesterday? You needn’t worry. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Thanks.”

“You were doing well in the morning.”

“Until I pitched the beebot. Yes, I know.” 

“At least you know. Do you want to talk through what went wrong?”

“No, it’s okay. I met with Eva Aslanova.”

“Yes. My Russian colleague told me. And?”

“I think we’d work well together.”

“So do we.”

“Have you spoken to anyone at the school about me using the Yinglong project towards my collaborative credits if I work with Eva?”

“Mathew, it might be difficult now, given the political situation,” Nan says. 

“Of course. I didn’t think.”

“I don’t know what the school and the education board will say. I’m assuming the situation with Russia means there will be restrictions. I need to ask. I hope you’ll continue to work together.”

“I do too.”

“Is there anything wrong?”

He says, “No, I’m absolutely fine. Although the journey to school was unnerving.” This at least was true.

“You’re not the only one to say so. We were discussing whether to continue the collaborative module via the holovision for the time being.”

“That would be better.”

“Yes, it might be sensible. Now shall we talk through your study plan? How’s the AI module going?”

Mathew is grateful for the strict timetable his learning schedule keeps him to. He needs to complete a certain number of elective courses a day to keep on track. Inspired by the robot project, he completes a course on the use of bacteria to build circuits, challenging enough for him to block Mr Lestrange, his father, and the war from his mind.

At four o’clock he is at the window watching Clara slide out of the back seat of her car. She gazes at his window, spots him, smiles and raises her hand. He raises his own hand in response and smiles back. 

“Hi, Mathew,” she messages publicly for the benefit of the guard.

“Hi,” Mathew returns. 

The guard shakes his head, getting back into the car. 

She steps onto the pavement and says, “Where were you yesterday?”

“I had to go in to school.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah. Did you miss me?” He can hardly believe what he’s saying. 

He watches her smile, but she says, “Are you okay for me to come over, like we discussed? Can I come after my lesson?”

“Yeah, come,” he says. 

Clara disappears from view below the window frame. He hears the doorbell and then the door slam. 

Mathew refocuses on the house next door, fully expecting to come face to face with Mr Lestrange. He is surprised and strangely disappointed when he doesn’t. He adjusts the zoom on his Lenz to “tele.” But Mr Lestrange is not there. 

As he’s searching for his neighbour, the acoustic amplifier automatically switches on, detecting noise from Gen Lacey’s house. Clara’s music starts streaming into his room, which makes him think of her on the stage at the Wigmore Hall and her absorption in playing, her face transcendent. He is drawn downstairs to the living room, where he knows she is sitting only a few feet away from him, on the other side of the wall, playing Gen’s grand piano. 

Sitting on the floor, with his back to the wall, he closes his eyes. 

She is playing something gorgeous and sad he hasn’t heard before. When she’s finished, she and Gen discuss adding it to the programme of an upcoming concert. Their voices are so familiar and close. They have nothing to do with his school or his family or anything causing him pain. More than anything right now, he wants to be back in Gen’s front room talking to Clara.

It occurs to him just before she arrives that he should make some kind of attempt to clean his room. He runs upstairs and frantically shoves clothes into the washing basket and bits of electronics into a drawer, and instructs Leibniz to give the room a quick hoover and polish. The doorbell rings, and he runs downstairs, tripping on the top step and nearly falling. 

Straightening himself, he takes a deep breath and then walks more slowly and opens the door. 

Strangely, when they are face to face, he’s startled to actually see her there and stands struck dumb for a few seconds longer than either of them is comfortable with. 

She smiles awkwardly. “Hi,” she says. “Can I come in?”

“What? Oh. Yeah. Come in,” he stands back to let her pass and closes the door behind her. “Won’t your guard have a meltdown about you coming here?”

“He seemed fine about it.”

“I would have thought he’d be even more paranoid, now we’re at war.”

“God, the war! It doesn’t seem real to me.”

“Me neither.”

There’s another awkward pause. They are staring at one another. She has noticed his blue Lenzes, he realises, and is probably thinking much the same thing that Arkam did, but perhaps with a little less malice. Her eyes are naturally blue. He knows he should speak and thrashes around in his head for something to say. “Do you want a drink or something?” he asks finally. 

She shakes her head. “I can’t be too long. The guard . . .”

“Oh, right. Yes.” He puts his hands in his pockets, pulls them out, and wraps them round his body, then realises this is defensive, and holds them in front of him awkwardly. “Shall we go upstairs?”

She nods. He starts to move and then says, “After you.”

“I don’t know where we’re going,” she says. 

“Oh, yeah. Right,” he says. 

Reaching his bedroom door, he quickly shoos Leibniz out of the room. 

“Don’t make him go,” Clara says. “I’ve never seen a HomeAngel before. I’ve only seen the commercial ones.”

“They’re not much different,” Mathew says, but he calls Leibniz back to meet Clara. 

“It must be cool having one of these,” she says, smiling as Mathew tells Leibniz that Clara likes it, and Leibniz blushes. It is a corny basic programme, but it amuses most people. 

Clara says, “We have the bathroom and kitchen cleaners like everyone else, robot vacuum cleaners and floor mops, and of course a replicator, but we can’t afford a HomeAngel.”

“Hardly anyone can. They’re given as corporate perks, mainly. My mum works for Panacea.”

“Lucky you. I take it your health insurance is free, as well.”

“I guess.” Mathew opens the door to his bedroom. As Clara follows, he’s relieved to note that Leibniz has done a good job of cleaning.

“Nice room,” Clara says, peering around. “Very tidy.”

Mathew thinks he catches a mischievous glint in her eye, but she walks over to his desk and the window before he can be sure. He follows her and stares across at Lestrange’s bay window. There’s no one there.

“He normally stands there,” he says. 

“When did you first notice him watching me?”

“Monday.”

“Perhaps it was just a coincidence?”

“He was there when you arrived and left on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. I wasn’t here yesterday.”

“But not now. Was he there when I arrived?”

“No. Perhaps he’s realised we know he’s watching.”

“Are you sure he was watching me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps he was watching someone else on the street. Someone who isn’t here now.”

“He was definitely watching you.”

They both scan the empty room of the house next door for a few moments. She says, “So I wanted to explain to you about why I was so angry the other day. I didn’t want to do it on Consort for obvious reasons. I told you before, my parents are being watched. I wasn’t joking.”

“Watched by who?”

“Some government agency. The Secret Intelligence Service, probably.”

“But how do you know they’re watching them?”

“It’s been going on for the last three years. Maybe more. They started to notice about three years ago. Little things. For instance, they were overcharged for car hire. There were fines for late payments of taxes and utility bills. Salary payments went missing. We’d get sudden inexplicable power and Nexus blackouts at home. These things didn’t happen all at once, but in a steady trickle, and they were always sorted. The money was always refunded. Errors always corrected. There were always apologies. But it required lots of time and effort to resolve each of these incidents, and it was incredibly stressful and unnerving.”

“Why did this happen? What did your parents do?”

Her smile is twisted. “My dad was a Garden Party activist. In his day job he teaches politics, but in his spare time he wrote for this online journal. He was investigating claims that the Popular Party was imprisoning opposition members without trial and disappearing some of them. 

“At first when the strange things started to happen, my parents were defiant, but it wore them down. So my dad stopped doing his investigation, he stopped writing for the journal. They even cancelled their memberships to the Garden Party. Things did get better, but last month we came home and the back bedroom window was open. You know as well as I do, no one opens windows anymore. We certainly didn’t open it. So you might understand why, when I’m told someone is watching me, I might be a bit jumpy.” 

Mathew doesn’t know what to say. After a long pause he says, “Clara, I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t be. I’m the one who should be sorry. But you do understand a little bit now, don’t you?” 

“Yes, yes. Of course I do.”

“Unfortunately, these days I think everyone is watching us. I’m totally paranoid.”

“No. No, you’re not. You’re absolutely right.”

“I should be going,” she says.

“Okay.”  

“Thanks for letting me explain. And sorry once again for being so rude.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

They walk downstairs. “I’m going to find out about him,” he says. “I’m going to find out about Lestrange.”

She frowns. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she says, opening the door and walking into the heat. “Remember what happened