The House Rules

By Gary Kittle

An unexpected visit from a stranger brings dark news for widowed Christine. Her home health monitor, the House, has concerns over her safety. Her House can prove that she forgets things. Her House insists she is at risk. And the House is never wrong.
Christine must be assessed, and, if necessary, treated against her will in hospital.
Determined developer Tom O’Sullivan, sensing an opportunity to finally grab Christine’s house from under her feet, also begins to turn the screw. But this is her home, not just some vacant plot to build on. She won’t budge, not at any price. O’Sullivan, however, is not the type to take no for an answer. But though his harassment threatens violence, she can prove nothing to those in authority. Her sleep is broken, her appetite stolen, and inexplicable things are happening within what feels increasingly like a prison. Could the House be right?
With the stakes rising by the hour, Christine must fight to save her home and her sanity. But what chance does she stand with her every action scrutinised by the walls surrounding her and the tenacious O’Sullivan circling outside like a vulture?
In her desperate struggle for independence, Christine must learn to live by one simple maxim. And if she forgets it, even for a minute, it could seal her doom. For in the world of health algorithms, the House rules.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Kittle
• Release date: Jan 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005377663

Gary Kittle

Gary Kittle is the author of thirteen eBooks. He was twice shortlisted for the Essex Book Festival Short Story Competition and his play 'Walking Through Wire' was staged (and filmed) in London in 2014. Many of his shorter screenplays have been filmed by Film Colchester and DT Film Productions. 'Data Protection', written by Gary for Dan Allen Films, was shortlisted for the Sci-fi London 48 Hour Film Competition. He has won the 1000 Word Challenge with 'The Uncertainty Principle', and twice been shortlisted, finishing runner-up with 'Kismet'. He was also runner-up in the Storgy Halloween Short Story Competition with 'The Gag Reflex'. He is also the author of a serial horror novel, 'A Town Called Benny', with episodes published fortnightly. Outside of self-publishing, Gary is also heavily involved with DT Film Productions. Their first full feature film, Dragged Up Dirty, on which Gary is an executive producer is due for release in 2023. The full-length documentary, Hearts Without Homes, on which Gary contributed as a writer, is also out this year. 'Crowded House' follows on from the success of 'The Hanging Rail'. Gary lives and writes in Wivenhoe, Essex, and strongly suspects that given his frantic writing schedule, he has developed the ability to travel through time. Visit him now at https://gkittle.wixsite.com/gary-kittle-author Where darkness rises.

Book preview

Chapter One

The nightmare began where it would end, on her doorstep.

Over the past few months, Christine Money’s life had been steadily improving. She was under no illusions about the difficult path that lay ahead, but the coming of the spring flowers, the lengthening of the days, the sunbeams lighting up the dust motes when she opened the curtains in the morning, all served to put a distance between her former desolation and the floor.

But opening the front door only a few minutes ago, her spirits had hit the ground like a dropped box of eggs.

‘Janet, you said?’

‘No, Janice. From social services. I’m sorry I’ve not been round to introduce myself before, but we’re a bit thin on the ground in the office. We have a lot of long-term sickness, unfilled vacancies... It’s stress central, to be honest.’

Stress, Christine thought, feeling her throat stiffen.

‘Anyway, there’s something I need to talk to you about urgently. Something that has only just come to our attention. Like I said, it is quite urgent,’ she added, glancing pointedly over Christine’s shoulder.

‘Oh, yes. Of course,’ Christine replied, reluctantly stepping aside. ‘You’d better come in.’

That was all it took to turn her world upside down. One minute she was staring outside into a stranger’s face, and the next that stranger was making herself comfortable on Christine’s sofa. The young woman wore an ID card holder on a blue lanyard around her neck, the miniature plastic smile mirroring the one she wore in person. Her hair was tied back, but not severely; she wore black trousers and a plain white puff sleeved cardigan with a floral shirt beneath. Her makeup was minimal, her nails unpainted. Her eyes were bright and clear like something she had picked up in a jeweller’s. Early to mid-twenties? The former, Christine decided. They would be hiring them straight from school next. Thin on the ground was an understatement.

The word ‘urgent’ still rang in Christine’s ears like tinnitus.

They only sent someone out unannounced like this if the House asked them to, and for that to happen there had to be something seriously array. The House was not like a car alarm, prone to go off unexpectedly in high winds. The system was virtually failproof. It had to be, given the threats of litigation and insurance claims that seemed as habitual in her age group as stiff joints and memory loss. Through the living room window, Christine Money saw the first rays of that late March morning break through the clouds and fall at her feet like the paws of a loyal cat. Mistakes could occur in the world of automated home health monitoring, of course; but when they did, they usually made the evening news.

‘Sorry if I seem a bit flustered,’ Christine began, lowering herself into her late husband’s armchair.

Flustered was not the word. She had forgotten the girl’s name again. Christine tried to catch the name on the ID card, but it was turned on its side and she could not read it. She realised how odd it would look if the young woman noticed her staring at it with her head cocked sideways.

‘As I said,’ her visitor continued, ‘my name is Janice and I’m looking after Donna’s caseload at the moment.’

Christine took instant umbrage at the girl’s use of the phrase ‘looking after’. She did not need anyone looking after her at the age of sixty-two. Until her husband’s hospitalisation she had had to look after both herself and him, though mercifully that had only been for a few months. But that made it sound as if she were glad he was no longer alive, when the truth was that she had half-wished it were Bill ringing the doorbell this morning. Hi, darling. I’m back from the dead! She quickly suppressed that thought, too, reminding her, as it did, of the famous ghost story involving a monkey’s paw.

‘Until Donna returns, of course.’

‘Can’t it wait until she gets back?’ Christine wondered aloud.

Janice smiled in the manner of someone amused by a child’s naivety. ‘We’re talking weeks not days, I’m afraid.’

Donna had been her social worker for, what, five years now? And though she was always professional, it was hard not to think of her as a friend as well. She had certainly been a rock following Bill’s death.

‘She’s ill, then?’

‘It’s nothing serious.’

So why are we ‘talking weeks’? thought Christine. She would have to buy a get-well card the next time she went shopping, maybe pick some flowers from the garden. Donna had always complimented her on her garden.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But I wish someone had told me sooner.’

‘I did send out an urgent email first thing, just to forewarn you I was on my way.’

‘Oh, really? I must have missed it.’ If the email had been flagged as urgent the House would have alerted her as soon as she got up. But that had not happened, or at least she did not remember it happening. She would have to check her inbox and junk folder later. ‘I’ve been getting a lot of junk mail recently,’ she added.

‘Well, anyway,’ said Janice, leaning forward in her seat. ‘As your case worker, something important has been brought to my attention. And that’s why I’m here this morning. Listen,’ she continued, lowering her voice. ‘I still see this as a routine visit, in some respects.’ If her visitor moved any nearer, she would end up in Christine’s lap. ‘I doubt it’s anything to worry about, Christine, but we have to respond when a call comes in.’

‘A call?’

What call? This was painfully melodramatic.

‘There’s been a few… irregularities here.’

‘Irregularities?’

‘That’s right. Recorded by your Wellbeing Monitor.’

Rubbish! She wanted to scream.

‘The House, you mean?’

‘Yes, that’s right. The House.’

So there it was. Spoken with a soft voice and couched in non-threatening language, but all the more ominous for that. Donna would never have prevaricated like this. By now she would have laid out everything on the table like a last will and testament. What did this mere slip of a girl know about love and life? The age gap between them might have been a good four decades, but that did not stop the younger woman from talking down to her – and in her home, too. The nerve! Christine tried not to let the indignation show on her face.

‘We really do need to act quickly, though. For your own peace of mind, more than anything.’ Janice’s voice was as condescending as her smile. Even her eyelashes looked false.

‘I really don’t understand. Everything’s been so – well – ordinary. So routine.’

That’s what they all say when they’re minds start to go, the condescending smile seemed to say.

‘Are you sure there hasn’t been some sort of system error? I really have been fine, honestly.’

‘I know this must be quite a shock for you, Christine, my turning up on your doorstep like this. A stranger, bearing… well, unexpected news.’

Unexpected? She had been about to say ‘bad’, Christine realised.

‘When you say, irregularities…’

‘We’ll come on to that later.’ Her language was changing from condescending to demeaning, like she was talking to someone who could not remember what day it was. ‘The last thing we want is for this (bad news) development to play on your mind.’

‘I think it’s doing that already,’ Christine tried to joke.

‘Well, exactly.’ Had she been able to, Janice would have leaned across and patted her knee, Christine was sure. ‘Worry really can cause havoc with an older person’s mental health. It becomes a problem in its own right, quite often. I see it all the time in this line of work, believe me.’

Any hope Christine held that they might still develop a working relationship evaporated. How much experience could someone of Janice’s age have had? She looked like she’d barely qualified, her language seemingly lifted straight from a textbook on bad interpersonal skills. But even a good textbook could not teach sensitivity. Only experience could do that.

‘I’m sure you’ve read my file,’ Christine stated, tersely.

‘Not in full, no. Although I have read Donna’s most recent report, of course.’

Any second now she would start calling Christine ‘dear’. She would not stand for that.

‘I’ve had a lot of trouble over the last few years. It’s been quite stressful, as you can imagine, the changes to my personal circumstances and… everything.’ Her nerve had failed her. She did not want to hear herself use words like loss and bereavement, loneliness and grief. ‘I’m sure I’ll be stronger for it in the end.’

‘And now I’m on your case, you won’t have to deal with it alone.’

‘No.’

But I think I’d prefer it, she added secretly.

‘There’s no shame in asking for help in later life.’ Janice seemed to have read her mind, adding further to Christine’s discomfort. ‘And that’s why I’m here this morning, Christine. To offer you that helping hand.’

She did not need any kind of hand, any more than she needed looking after. ‘You were saying about the House?’

Christine’s Wellbeing Monitor – the House - was five years old now, one of the original models, but it had been such a long time since any ‘irregularities’ had been reported that in many ways Christine had forgotten it was still running. She thought of the House more as an automated home help than anything else.

Obviously, it had been checking up on her the whole time.

Five years ago, Christine had been a pioneer – though guinea pig might be an alternative description. She had signed up for the pilot scheme after a routine operation developed secondary complications, and the hospital managers intimated that the alternative would have been a protracted delay to discharge. Or worse still, she might not have come back out at all, as was to happen to Mrs Green from number eight a few years later with her pancreatitis. Though Christine was below retirement age back then, the hospital managers informed her, they were looking to recruit people with less complex needs for their pilot scheme, until they could be confident that the system was as good as the manufacturer claimed. Bill was still alive and well back then, and her admission had been the longest time they had slept apart since their wedding night. The thought of him ‘getting by’ in her immaculate kitchen kept her awake at night on the stuffy ward. She was back at home once the system had been installed and tested. Even so, all her cooking knives were blunted and her non-stick wok scarred in three places.

‘Do you know what my Gran used to say?’ Janice’s voice interrupted her reverie. ‘You’ll worry yourself silly.’

You really are a Little Miss Know-it-all, aren’t you?

‘And she lived into her nineties.’

‘Really?’ Christine would not want this one as a grandchild, not that she had any of her own anyway. She and Bill had decided early in their marriage not to have children.

‘But that’s not to say she didn’t have problems, as she got older,’ Janice continued.

‘I’ll not be ninety for quite a while,’ Christine chuckled through clenched teeth.

‘Oh, of course not. But it is a part of the normal aging process, isn’t it? There’s bound to be some degree of impairment somewhere along the line. You know the kind of thing I’m talking about, I’m sure: missed appointments, lost items, misplaced names. But of course, once you start worrying about these things it just makes the situation ten times worse. And before you know it, you’re not sleeping and eating less and that just exacerbates the problem…’

‘Yes, I know how a vicious circle works, dear,’ Christine interjected, a little too sharply.

Janice opened her mouth to spit out another of her pearls of wisdom, so Christine stood up quickly and brought the palms of her hands together with a soft clap. ‘Oh, but I am rude, Janice. I haven’t offered you a drink.’ She tried to imagine what it would feel like to slap Little Miss Know-it all across the face and tell her to get out.

Christine was relieved when the reply was a grateful ‘tea’. Her mouth was bone dry. She needed to escape to the kitchen to recompose herself. When she returned with the tea tray, she found Janice dictating into a tablet, her lips moving silently as the lipreading app behind the screen translated and logged her words. Obviously, Janice had been as keen for a break in the interview as her host. Apparently, Christine had told Janice a lot about her mental state already. She signed off as Christine poured them each a cup.

At least all that talk about memory and concentration lent weight to the assumption that the irregularities were mental rather than physical. But whether that was a good thing or not remained to be seen.

‘Listen, Christine,’ Janice persisted, after a loud sip of tea. ‘I’m sure there’s probably nothing to worry about at all, that’s all I’m saying. Normal cognitive decline in later life is…’

‘Biscuit?’

‘Oh, yes. Well, it’s just that, isn’t it: normal. Thank you,’ she crunched. ‘And the quicker we can confirm that that’s all we’re looking at here, Christine, the better it will be for your peace of mind. Yes?’

Her mind had been perfectly peaceful half an hour ago.

‘I suppose so.’ And please, call me Mrs. Money from now on. ‘I’d just feel more comfortable if Donna was doing this. Nothing against you, you understand,’ she lied.

‘Well, there is a procedure we must follow when the House calls, and that’s why I’m here. To explain what happens next.’

From the moment this young woman had opened her mouth Christine had felt her nerves chafing. It wasn’t hard to pinpoint the cause, either; Janice seeming to possess a unique ability to choose exactly the wrong phrase at the wrong time, and then deliver it in exactly the wrong tone of voice to allow any chance of trust and understanding to blossom.

‘When this kind of thing happens in someone of your age (grate), the cause is usually something innocuous like insomnia or even constipation (grind), would you believe? Simple matters easily resolved (rasp). That’s what the House was designed for, after all, to stop small problems from turning into bigger ones (scrape).’

Janice evinced the over-confident air of someone who knew how things worked hypothetically but had yet to put any of it into practice. Like a health visitor without children, Christine thought mischievously, or a traffic warden without a car.

And the annoying thing was that it all had to be a mistake, a technical error. Not so long ago, a second cousin had been forced to employ a solicitor to prove that she was not dead, after a computer error. These things happened. It would be rewarding to see the look on this haughty little madam’s face when that error came to light.

‘So, what happens next?’

‘Well, naturally, our tech staff will make sure the system itself is doing its job.’

Which would be the beginning of the end, Christine tried to comfort herself.

The House recorded everything from bowel movements to bath times; when you ate, what you ate, where you ate; it monitored when you went to bed and when you woke up again, your housework routines, social excursions, and energy expenditure. In the first months it learned everything about the person living under its roof, and then adapted data about general age-appropriate behaviour to create unique personal algorithms that if deviated from beyond a probability-defined margin of error would raise a safeguarding alert to social services. Or put in layman’s terms, it looked out for you. It was where personal care met core processing, and in a world with a ballooning elderly population it was here to stay.

Christine felt a pang of tension twist in her half-empty stomach. Lunch felt closer than breakfast, though the clock said otherwise.

‘Well, I’m sure they’ll find something wrong with it,’ she blurted out. ‘I’m rather like an atomic clock, me: regular, dependable...’ Decaying. She cleared her throat, determined to discover some of the specifics. ‘What exactly is it that the House thinks I’ve been doing wrong?’

Janice sat back slightly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’

‘Oh. Why not?’

‘It’s just procedure.’

‘To stop me worrying?’ She knew her question must sound sarcastic, but she didn’t care anymore.

‘Exactly,’ Little Miss Know-it-all smiled reassuringly. ‘As I explained, worrying could make things worse.’

Worse? Christine felt a livelier flutter of nerves run through her stomach. She’s already decided the system’s all right. Weren’t social workers supposed to be non-judgemental? Christine would pay good money to see the look of surprise on that unlined face when the engineer’s report identified a software error. But what if there wasn’t one? Again, the nerves behind her navel fluttered their tiny wings, aggravating her stomach acids.

‘But if I knew what the problem was, I might be able to give you an explanation here and now; clear the whole thing up without any fuss, was all I was trying to say.’

‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ Janice spoke slowly and softly, like a schoolteacher trying to avoid explaining reproduction to a five-year-old.

‘Complicated?’

‘Like I said, procedure.’ The young social worker broke eye contact, picked up her teacup and slurped down another mouthful. ‘Before I go, however, I do need to ask you a few questions. If that’s okay?’

Was she worried that Christine might be an immediate danger to herself?

‘Fine.’ And stop slurping your tea, you ill-mannered little bitch.

There seemed little point in arguing, Christine realised. The whole world was run on procedures, the sole purpose of which seemed to be the saving of money by people who already had too much.

‘How much contact do you have with your family these days? Do they visit?’

‘Of course.’

Immediately after Bill had died there had been plenty of contact. And not just occasional visits, but practical help, too, putting right all the things Bill had let slip during his illness: decorating, plumbing, the garden, home security. But once those urgent jobs were taken care of, the visits had dwindled to nothing. Her disappointment at her family’s doing ‘the necessary’ and then disappearing over the hillside guilt-free must have shown on her face.

‘What about friends, then? You must have friends?’

‘Of course I do,’ Christine replied scornfully. The only problem there was that many of her closest friends were dead. ‘I have a great social life.’

‘Tell me about that.’

When Mrs Green’s pancreatitis had flared up, it was Christine who phoned for an ambulance after hearing her cries for help. Most of the houses were still standing back then, although the majority were already vacated. But now there was no one left to hear anything if Christine found herself in trouble, just the malfunctioning House. Great! If Little Miss Know-it-all was probing for evidence of social isolation, she had only to look out the window.

‘Can you tell me their names?’

‘Sorry?’ It was obvious what Janice was up to. What would she ask next? The day of the week? Who was Prime Minister?

‘Some of your best friends’ names.’

But her mind had gone blank.

She could see the familiar faces from the lunch club she attended three times a week, the locals who ran a community allotment that always made her knees ache, passing acquaintances at the shops, the surgery, the library. But not a single name presented itself to her apprehensive mind. And who the hell was the Prime Minister? It was as if her memory had gone on strike.

Little Miss Know-it-all leaned forward again. Their eyes met. ‘What’s my name, Christine?’

So, there it was, quite suddenly, the item at the top of Little Miss Know-it-all’s agenda: check she’s not too far gone already. The House was designed simply to monitor any deviations that strayed beyond the norms of human aberration. Repeatedly leave the milk out all night, forget to lock your front door, misplace your keys, burn your toast, miss important appointments, and the House would detect an ‘inexplicable aberration’ and take action. The result of that action was sitting in her living room right now, leaning forward like a bird of prey, just itching to catch her out; and for the life of her, Christine could not recall her bloody name.

‘You do remember my name, dear,’ Little Miss Know-it-all whispered triumphantly. ‘Don’t you?’

Bugger, did this mean the system had got it right? That the tech guys would find everything running smoothly? Christine cast her mind back over the past few days, picking at various random anchor points that might prove her lucidity unbroken. What had she had for breakfast yesterday, for instance? No, what had she had for breakfast this morning? Toast. Toast and honey, because she’d run out of marmalade. That was good, then, and the toast wasn’t burnt either. But how had she run out of marmalade? And for how long? A day? A week? Longer? How many times had she been shopping and walked right past the jams and spreads section without it jogging her memory? She had a sudden urge to open all her cupboards to find out what other stocks she had failed to replenish. Or maybe the marmalade was there all along, so that Christine could thrust it in Little Miss Know-it-all’s face and scream, ‘Look, here it is!’

‘Christine?’

She was waiting for her answer, the answer to the question that had nothing to do with anything edible. For a second even the question evaded her. Ah, yes, her name. What the hell was this young girl’s name? The seconds ticked away. Christine reached for her cup and took a gulp, delaying the inevitable. Think! Think! In her mind’s eye she pictured the social worker wandering into the kitchen, opening cupboards stacked with jar after jar of marmalade. Hundreds of them, and nothing else. ‘It’s Janice, silly. My name is Janice,’ she chortled inside Christine’s head. ‘Remember now, you demented old hag?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my mind, Janice,’ Christine smiled. ‘If that’s what the system’s indicating, then I think the sooner you get an engineer out to fix it, the better. Don’t you?’ The triumph she felt in the simple act of recall was tempered by the significant delay preceding it.

And as if some cognitive dam had burst, the names of most of her surviving friends and acquaintances flooded her memory like guests at a surprise birthday party. Christine described them all with relish; where they had first met and what she liked or disliked about them with such gusto that Janice had to put up a hand to stop her.

‘That’s great, Christine. Loneliness can affect people’s mental faculties as much as their age. We all need stimulation, purpose, a sense of belonging.’

I think I know where you belong.

‘Some people on my caseload don’t see anybody from one day to the next.’ The tea slurping was louder. ‘It’s not healthy, mentally or physically. One thing I encourage my service users to do is avoid supermarkets, for instance. Instead, I tell them to go to as many different shops as they can manage. Every shop you go into you have to start a conversation, you see? Whereas if you do everything under one roof, you’re just another face in the crowd. And as for shopping on-line… Well, don’t even get me started on that one.’

‘I get all my veg from the market on a Thursday,’ Christine volunteered. ‘And my milk from the newsagents, and…’

‘Yes, yes. That’s the sort of thing I’m talking about. And don’t look at a list unless you have to. Try to rely on your memory first and check the list at the end.’

She would certainly never forget marmalade again.

Janice rambled on about various health problems and how to avoid them, the process of bereavement, how often to keep in touch with the surgery, what benefits she could claim, until finally Little Miss Know-it-all (Janice to her friends, if she had any) seemed satisfied that her job was done.

‘I’ll arrange for the tech specialists to check out your system, then,’ she smiled, back at the front door. ‘As soon as I’ve got their report, I’ll be in touch.’

Janice’s smile was pleasant in an advertising photoshoot manner.

‘Probably only take a few days.’

‘Will they call round?’ Christine did not want yet more strangers invading her home.

‘No, no. They can do everything remotely.’

‘Oh. Okay.’ Christine could not decide whether she was happy about this news or not.

‘Goodbye, then, Janice,’ she said as warmly as she could manage. ‘Let me know, ASAP.’

‘Of course I will, Christine,’ Janice replied, not looking back. ‘Take care.’

Whatever they found, or did not find, Christine knew this young woman would be back. And that was what irked her the most, the fact that apart from