The Truth App Read online

  PART ONE: ASSASSIN

  Hey, nerds!

  I’ve been making a lie-detector app. It uses the speech recognition code that Randall787 posted last week (thanks, Randy!) to understand what someone is saying, then compares that to a list of evasive phrases. It also uses guitar-tuning software to see if someone’s voice is suspiciously high (which might mean they’re nervous), and a face-reader plugin to see if it looks like the person is thinking too hard (lying takes more concentration than telling the truth).

  Can you guys help me test it? Download link is below.

  truthapp-11.zip

  Thanks,

  JarJarStinks05

  —From the documentation for Truth, version 1.1

  HIGH SPEED COLLISION

  There was no warning at all. Just a flicker in the corner of Jarli’s eye.

  He turned his head just in time to see the brown ute roaring towards Dad’s side of the car. Jarli opened his mouth to scream—

  Smash! The impact threw him sideways. The seatbelt jerked tight across his chest, crushing his ribs. He couldn’t get any air into his lungs. Half the car crumpled inwards towards Dad, who had let go of the steering wheel and thrown his arms up to protect his face.

  ‘Daaaaaaad!’ The screech of tearing metal drowned out Jarli’s voice. The sound burned through his eardrums and sank deep into his skull. The windows dissolved into tiny cubes of shatterproof glass which filled the air like hail, stinging his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  A few moments later everything was still. The echoes of screeching tyres died away. The smell of melted rubber scorched the back of Jarli’s throat.

  The ute started to reverse, taking Dad’s door with it. The window frame was tangled around the ute’s chrome bull bar. The hinges screeched and snapped, leaving the driver’s side of the car ripped open. The ute’s headlights shone only a metre or two from where Jarli was slumped. They seemed as bright as twin suns. Even with his eyes closed, the light left Jarli dazzled and confused.

  The ute’s engine whined as it backed away.

  ‘Dad?’ Jarli croaked. He could barely hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears.

  Dad turned his head like it weighed a tonne. His skin was shiny with sweat and his curly hair flopped and stuck to his forehead.

  ‘. . .?’ Dad asked.

  ‘What?’ Jarli wiggled his jaw, trying to fix his ears.

  ‘. . . OK?’ Dad said again.

  Jarli nodded, sending a jab of pain up his neck. ‘I think I’m alright. Are you—’

  Vvvvvrooom! An engine snarled. Jarli looked over and saw the brown ute zooming towards the car again. He got a split-second view of the driver: an old man with thick black glasses and a baseball cap, gloved hands gripping the steering wheel. Suddenly Jarli realised: THE CRASH WAS NOT AN ACCIDENT.

  The old man in the ute was attacking them.

  ‘Watch out!’ Jarli screamed.

  Dad had seen it too. He slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The wrecked car lurched forwards, bent wheels grinding. Too slow.

  The speeding ute smashed into the rear corner of the car, sending it into a spin. The world outside the windows rushed past. The neon VACANCY sign outside Kelton’s motel flew across Jarli’s field of view twice. He felt like he might throw up.

  Clang! The car hit a streetlight and stopped spinning. Jarli slumped back into his chair, too dizzy to move. The streetlight leaned over and then paused, as though deciding whether to fall. It didn’t, but the bulb dropped out of it and shattered against the road like a water bomb. The street was plunged into darkness.

  Jarli fumbled with his seatbelt, hands shaking. He stabbed the orange button with his thumb until the buckle popped out. Then he shoved the door open and tumbled out onto the road. ‘He’s trying to kill us!’ he cried, scrambling to his feet. ‘Run!’ Dizzy and sore, Jarli ran on wobbling legs past the dead streetlight, past the motel with its darkened windows, past the litter bins—

  And then he realised Dad wasn’t with him.

  He turned to look back. The wrecked car was deep in shadow, but Jarli could see Dad’s outline. He was slumped in the driver’s seat. The second impact had knocked him out. Or worse.

  Heart pounding, Jarli looked around for help. He couldn’t see anyone. No police, no other vehicles, no pedestrians. Another quiet night in Kelton. But he could hear the ute’s motor, idling somewhere in the gloom, headlights off. The old man would ram them again at any moment. And Dad was a sitting duck.

  Jarli sprinted back to the car. As he got closer, he saw that an airbag had exploded out of the steering wheel. Dad’s face was buried in the white fabric.

  ‘Dad!’ Jarli screamed. ‘Wake up!’

  He grabbed his father’s shoulders and pulled him backwards, leaving a smudge of blood on the airbag. There was a deep cut across the bridge of his nose and his cheekbone had turned a mottled purple. His eyes were closed.

  Tyres crunched. An engine grumbled. The ute was coming back.

  Frantic, Jarli reached over and unbuckled Dad’s seatbelt to drag him out of the car. But Jarli was still dizzy, and Dad was too heavy. Jarli fell back and Dad landed on him, crushing Jarli’s legs against the road.

  Headlights swept across them. The ute was back!

  Jarli tried to push Dad off and roll him under the car where he might be safe. But Dad was like a bag of bricks; Jarli couldn’t move him.

  He braced himself as the headlights got closer.

  SOMETHING WRONG

  Earlier that night

  It was the word ‘secrets’ which got Anya’s attention.

  ‘You always keep secrets from me.’

  Anya shifted in her chair to glance sideways at the boy who had spoken. He was a year or two younger than her, with curly black hair and a fidgety kind of walk. Anya had never talked to him, but there were only two hundred kids at Kelton High School, so she had seen him around. His name wasn’t Charlie—it was something odd, like Chardi, or Jarli.

  Mr Lang droned on and on, talking to her mother. Anya’s attention remained focused on the boy. He was walking towards the exit with his father, who looked like a bigger version of him, but with some grey stubble and a cleaner T-shirt. They had just finished their meeting with Mr Kendrick, who was quietly fuming at a small desk behind them.

  The boy and his dad both looked frustrated—like almost everyone else in the room. It was parent-teacher night.

  ‘I do not,’ the father was saying.

  ‘Then how come you won’t let me use your computer?’

  ‘Because—’

  ‘And the phone calls you make at night. I can hear you through the wall.’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’ The father cast an anxious glance around the gym.

  Anya quickly looked away, but kept listening.

  ‘Don’t change the subject,’ the father continued. ‘Yes, I keep aspects of my work confidential. Most professionals do. That’s completely different from you hacking into your teacher’s emails.’

  ‘It’s not like I read any of them.’

  ‘Oh, is that right?’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ the boy sounded offended.

  Anya was surprised. She hadn’t picked him as a rebel. Whenever she was transferred to a new school in a new town, the first thing she did was identify the disobedient kids, and steer clear. No judgement—she just didn’t want teachers to assume things about her because of who she sat with. She’d gotten pretty good at spotting the disruptors by their clothes, their hair and the way they talked . . .

  Or didn’t talk. Nearby, a queue of students waited to be eviscerated by their teachers. Doug Hennessey was at the front of the line, next to a woman who was probably his mother. Doug was lanky and gaunt with blond hair smeared sideways across his sca
lp. Anya had never heard him say a single word. He was a new student, like her, but he always looked either gloomy or angry. She avoided him at all costs.

  ‘Just be normal,’ Doug’s mother was saying. ‘OK? It’s not that hard.’

  Doug didn’t answer her. He was practically glowing with fury, all directed at Jarli/Chardi. Anya wondered what he’d done to make Doug mad.

  ‘Anya.’

  Anya looked over at her mother. She and Mr Lang were staring at her.

  ‘You’re not paying attention,’ her mother said.

  This was not true. Anya always paid attention. She sometimes thought she was the only person in Kelton who did. No-one else seemed to notice the strange vibe here. It was a town of less than a thousand people, hundreds of kilometres from anywhere, and yet unfamiliar faces showed up all the time. Locals often left town without explanation. Buildings which were supposedly abandoned had guards around the clock. And then there was that weird rich guy up in the hills, piloting his drones every day.

  ‘I’m listening.’ Anya turned back to Mr Lang. ‘You were saying that my essay about copyright lacked a strong conclusion.’

  Lang cleared his throat. ‘Uh, yes. The essay—’

  ‘Because it’s a complex issue, with no clear answer.’

  ‘Anya,’ her mother said. ‘Don’t interrupt.’

  ‘The essay was supposed to support one side or the other.’ Lang talked slowly, as though she was stupid. ‘That was the assignment—to argue a position.’

  ‘To lie,’ Anya said.

  Lang blinked his watery eyes.

  ‘It’s not lying,’ her mother said patiently. ‘It’s called persuasive writing.’

  ‘To say something I don’t believe to be true,’ Anya said, ‘is the definition of lying.’

  Lang sighed. ‘In any case, the research was excellent, especially for a student studying English as a second language. Once again, Anya received the top mark for her class.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Lang,’ Anya said. She stood, and her mother reluctantly did too.

  Then Anya felt the energy in the room shift. Silence fell.

  She turned around. A woman had entered the gymnasium. She had a mane of shiny chestnut hair, ironed clothes—unheard of in Kelton—and lipstick as red as blood. She held a phone which had a spongy black microphone plugged into it.

  ‘Is that Dana Reynolds?’ someone whispered.

  The name jogged Anya’s memory. The woman was a news reporter from the city. She looked different on TV. Taller, somehow, even though she was usually sitting down.

  ‘Jarli Durras?’ Reynolds called out.

  There was a pause. Anya looked around, but Jarli was gone.

  ‘He just left,’ Anya said.

  Reynolds’ clear green eyes settled on Anya. ‘Are you a friend of his?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Anya said.

  The woman exhaled through her perfect teeth.

  ‘I am,’ another girl offered. ‘Is this about the app?’

  The girl had a nose stud and a punky sort of haircut, long on one side and shaved on the other. She was leaning on crutches. Anya didn’t know her name.

  Reynolds hurried over to her. ‘Perfect. What’s your name, sweetheart?’

  ‘Bess.’

  Anya wanted to hear more, but her mother grabbed her arm. ‘Come, Anya.’

  As her mother led her out of the gym, Anya watched from the corner of her eye as Reynolds began to quiz Bess.

  The fresh air outside was a relief. The gym didn’t have air-conditioning. Anya took boxing lessons there on Thursdays and she was always amazed by how hot it was, even at night.

  On the other side of the car park, Jarli and his father were clambering into a hybrid car, still arguing. Reynolds must have walked right past him. Maybe she didn’t know what he looked like.

  An old man with black-rimmed glasses sat in a brown ute not far away. Waiting for his grandchildren to finish up inside, maybe. But after a few seconds he started his engine and drove out of the car park, following Jarli’s hybrid. Weird.

  ‘So,’ Anya’s mother said. ‘Room for improvement.’

  ‘Lang just said I topped the class. Again.’

  ‘A small class. In a rural school.’

  Anya winced. Harsh.

  ‘It doesn’t matter how you compare to the other students,’ her mother said, for what had to be the hundredth time. ‘What matters is how you compare to your own potential. And I know you can do better.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ Anya said. She remembered what Doug’s mother had told him: Just be normal. Why weren’t her own parents ever satisfied with that?

  She climbed into the four-wheel drive and her mother started the engine. On their way out of the car park, they drove past a polished sports car which probably belonged to Dana Reynolds. Anya wondered what she’d wanted to talk to Jarli about.

  Just another mystery, in a town full of them.

  Anya lived right on the western edge of Kelton—which wasn’t far from the eastern edge. They would be home in ten minutes. Anya rolled down the window, feeling the wind on her face. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the seat. Maybe she could go for a run when she got home. Spy on the neighbours. Kelton was a weird town, and she was determined to find out why.

  ‘What the . . .’

  Anya opened her eyes. On the road ahead of them was a wrecked car pressed against a leaning streetlight. The car was so smashed up that it was barely recognisable as Jarli’s hybrid.

  LIKE A GHOST

  The ute stopped, brakes squeaking.

  Jarli sheltered his eyes from the light as the driver got out. It wasn’t the old man with the thick black glasses. It was a middle-aged woman with striped trousers and blond hair held back by a grey headband. She looked horrified. As Jarli’s eyes adjusted, he saw that her vehicle wasn’t a ute—it was a mud-spattered four-wheel drive.

  ‘What happened?’ the woman gasped.

  ‘Watch out!’ Jarli said. ‘There’s this guy—this crazy guy in a big ute. He tried to kill us!’

  The woman looked around. ‘What ute?’

  Jarli turned his head. He couldn’t see the ute from here, and he couldn’t move to get a better look. Dad was still squashing his legs.

  A teenage girl got out of the four-wheel drive. She wore black jeans and a black T-shirt with a logo too faded to read. Jarli recognised her from school—she was new, and a couple of years older than him.

  ‘Anya!’ the woman said. ‘Stay in the car.’

  Ignoring her mother, Anya ran over to Jarli. Her tattered runners crunched over the broken glass surrounding the wrecked car.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked. Her voice was deeper than Jarli had expected, with an accent of some kind. At school, Jarli had never heard her speak.

  ‘My dad won’t wake up,’ Jarli said. His throat felt thick, like he was having an allergic reaction to the words. ‘Please. You gotta help him.’

  Anya’s mother was on the phone. ‘Ambulance,’ she said. Her accent was stronger than her daughter’s. ‘There has been a car accident.’

  ‘Not an accident,’ Jarli croaked. ‘The old man crashed into us on purpose.’

  ‘We are on Juniper Street,’ the woman continued, ignoring him. ‘The nearest intersection is . . .’ She turned around a few times and then gave up. ‘I don’t know. We are next to the Kelton Motor Inn. Do you know where that is?’

  Anya crouched down next to Jarli and grabbed Dad’s shoulder. ‘Let’s roll him off you,’ she said. ‘You push, and I will pull. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘One, two, three!’

  Jarli pushed Dad from underneath as Anya heaved him off. She held the back of his head so it didn’t hit the road. Then she poked a finger under his jaw, checking his pulse. Jarli was amazed at how calm she seemed.

  ‘What is his name?’ she asked.

  ‘Glen,’ Jarli said. ‘Glen Durras.’

  ‘Hey, Glen! Can you hear me, Glen?’

  ‘Com
e quick,’ Anya’s mother was saying into the phone.

  Jarli stood and looked around for the ute. The street was still deserted. There was only one set of skid marks on the road. They led to Dad’s car and the damaged streetlight. It looked like Dad had lost control, slammed on the brakes and hit the streetlight. It was as though the ute had never existed. The husk of the ripped-out car door lay abandoned, like driftwood, a few metres away.

  ‘Glen,’ Anya said again. ‘Come on. Wake up.’

  Dad groaned.

  ‘Dad!’ Jarli cried. He went to hug Dad, but Anya held him back.

  ‘Just a minute,’ she said. ‘Give him some air.’

  ‘What was . . .’ Dad began. His eyelids fluttered. ‘Who . . .’

  ‘The ambulance is coming,’ Jarli said. ‘Don’t move, OK?’

  Dad tried to nod, but groaned in pain. He must have hurt his head or his neck.

  ‘Thank you,’ Jarli told Anya.

  She shrugged. ‘I did not really do anything.’

  ‘Jarli,’ Dad mumbled. But his eyes were closed. It was like he was talking in his sleep.

  ‘I’m here,’ Jarli said, squeezing Dad’s shoulder.

  ‘The laptop,’ Dad said. ‘Don’t let them . . .’

  It was typical of Dad to be worried about his laptop, even at a time like this.

  ‘Mum will take care of your laptop.’ Jarli squeezed Dad’s hand. ‘Just chill.’

  Dad opened his eyes and tried to sit up. Anya put a hand on his arm. ‘Try not to move,’ she said.

  Dad didn’t seem to hear her. He was looking around at the road and the smashed car, but it was as though he was seeing something else. His wounded face was a terrible sight. He didn’t even look like Dad anymore.

  ‘VIPER,’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Jarli said. Dad had always been sensible and reliable. It was scary to see him talking nonsense like this. What if the crash had damaged his brain?

  A siren was getting closer. Jarli turned to Anya’s mother. ‘Did you call the police?’

  ‘The ambulance, yes,’ she said, putting her phone back in her handbag.

  ‘No. We need the police. Someone tried to kill us.’

  She frowned. ‘It looks like it was just an accident. Do not worry.’