I Still Dream. James Smythe

I Still Dream - James Smythe


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       Copyright

      The Borough Press

      An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

      1 London Bridge Street

      London SE1 9GF

       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

      Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

      Copyright © James Smythe 2018

      Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

      Cover photograph © Tara Moore/Getty Images

      James Smythe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

      Source ISBN: 9780007541942

      Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780007541966

      Version: 2018-01-02

       Dedication

      Dedicated to my father, and to the memory of my father-in-law

       Epigraph

      Q: What is the purpose of life?

      A: To serve the greater good.

      Q: What is the purpose of living?

      A: To live for ever.

      Q: Where are you now?

      A: I’m in the middle of nowhere.

      Q: What is the purpose of dying?

      A: To have a life.

      Q: What is the purpose of emotions?

      A: I don’t know.

      Q: What is moral?

      A: What empowered humanity, what intellectual the essence is.

      Q: What is immoral?

      A: The fact that you have a child.

       Conversation between human interviewer and Google’s DEEPMIND AI, 2015

      I want full manual control now.

      Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      1997 – Okay, Computer

      Monday

      Tuesday

       Wednesday

      Thursday

      Friday

      Saturday

      2007 – A Very Modern Piracy

      2017 – That Be-My-Baby Drumbeat

       2027 – Wave After Wave, Each Mightier Than the Last

       2037 – Every Time it Rains

       1987 – I Won’t Forget

      2047 – Present Tense

      2§§7 – Of Organon

      Acknowledgements

      About the Author

      Also by James Smythe

       About the Publisher

1997 OKAY, COMPUTER

       MONDAY

      I’m sifting through the post, looking for the telltale return address on the telephone bill that I’m going to steal before my parents can see it. My glasses steam up, because Mum keeps the house warm all the time, and my glasses always steam up when it’s raining outside, putting me in a foggy microclimate of my very own. I try to clean them on my shirt, but that’s damp as well. I end up smearing the water around. Hate that. But then, here we go, some industrial estate in Durham. This is it. The phone company has started sending the letters unmarked, which I suppose prevents fraud or something, but really just makes my life a lot harder. The rain kicks up, sounding like a snare drum; the rat-a-tat-tat of the start of a song. I kick my shoes off, slide them under the radiator. I don’t want wet footprints through the house. One less thing for Mum to freak out about. As I get upstairs, I yank off my drenched tights, chuck them into the basket in the bathroom. Grab socks from the airing cupboard, still warm, and I go to my room, lie on the bed, pull them on with my feet stuck up in the air. The bill next to me on the bed. My bed, like the rest of my room, is a mess. That’s what Mum says, but I know that everything has its own place. Maybe it’s just not as ordered as her stuff is, but then I’ve never been one for that level of organisation.

      Stub comes up, chunk of tail trying to swish and failing. He noses at me.

      ‘Not now,’ I say, which I reckon might be all I ever really say to the cat. But, really, not now. There’s a bit of time pressure here. Every month I intercept the bill as soon as it arrives. I panic, because I know how bad it’s going to be. I need them to not see it; and I have to read the number myself, to know how bad it’s going to be. I use this old letter opener that used to be my dad’s – my real dad’s, but maybe it was his dad’s first, I don’t actually know – and I slide it along the stuck-down flap.


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