I Still Dream. James Smythe
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The Borough Press
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London SE1 9GF
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.
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Source ISBN: 9780007541942
Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780007541966
Version: 2018-01-02
Dedicated to my father, and to the memory of my father-in-law
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
1997 – Okay, Computer
Monday
Tuesday
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
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.