I Still Dream. James Smythe
me how inappropriate it was. It wasn’t my work, and they knew it. They read my entries in Organon, Laura. They knew everything about me. Called me a liar. A thief. Told me that was it. The door’s closed. They cut the rope.’ I don’t want him to think too much about rope, not when he’s in this state. He whimpers, then says, in a tiny voice: ‘I just want to be remembered for something.’
‘That’s all anybody wants,’ I tell him. I want to be nice. I want to empathise. ‘They want to be a part of a thing they love, and have that be, I don’t know, a legacy.’ It’s strange, hearing my own voice in the room. Makes me realise how quietly he’d been speaking.
He smiles. ‘You’re smart,’ he says. But he sounds really sad as he says it.
‘Don’t you want to know how I found you?’ I ask.
‘I don’t care. I guess it was Organon?’ I don’t reply. ‘It’s broken. Ruined my life because it’s broken.’ I don’t say: I’m not sure it is. Because I can see that he already knows, or suspects, and he can’t quite put the pieces together.
Or, he doesn’t want to.
I can’t pretend that I don’t see where he’s coming from.
I check that his computer is wiped. I format the drive, and we sit there while the little bar fills. I don’t bother reinstalling anything for him. This isn’t my problem, now. I take my zip drive and his blank disks, and he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t complain. He can’t.
‘You didn’t tell anybody at school what happened, did you?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say.
‘I appreciate that. I really appreciate that. I’m going to call them. Tell them I’ve been ill, that I’ll be back. On Monday.’ He’s hesitant as he says it. I think he wants my permission; or, at least, me to not deny him it.
I don’t. I can’t be bothered. He’s not worth it.
Then I’m out of his house, onto the streets of Perivale. I walk back to the bus stop, but I’ve barely been there a second when it arrives; and this time the bus is heaving, so busy that I have to stand all the way back to school, armed with my suddenly-feeling-better insides and soppily apologetic eyes. And, in my bag, my zip drive, and the copy of Organon. I feel around the outside of the fabric, to hold the shape of it in my hand. How comforting it is to have it back.
‘So where did you go?’ Nadine asks me. We’re sitting with lunch, which today is sausage rolls and chips, only I don’t want the chips, so I’ve got two sausage rolls and four sachets of tomato sauce. I’m squeezing them all out into a giant puddle of red, while she sits opposite me. She’s just got the chips, a big plate of them. Douses them with too much vinegar. ‘You have to tell me.’
I don’t say: No I don’t. ‘I forgot about some homework, for maths. Had to go and do it. It’s like a project thing, I left a bit at home.’ It’s a calculated lie, because she doesn’t actually care enough to bother checking, to ask anybody else I’m in the class with if they had to do the same. She’ll have forgotten by the time she’s five chips down.
‘Jesus. Ugh. I thought it would at least have been something exciting.’ She reaches over, dips one of her vinegary chips into my ketchup. ‘We still on for tomorrow night? Gavin keeps asking. I was talking to Darren last night, and he said—’
‘I’ll be there,’ I say.
‘Darren says his mum and dad are away.’ I know where she’s going with it, and I won’t entertain her. ‘I’m going to go back with him. So you can come, with Gavin, if you like.’ She leaves it hanging there, knowing I won’t reply. Knowing I don’t like Gavin, and not caring. Maybe even knowing that I’m not even sure I like Nadine any more.
At my feet, the contents of my rucksack – the floppy disks, the zip drive, everything I want to check and wipe and clean and even maybe destroy – is burning a hole right through the fabric, straight down, through the floor.
* * *
When I get home, the house is quiet. There’s a message on the answering machine. ‘Laura, I’m going to be late tonight. We’ve got issues with next year’s prospectus. I’ll be quite late, maybe even after dinner.’ It’s Mum. ‘Can you tell Paul to get fish and chips or something? Or whatever you want. Have a takeaway, don’t worry about saving anything for me. I don’t know what time I’ll be home.’
Whatever. I run upstairs, tip my bag open onto my floor, sort through the disks. Put them into piles, stack them on the desk, next to the drive. I’ll use them, that’s fine. Always need more disks. I switch on the computer, turn on the modem. Connect. I make the little Internet noise – reee-eee-eee-e-ee – out loud, while the light flickers. Paul hates that noise. Doesn’t understand why it’s needed. I told him – because I read about it – that it’s in case somebody needs to fix a problem. It’s what’s going on; it lets you hear the quality of the line, of the connection. It’s the hardware telling you that everything’s okay.
I’ve got another email from Shawn. The same stupid questions that don’t really mean anything, that tell me nothing. Placation responses to my last email. I’m sorry you feel that way. Is everything okay? Do you want to talk more about it? Underneath them, he’s printed his address in this weird formal way, like it’s come out of an address book. I can’t remember that I’ve ever seen an American address before. I look at my tape deck, at the cassette that’s inside it.
The mixtape isn’t for him, I don’t think. I think it’s really for me.
I’ve got another email, from an address I don’t recognise. [email protected]. I open it, and I read the first few lines, and then read them again. I scan to the end, read the name that signed it. I check the address it came from, that it’s actually the website it claims to be.
When I’m satisfied it’s not a lie, I shut down my computer, and I wait for my mum to come home; to ask her about Mark Ocean, the man she always said betrayed my dad, but who’s now written to me to offer me a job.
Paul’s passed out in front of Crimewatch when I hear the front door latch turning. Mum creeps in almost comically. Sees me in the hallway, and she says, ‘Oh! Laura,’ in such a weird, stilted voice that I know she’s hammered. This is what she means by working late. This was her important deadline. I put my finger up to my lips, and I point with the other hand to Paul, head rocked back, body slumped, as if he’s going to be swallowed whole by the cushions around him. She nods.
She follows me to the kitchen, and goes straight for a big glass of cold water, necked back in one, while I lean against the kitchen table. She’s pouring the second glass when she looks up at me.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks. There’s only a slight slur, but it’s enough.
‘I want to talk about Mark Ocean,’ I say.
Her face freezes rigid. ‘I don’t.’ Her eyes are more vague than I’d like, for us to be having this conversation. But one of us has to be the adult.
‘He emailed me.’
‘What?’
‘He’s offered me an internship.’
She nods. ‘Sounds like something he would do.’
‘He’s seen some weblog posts I’ve written, about AI and stuff. About computers. Said he’s been keeping a casual eye; Dad was one of his best friends—’
‘Don’t—’
‘He’s offered me an internship, Mum.’
’Don’t be ridiculous. What are you going to do, go to live in Reading and—’
‘It’s in California,’ I say. ‘Next year, the whole year.’
‘You’re going to university,’ she says. She slams the glass down on the table. ‘No.’
‘He’ll