I Still Dream. James Smythe
a seat,’ he says, and he opens the register.
‘Where’s Mr Ryan?’ I ask him. He’s got a little badge on, with his name written in impenetrable chicken-scratch.
‘He’s not here,’ he says. He tries not to look at me directly. You can tell he’s new, and still uncomfortable with this. Being around us all.
‘Is he sick?’
‘No. I don’t know. He’s gone,’ the trainee says. ‘That’s what they told me. Are you in this class?’ he asks, but I don’t reply. I just walk out, feeling like the world’s been tilted slightly to one side, set off its axis.
Waiting out the day is sick-making hard. Like when you’re on a boat and the sea kicks up, and your gut churns, and there’s a whine in your ears as everything goes quiet, muffled. As if the air itself is sludge. At lunchtime, I peel the plaster off my arm, and I dab at the wound. Some rando in the toilets sees it, and she tells me it’s disgusting, but I don’t care. It doesn’t disgust me to look at it; doesn’t actually make me feel anything. I can hear some other girls, I don’t know who, in front of the sinks, preening in the mirrors. They’re talking about the teachers. There’s one that they want to have sex with, or that they claim they do. They talk about him as if they could; as if that’s somewhere in their futures. I recognise their laughs, but I can’t put them to faces or names, so I wait until they’re gone. Then there’s Nadine, pouting in the mirror, exasperated expression when she sees me rolling down my sleeve, then telling me that she loves me, that I have to remember that, and that she hopes I’m ready for Saturday. There’s such a big one lined up, she says. And then she laughs: not like that!
But it doesn’t feel real, none of this actually feels real. It’s as if this is a game, something my dad’s brought home with him one weekend, that he wants to show me, where there are blocks falling, and he tells me that it’s logic, it all makes sense, but I’m so young, and all I can see is the chaos, the trial and error. I’m just pushing things together to see if they fit; or, if they don’t, if I can somehow force them to.
I pretty much run to the bus stop. I feel the back of my shoes, the DMs that I begged my mum for, as they rub at the back of my ankles. The sensation of them digging in as I barrel down the hill. I don’t care. I need to get home as soon as possible. I can get online before Mum or Paul come home, probably for close to an hour, if I’m really quick. Half of me wants to know if the people on the forums have got any suggestions for shutting his copy of Organon down. The other half wants to know if Mr Ryan’s been using it again; or worse, tinkering with the code. My code.
But the front door isn’t double-locked when I get there. Paul’s obsessive about that stuff. Making sure everything is totally safe and sound. I worry, instantly, about the post: I’m late, and maybe there will be another bill for the telephone, even though I know that’s insane, that the last one arrived literally three days ago, and we had that argument, that’s been done and dusted.
No post by the front door, but Mum’s coat, and her handbag on the floor, by the stairs. ‘Mum?’ I shout, but there’s no reply. So I go looking. No sign of her in the living room or kitchen. I go upstairs.
I open the door to my bedroom, and there she is, sitting at my desk. She’s not prying. She’s just sitting.
‘Why aren’t you at work?’ I ask her.
‘Do you know what Monday was?’ she asks, ignoring my question.
‘No,’ I say; but something niggles, something’s right there, in the back of my mind. Because I do know, of course I know.
‘Monday was ten years,’ she tells me. Since he left. I remember then. I don’t know how I’m meant to react to that. I never have. If he had died, we would mourn. But he just went. He disappeared. He was a let-down, that’s what my mum’s friend said to her, when she was trying to make everything feel better in the weeks afterwards. He was such a tremendous let-down to you all.
‘I forgot,’ I say.
‘So did I,’ she says. ‘I forgot until I looked at the calendar, when Paul and I were working out some stuff with the phone bill. Then …’ Her voice trails off. ‘I hate that you’re hurting yourself,’ she says. Raises a finger. ‘Please, don’t talk,’ she tells me, before I’ve even had a chance to deny it. ‘Do you need to talk to somebody?’
‘What?’ I sound indignant. Don’t mean to.
‘Do you want to go and speak to somebody? About what’s going on?’
‘Like when Dad left?’ With what’s-her-name, with the biscuits and the hot chocolate? Like I’m still a kid.
‘No. A doctor. They can, I don’t know. I’ve read some things, some articles. It might help.’ She’s not angry. That look on her face, it’s not anger. She’s afraid.
So I say, ‘Maybe, yes,’ and she nods.
‘Okay. I’ll make an appointment.’ I think I should hug her, but I don’t. It’s like a chance I’ve missed, in that moment. ‘I miss him,’ she tells me. When she made me go and have my talks with what’s-her-name, after Dad left, Mum didn’t talk to anybody. She went tight-lipped and cold until she felt better. Until Paul, that is. He was her thaw.
‘I miss him too,’ I say. She nods. She knows.
‘How was school?’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Usual.’ She stands up, pats my desk as if it’s a dog or something.
‘Okay,’ she says, and she reaches out to squeeze my arm, her hand dangerously near to my elbow, as if she’s testing to see how close she can get. ‘He would have been proud of you.’ She glances at the computer. ‘You take after him so much. I hope not too much.’
‘I know.’ Then she’s gone downstairs, and I’m booting my PC, and flicking on the modem, and dialling in to AOL, and not really caring if she knows that I am.
One of the users of the online forum I asked for help on, a German who goes by the username Mxyzptlk, tells me that there are things I can do to cut Mr Ryan off. But everything he suggests is malicious, designed to force Mr Ryan to keep his computer turned off; or, worse, to make his life hell. The next answer, from somebody called ThankeeMrShankly, is more useful. He says that I could send a virus, basically. If it’s sending bug reports, it can probably receive information. It’s really complicated stuff. I don’t understand it, which is my failing, not theirs. I’m still an amateur. My code is stuff I’ve plucked and learned from how-to guides I got from the library, from my dad’s old books, from other programs. It’s a pieced-together mess that happens to work. I didn’t plan for what happened after it existed. ThankeeMrShankly says he can help, but I’ll have to send him the code for my software. He’ll take it from there. I don’t want to do that. I thank him, say sending it’s impossible, but that I’ll be really grateful if he wouldn’t mind explaining it in more detail. I don’t say: I can’t trust you in the least.
I’ve got three emails from the bug report system from Mr Ryan’s version. Two of them come from his home address. One is from somewhere else entirely. I don’t have a real address, just an IP address, the location of his computer; a series of numbers, like coordinates I can’t look up.
I ask on the forum how I can trace an IP address, in the real world; and I wait. I tap my fingers on the desk. I’m antsy. I know what happens when I get antsy, where my attention goes. It goes to scratching itches.
Then a reply comes in. Again, from ThankeeMrShankly. Upload it here, we’ll do it, he offers. No software needed for that.
Thanks! I write. I type it out, and I wait again.
An email from Shawn pings in, while I’m waiting. Just like yesterday: it’s nothing but nonsense that doesn’t seem like he gives a shit. Tell me more. This time I write back to him. I write that I’m angry. What’s the point in us chatting like this if he isn’t even paying attention? I press send.