I Still Dream. James Smythe
that he’s going to sit down, but it’s for me. ‘Check the drives. Delete the thing. Whatever you want to do, do it.’ So I do. I load the computer, I find Organon’s files, delete them all. Every trace I can find. He sees me looking at the disks, after that, and he shakes his head. ‘I didn’t make a copy. You have to believe me.’ He’s been crying, I think. His hand shakes as he leans against the work surface. ‘Just get rid of it. I never want to see it again.’
‘It’, not ‘her’. Finally: It.
‘What did you do?’ I ask.
‘I gave it to some people I used to work with. Yeah, I know I told you I wouldn’t, but I did.’ I don’t say: I already know. This is his story, better to let him have it. ‘They tried it. They’re promisers. Always have been. Years ago, when they let me go they said, Well, if you’ve got anything, come back to us. Like this constantly dangling carrot. You know what it’s like when there’s that, and it never goes away?’ He looks at me, and he smiles. ‘No, of course you don’t. You’re young. Some people are able to compartmentalise, to store away the things they don’t want to think about. I’m not. They’re always there. I can always see the rope. I was somebody, and then suddenly I wasn’t worth a damn. They let me go, and I spent years trying to get back in.’ That’s the reason for the way he lives, for who he is now. My eyes flit around the room as his do: to the awards on the windowsill, glass blocks with gold lettering, gold plates with bold black print. I can’t read the writing, but they’re the past, and they’re more important to him than the present. The only things in the room that he’s dusted or taken care of. The things that have pride of place. ‘And then finally I found something. Organon. It was shitty of me. I know that. But honestly, Laura, I thought you’d never know. It wouldn’t have been released. I thought it was interesting, that it would be interesting to them, that’s all. Maybe get my job back, get them to put me on a research team. I’m not meant to be a teacher. I gave it to them, and they were going to work on it, look at it. Then, last night, well. There’s a bug. Something. It sent them everything. All the things I’ve written into it. Not just that, but things on my hard drive. Emails. Private emails. Everything.’ That wave of sadness, but worse. Tears in the corners of his eyes, catching the light. ‘They called me this morning and told 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 oddly 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