Читать книгу I Still Dream - James Smythe, James Smythe - Страница 13

My dad was a good guy. Mum says that a lot. Whenever we talk about him, which isn’t that often, not really, we always come back to the same thing: they were happy for a long time, and she can’t work out why he left. He suddenly changed in those last few weeks, and then he was gone. A mystery that we’ll never solve. Mum says it’s a bit like with Stub. He’s not the cat he was when I was a kid. In cat years, he’s a super-pensioner. He went wrong. A slow decline, where he faded. His mind stopped being what it was; like he almost forgot how to be the cat he was before.

I only remember my dad a little bit. Or maybe, I actually remember the stories about him more; the stories behind the photographs of him. When I was a kid, he took me into the toilets in London Zoo, and accidentally dropped me into the urinal; and there was a time that he got stung by a bee in his neck, swelled up like a balloon, and they thought that he would die; the time he fell into the water in a harbour when we were on holiday, and he was drunk and stripped the skin off his back as he scraped it down the concrete of the dock itself; and then when he taught me how to program a flag on the computer, showing me how it worked. Starting me on something the day before he left.

He was a good guy. That’s what Mum says.

That’s what I’ve got left of him.

* * *

I act like this morning is the same as any other, even though I’m already awake when Mum comes up to my room, cracks open the door, and says my name.

‘It’s morning,’ she tells me. As if I’d forget without her.

‘Yeah,’ I say. The door shuts, and I sit up. Feet press into the carpet, soft pile around my toes. I’ve been lying there and thinking about how to do this for an hour or so. No alarm woke me up; just my body, or my brain, more likely, saying that I should be preparing. Putting a plan together.

I’m not going to school, that’s the first thing. Or, I am, but then I’m leaving again pretty much straight away. After registration, or else they’ll call Mum and ask her where I am. I might have to wait until break, depending on if anybody sees me on the way to the car park. Then get the bus to Perivale, get off near the swimming pool, walk to Mr Ryan’s house. Paul’s got an A-Z downstairs, on the shelf in the loo, so I’ll take that with me, find out where his road is exactly. And then I talk to him, I suppose. I don’t know what happens after that, exactly. We talk, and he gives me Organon back. He swears not to sell it. Then it’s done, over. Worst case, I get him to wipe his computer or something, I don’t know. I’m hazy on that part.

I eat breakfast quickly. I don’t want to give anything away. I wonder if they can tell; Mum and Paul. If it’s obvious that nothing’s really normal.

‘Busy day?’ Paul asks.

‘Same as usual,’ I say.

‘Funny how it’s always the usual.’

‘Guess that’s how it got the name.’

‘Trez droll,’ he says, in that English-pronounced-French thing he does. ‘You want a lift? I’ve got errands to run before work. Happy to drop you.’

‘That’d be amazing,’ I say. Save me the walk, and I can get there early, get my face seen. That’s the best thing to do. Only time I’ve done anything like this before, Nadine and I bunked school so we could wait outside the Astoria and get tickets to see the Manic Street Preachers and Suede on a double bill. We were all over school in the morning, faking cramps, making sure that everybody important knew it. Nadine said it was clichéd, but the male teachers absolutely hated talking about anything like that. You miss a class, people say you’re on your period, and nobody questions it. It’s as good a plan as any.

I kiss Mum goodbye, and she squeezes me. Like she’s trying to keep me steady. Like she knows I need it.

Then I’m in Paul’s car, an older Volkswagen estate, which he keeps even though he could get a newer one from work, but he likes it because it lets him make jokes about the reliability of Germans; and we’re sitting in traffic with Capital FM turned on and they’re playing that jingle that’s ripped off that song, ‘Ooh you send me, you take me to the rush hour’. Paul sings along and taps the steering wheel with his fingers, and I stare out of the window and think about exactly what I’m going to say to Mr Ryan.

Then Paul turns down the radio. Not so much that it’s actually off, just enough that the voices are annoying in the background. ‘You need to go easier on your mother, you know.’ And I don’t know where this has come from, but it’s more about him than me, I can tell that straight away.

‘I haven’t done anything,’ I say.

‘She’s stressed. She says she isn’t, but I know she is. Whatever the tension between you is, it’s stressing her out.’ He doesn’t look at me when he talks. Not like on the TV, when they’re having conversations in the car and staring at each other. Eyes less on the road than the person that they’re talking to. ‘And I don’t want to know what it’s about, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s your business, and I don’t want to get in between you both. Whatever it is.’ I don’t say: That’s not stopping you right now. ‘But, she’s finding it hard, and I want to make it better. I think we should have that holiday? Maybe over Christmas?’

‘What about Les and Jean?’ They’re Paul’s parents. They’re who we see every Christmas since Mum’s parents died. We drive up to their house in Norfolk so that we can get frozen nearly to death because they don’t want to turn the heating on, even though Les has had, like, four strokes or something.

‘They might come as well. I don’t know. This is just, you know. Before it’s a thing. I wanted to ask how you’d feel about it.’

‘Good,’ I say. Mum’ll like that. She hates Christmas. Didn’t used to, from what I can remember. I think it was the first ones without Dad that killed it.

‘I’ll look into it, then. Just go easy on her, okay.’ I don’t say anything. He turns up the radio again, and I watch the streets as we break away from the traffic, as we drive up the hill, as I start to see other kids from school walking along in groups, then milling around, trying to put off actually going in through the gates.

Nadine agrees to cover for me, because we’ve got RE first, and I don’t care about missing it in the least. The teacher, Mr McDiarmuid, is a proper religious beardy type, leather sandals and sand-coloured socks, and you can tell he doesn’t want to talk about the bodily functions of teenage girls in any way at all. Best thing: Nadine doesn’t ask why I’m skiving. Just tells me to go, knowing I’ll do the same for her another time. Says she’ll see me tomorrow night, if not before. I’d forgotten. That’s a worry for later. Not now.

I hide in the toilets by the dining hall until the bell’s rung, and then I walk outside as if I’ve got permission to do it. At least half of getting away with anything at school is acting like you’re allowed.

I don’t wait for the bus outside the school. I walk down the residential streets, find a stop that’s on the right route, but far enough away that nobody’s going to see me. It’s nervous-making, this; but I can’t tell if I’m more scared about being caught, or what’ll happen when I get there.

He might not even be there. He might be somewhere else entirely, off selling my Organon to whoever he’s trying to sell it to. His old bosses, people he used to know. Or, more likely, they don’t even want to buy it. Because it’s nothing, not really.

But it’s not nothing. Last night, whatever was going on, Organon sent me information. I asked it for help, and it helped me. And that’s proof that it’s not nothing, it’s something. Like Dad told me, when we were making the flag: empty spaces are just waiting for something to fill them.

The bus comes, and it’s empty. No idea why. Nobody sticks their thumb out to stop us the whole journey, and the driver drives like he’s got somewhere to be. I sit in the middle of the back row, and I try not to look like I’m worth paying any sort of attention to.

I have to put the A-Z on the pavement when I get off the bus, because I’m terrible at directions, never have any idea about where I’m going. I line it up with a street and face the right way. I count the turns I’ve got to make. Second left, first right, third left. Nervous as anything. My arm twitches as I walk, and I think about my elbow, but it doesn’t hurt, and it doesn’t need me to go at it. Instead, it’s just there. An awareness, or a presence.

I run the conversation I’m going to have with Mr Ryan in my head. What are you doing here? I’m here to get back my software. How dare you turn up at my door! Give it back to me, you had no right. How did you even know where I live? And then there’s a blank, where I can’t fathom how this ends. Don’t have a clue.

And then I’m outside his house. I check the address just to make sure. It’s an ugly house. Tiny square windows, and it’s got that pebble-dashed thing on the outside, like somebody’s thrown handfuls of grit at it, and they’ve somehow stuck to the walls. All the houses are the same, and nobody’s made them their own. Some have flowerpots, and there are a few painted doors, but otherwise they’re basically identical.

I take a breath. Hold it in. Ring the doorbell.

I wait.

He looks ill, that’s the first thing that hits me. I know that he hasn’t really slept, not much, not based on the times of the bug reports. He looks at me, right in my eyes; or, maybe, through me, just for a moment.

‘Of course it’s you,’ he says. No Hello, no What are you doing here? ‘Of fucking course it’s you. I don’t know how you did it.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ I say. He turns and walks through the house, leaving the door open. I think he wants me to follow him, so I do. I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t, technically – you hear stories, and I don’t want to be one of those stories – but I do. Down the corridor, into this house that smells of dogs, even though there’s not a dog here that I can see, or any evidence of one; past a living room with the curtains drawn, lit a dark blue by the light coming around the edges, plates piled on a small table in front of a small sofa in front of a small TV; into the kitchen, which is in a better state, like it’s been cleaned, or maybe just not not-cleaned. He doesn’t cook, that’s obvious. There’s some Chinese takeaway packaging on top of the bin, and a Pizza Hut box on the sideboard. He’s got a computer set up on the kitchen table, a printer next to it, a modem that’s older than mine plugged in. Some blank disks, with my zip drive balanced on top of them.

He pulls a stool out from underneath the table, and I think 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. Ocean@Bow.com. 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 this stilted voice that let’s me know she’s really 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 pay for me to go out there, he says. If the internship turns into a job, and he says that the odds of that are really good, Bow is only growing as a company, and—’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Laura!’ She’s on the verge of tears. I don’t know how much of this is the wine, but I haven’t seen her cry since the months after Dad left. Even then, I’m not sure I’m not just imagining it; tainted memories coming out of sad-looking photographs. ‘Why are you doing this to me? Please, tell me.’

‘I’m not doing anything,’ I say.

There’s nothing I’m not saying to her, now.

‘Your father hated him, you know. He didn’t trust him, said we shouldn’t trust him,’ she says. The flood breaks. Everybody’s crying on me, today.

‘Dad left,’ I say. ‘Maybe he’s not the best judge of who we should trust.’ That sets her crying properly. I take the glass out of her hand and move it away from her, in case, and I hold her. Her hands creep up to my arms, holding me, not quite letting me absolutely close; as if she’s ready to push me back as fast as possible, should she discover that she has to.