‘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.