The Digital Dream Page 7

  “Sure,” I say. “Not much else you can do for now. You may as well leave us to it.”

  As I watch him leave, I wonder whether there will be much for me to do, either. Looking at the computer, I guess that Kathleen is examining its operating system. She seems to have forgotten my presence as she pages through screen after screen of impenetrable-looking program code. So much for the old animal magnetism again. Out-charisma-ed by a machine.

  Frustrated, I sit back and watch her concentrating. She’s biting her lower lip—it increases rather than diminishes her attractiveness. I think again how little I know about her. Mental shrug. I go back to the paperwork, looking up from time to time to see her still locked in contemplation. Once, she stands up to connect a cable at the back of the dead boy’s computer to her own, but she seems intent on her task and I don’t disturb her.

  By midday, I’ve drunk my tenth cup of coffee and I’m wishing for the hundredth time that Kathleen smoked so that I could scrounge a cigarette. Smoking’s another of the habits I changed when my marriage ended but I hold to the theory that no one ever gives up smoking: they just have remissions.

  Eventually, she exclaims and pushes her chair back.

  “I think I’m onto it, Ross,” she murmurs.

  “Onto what?”

  “I found the virus easily enough. Actually, it’s a pretty crude piece of programming.”

  “So, have you worked out how it was able to get from machine to machine?”

  “Not exactly. As it was designed, it didn’t have that capability.”

  “So what happened?”

  “That’s what I’m following through now. I’ve modified the virus so that it’s now harmless but otherwise has the same system features it had before. It will also self-destruct within an hour, with no trace. I’ve connected the two machines and let the virus loose here again.”

  “What?” My initial reaction is one of shock. “If you’re wrong about making that thing harmless, you’ll get us crucified.”

  She looks at me calmly. “I’m not wrong, Ross.”

  Oh, fine, I think cynically, I’ll stop worrying. I lean forward and look over her shoulder. The screen display is one I haven’t seen before.

  “So what’s it doing?”

  “It’s spread to all the computers in this organization and is now getting itself into another corporation’s machines.”

  “I’d have said that was impossible.”

  “So would I. As I said, the virus just doesn’t have the capability to do it.”

  “So how...?”

  “Something else must be interacting with it. My guess is that there’s another piece of software on the main computer here that doesn’t belong there.”

  “Another virus?”

  “Could be. I won’t know until I write more diagnostic routines to check it out. Anyway, so far the virus has spread from this outfit to another called Enterprise Security. It’s now worming itself into a third firm called Blackdawn Importing.” She checks her watch. “Its time is nearly up. It’s about to self-destruct.”

  Sure enough, the screen display fades away within a few seconds.

  “What now?” I ask.

  She rubs her eyes. “I need some time to design a proper trace program. Then I can attach that to the modified virus and send it out again. If I can get it right, the trace will be able to send back information to us. Hopefully, it can tell us what’s happening to the virus once it gets loose.”

  I look at my watch. It’s past one o’clock.

  “First,” I say, “I think you should let me pay you back for your doing all the work and let me buy you lunch.”

  She hesitates for a moment then, just as I think she’ll decline, she smiles back at me and nods.

  8

  There’s a place I know nearby. One of the few old-style diners still surviving in this land of high-rises and Hooters. The blue-rinsed lady behind the counter looks between the two of us slyly. As Kathleen picks up her coffee and starts to walk to an empty table, the woman pats my hand and says in a loud stage whisper, “She’s real pretty.” I find myself blushing.

  “Sorry about that,” I say as I sit down next to her. “She seems to think we’re more than work-mates.”

  “Natural, I suppose. It being Saturday and all.”

  I can’t tell whether she’s embarrassed or not. “I guess I should be flattered,” I say. She smiles and looks away and I figure I’d better change the subject. “Have you got much on for the weekend?”

  “Not much. My parents have some friends coming round. I’ll probably have dinner with them.”

  “Your husband still away?”

  She looks away for a moment and then back at me. “You may as well know. We’re separated.”

  If she’s upset, she gives no sign of it. I’m beginning to see, though, that nothing much shakes her composure.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “That’s OK. I haven’t told people at work. Or most of my friends. I don’t know why though. I don’t guess there’s much chance of a reconciliation.”

  Questions lurk but I keep quiet.

  “He left me for another woman, you see. They’re living together.”

  “Tough break,” I say.

  “I’m coping,” she says simply. “It’s been worse for my parents, in some ways.”

  It seems a strange comment but I let it pass. “So, will you divorce him?”

  She shakes her head. “Out of the question. I’m Catholic, you see. My folks, too, obviously. That’s why it’s upset them so much. I guess my Dad would strangle him if he could get his hands on him.”

  “But the marriage is finished?” Confused, I guess. I never knew much about Catholicism except, when I was a kid at school, I remember the Catholics and the Jewish kids used to wait outside when we had Anglican church services.

  “No. It’s never over for people of our faith.”

  “So if, one day, he decided to show up again, would you take him back?”

  She shrugs, ever so slightly. Eyes on her plate. “I guess. That’s the way it works.”

  I don’t know what to say. It’s not as though we’ve got a long relationship to fall back on. I try a different approach. “How do you like working for the firm?”

  She brightens. “Oh, it’s good. Lots of variety, always something new going on.” She pauses and again I force myself to keep quiet. “And I think I’ve done quite well since I joined. It’s one of the better things about the IT industry. With the profession being newer than most, it’s less prone to the dreaded sexism.”

  “So a woman’s got a better chance of succeeding?”

  “Yes, although it’s still far from perfect.”

  Something in her tone surprises me. “Surely there isn’t any sexism in the firm?” We pride itself on being equal opportunity. It says so in the Wanted ads.

  “Well, it would surprise you. It’s something that a man can never feel. It’s...” she searches for words, “it’s not that anyone discriminates against you as such. It’s more that some men try so hard not to. They go out of their way to treat you as one of the boys. You know, to show that they don’t think of you as being any different. The emphasis they put on it has the opposite effect from the one intended. I much prefer someone like Mac. He’s always quite clear about the fact that I’m a woman but he’s not condescending.”

  Shit. I sip my coffee reflectively. “How do I rate? I mean, I’ve always thought I treated women as equals, but maybe I’ve been getting it all wrong.”

  She smiles. “I’m not sure that I know you well enough to say. But the fact that you asked the question is a good sign.”

  She nibbles at her lunch, salad and ham on rye, looking at me as she slides a fork between her lips. “What about you?” she asks. “You grew up in Britain?”

  “Yes. Ordinary sort of childhood. Midlands town, lower middle class environment, I suppose. Different from here. Not exactly privileged by US standards.” I
chew on a piece of cheese. “It wasn’t so bad, though. The woods around our house made good playgrounds: better than the sterile mass-produced ones they build for city kids nowadays. And there were Saturday morning movies in town and mass games of soccer with the other kids and family get-togethers at Christmas with the grandparents on my mother’s side and aunts and uncles. There wasn’t a lot of money so we didn’t get much in the way of gifts but we never lacked for affection.” I pause, remembering things long forgotten. “I had an uncle who was an electronics whiz. He was always fixing up weird little toys for us kids. One year he got me to switch on the radio and it started to talk just to me! I suppose they’d it connected up to a microphone somewhere but at the time I thought it was magic. You know, it’s funny. I haven’t thought about those times in ages. I guess it was a comfortable existence. Cozy.”

  She’s been cutting at her ham but then she stops and she’s looking at me again. She has incredible eyes, light-blue pupils, deep, focusing on me like I’m the only person in the universe. “It sounds like it gave you a good start in life. It’s interesting to me: it’s so far away from what I experienced. My parents migrated here from Ireland. Although they were very devoted to us children, they really were strangers in a strange land. They were all the family we had. I remember TV sitcoms from when I was little. The children all seemed to come from big, happy families. I used to miss having a grandmother to spoil me.”

  “Oh well, so do most kids in this city. How many families do you know where the children see their grandparents regularly?”

  She thinks for a moment. “Not many, I suppose.”

  As I talk, I move my fork to my right hand and try to stab a pickled gherkin: it slips and jumps off my plate, hitting my glass and rolling onto the floor. It comes to rest a yard away between the feet of a proper-looking old lady who pretends not to have seen it and surreptitiously kicks it under her table. I see Kathleen watching while pretending to eat a piece of bread. When I catch her eye, she pulls a funny face and stifles a giggle. I grin back, shielding my face with my hand. When I look back, those deep blue eyes are still sparkling.

  Suddenly I feel as if I know her better and I wonder if I ought to throw the whole damn plate onto the floor and see what happens.

  ***

  When we return to the office block, Kathleen spends some time explaining the concepts of her proposed trace program. At last, I can make a worthwhile contribution, making a couple of suggestions that make her stop and think, her eyebrows raising in what I’m beginning to recognize as a familiar gesture. After an hour’s discussion, she returns to the keyboard and starts to write the program that we’ve designed between us.

  Later, I glance at my watch and curse softly, scrambling for my jacket.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “I’d forgotten the time. I have an appointment. Can we leave it for today?”

  Kathleen shrugs. “Sure. Do you want to check this thing again tomorrow?”

  “I’m on,” I say. “Nothing else pressing. What about you?”

  “I can make it for a while in the morning.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Come on, I’ll see you out.”

  She glances back at the computer screen. “You go on. There are a couple of things I can still try. I’ll give it another half hour.”

  9

  Four p.m. For once she’s on time. Amazing. It never happened when we were married. I wonder whether living apart from me has changed her habits or whether she’s out to impress.

  Her blonde hair—worn long since I first knew her—is now cut short in what used to be called a pageboy style. I guess she’s lost some weight. The face, always pretty, now has an elfin look to it. Her eyes—small for the face—are lined with make-up that makes them look larger. I wonder whether I still know her.

  She walks past me, smiling nervously, and strolls into the living room, looking around as she goes, making an entrance, nothing changes, see, she’s always playing a part, always was. More of an actor than I’ll ever be. “No different,” she says. “I thought you’d have redecorated with me out of the way.”

  “Can’t seem to find the time. It’s just somewhere to sleep, really.” I look around the room, seeing it with fresh eyes. All the ornaments and photographs had belonged to Michelle and she removed them when she left. I never got round to replacing any of them. The furniture’s all modern, bought within the last few years, and the wallpaper’s bland and unmarked. I realize that the room, like the rest of the apartment, looks impersonal, a hotel suite rather than a home.

  In the middle of the floor, she turns and faces me, one hand tapping at her side. I guess that she’s as nervous as me.

  “Drink?”

  “Yeah, great. Same as usual.”

  Brandy and ginger. No ice. Two-thirds ginger. Same as usual. “Take a seat.”

  I mix her drink, pouring a generous Glenlivet for myself, notice my hands are shaking ever so slightly, carry the glasses back to where she perches on the edge of the sofa, hand her a glass, sit down opposite her.

  “You’re looking well. Your hair suits you like that.”

  She raises a hand to the back of her head. “I thought you liked it long.”

  “I was wrong. The shorter cut makes you look more mature.”

  Half-grimace, half-smile. “Older, you mean.” She sips the brandy. “And you, Andrew? You’re keeping well?”

  “Yes. Fine.” I wonder when she’ll get around to telling me why she’s here. I decide to give it time.

  “No other woman to share your nights?” She looks around the apartment again as if expecting to catch a telltale glimpse of discarded pantyhose or a stray lipstick holder.

  “No one special. Playing the field, as my Dad used to say.”

  She smiles, even though I know my father’s sayings used to irritate the hell out of her. She’s being nice. Bad sign. She wants something. Sips her drink again.

  “What about you? Neville looking after you all right?”

  She coughs gently, looks down into her glass. “No. Actually, Neville and I have decided to split up. A couple of weeks ago. I’ve kept the place in Richmond Park for now.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” A moment’s silence. “What happened?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. My fault, I suppose. I rushed into it.” She looks me in the eye. “I suppose I was always torn between Neville and what I felt for you. Memories and all that. Kept getting in the way. We’d been together a long time.”

  “Well, five years.” Not so fucking long, I think. Hold it, man. You’ve discarded the bitterness, remember?

  “It seems like more, now. We had some good times, didn’t we?”

  “Not good enough, Michelle.”

  “It could have been. The early days were great, you must admit. But that goddamn job of yours—oh, I’m not blaming you, I know what it’s like—but I never saw you that last couple of years. I used to get so lonely.”

  “I know, Michelle. We’ve been through it all before.” I stretch back in the armchair. “Anyway, I’ve changed all that. I still put in the hours when I have to, but I don’t make a religion of it. I got a life.”

  “Good for you,” she says. She stands up and walks across to the window and watches a young couple walk past on the sidewalk below.

  “Yes,” I go on. “I’m into amateur dramatics, believe it or not. Remember how I was always keen on Shakespeare but never did a thing about it? And tai kwon do twice a week. Keeps me fit.”

  “Oh really.” Eyebrows raised, sardonic smile. “Black belt and all?”

  “No, just green. Halfway up. At my pace it means I’ve gone from the point where I could hardly frighten a stationary snail to the point where I could seriously damage a slow-moving one.”

  I can tell she’s not listening. Face turned away from me, she says: “my mother died three months ago.”

  I look up sharply. I always liked Michelle’s mother. It was a joke between us that I got on better with her mother than with her.

  “I’m sor
ry. You should have let me know. I’d have liked to have gone to the funeral.”

  “I didn’t think you’d want to know me after... She had a bad heart, you know.” She turns back towards me and I see the tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve no right. I’ve been so lonely. I just need a friend...”

  I sigh. “I’ll be your friend. I always said I would.”

  “I was a fool. We’d become routine. When I met Neville... I thought I was in love.”

  “There’s a saying. I can’t remember it exactly. ‘Only the faithless know love. The faithful just know endless tedium.’ Words to that effect.”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “No. Oscar Wilde, I think.”

  She comes back and kneels in front of me, resting her hands on my knees. The tears come again. I reach out and hold her, sorry for her tears, wondering just what I’m doing.

  She leans into me. “I need a friend,” she says. “Nothing else. Just a friend.”

  Comforting. Except when has Michelle ever said what she really means?

  10

  USENET-A CHAT SESSION NUMBER 7246-E3. MESSAGES RECORDED AT ***.**.**.

  STRYKA You check out what I sent you, man? :-)

  UNDERDOGG Looks good to me. You still sure about this?

  STRYKA Hell, yeah. I told you the man would be cool about me helping, huh?

  UNDERDOGG I guess. Still.

  STRYKA Hey, he told us. Just fun, huh? Hack in and screw around with their systems. Government, man, secret stuff. They deserve a shake-up, yeah?

  UNDERDOGG I guess. Hey, where is this government place, anyway?

  PART THREE

  1

  Despite being a Sunday, it’s a working day with a very early start. Bernard Hendriks tries to shake off the muggy feelings of hangover and insufficient sleep as he walks past the lines of caged monkeys. They screech at him, like they always do. Bastards. He prefers the rats. They’re quiet and tame. He thinks they actually enjoy being handled, unlike the monkeys, who are always trying to bite him. Monkeys hate him for some reason. He hates them back. Serve them right if they’re all in line for bubonic this week.