James Smythe: I Still Dream

I grab the base between both hands, and I shake it.

Something moves. It rockets towards me, right out of the darkness. Up to my fingers, and across my hand, onto my forearm, and I scream, flicking my arms upwards in panic. Whatever it is hits something – the wall, the ceiling, I don’t know – and there’s a thud, then another when it lands on the floor in the far corner of the room. It’s a mouse, thin and brown, a tiny skeleton in patchy fur. I see a breath taken; a chest rise and fall. Stub dashes – as much as a seventeen-year-old cat can dash, more of a hurried wobble – into the room, and seems to sniff the air; but then drops back to fake nonchalance, even though his fur’s prickled; as if his body, muscle memory or something, remembers how the chase is meant to go, but that this mouse really isn’t giving him anything to work with.

‘Get away,’ I say to him, and I make that Psssshhh! noise that my mum makes sometimes. He backs away slowly while I squat down and look at the mouse. ‘Little dude,’ I say, ‘poor little guy. I’m sorry.’ I pick him up, cupping him in my hands. He’s stopped breathing; I wonder if he even was after he landed or if that was just a trick of the light. I go down the stairs, out the kitchen door, and walk carefully to the bottom of the garden. I can see the Tube line through the fence; a Heathrow train just pulling into the station. I put him in the tall grass right by the fence, deep into it. Maybe Stub’ll find him anyway, and do some weird old-cat-eats-his-already-dead-prey thing. Or, maybe the mouse will just decompose. Go back into the ground.

When I get back inside, I go through the house using my sore elbow to open doors and to turn the tap on, so I can wash my hands. When that’s done, I take a shower. I don’t know if mice carry diseases, but I don’t want to risk it. I’m lathered up when there’s a bang. Cars backfiring, and fireworks. That’s what you blame loud noises on in London. Chances are, though, it’s Stub. He keeps falling off things, wobbling around. Last week he went for a wee on the kettle. Paul’s got this look in his eye when he strokes Stub now. None of us are talking about what it means, but we know, we all know.

I go into the hallway, towel wrapped around me. No more bangs, but I can hear a crackling, now. Like feet treading on dead leaves. And there’s a smell, something burning. Fireworks, bonfires. But Guy Fawkes’ night isn’t for a couple of weeks yet.

Another bang: it’s coming from the computer. There are flames sparking from the power supply. Didn’t I turn it off? Did I forget? I’m a total fucking moron. Inside my head, the voice screams: You’re going to be so dead when Mum finds out; when you have to tell her. Oh, that computer you asked me to look at? It exploded because I’m an idiot. I yank the plug from the wall, get water from the bathroom, in the little toothbrush cup, because that’s all I can find, and I run back and pour it over the sparks. The fizzle as the flames go out is so weirdly satisfying; the sound of something terrible happening suddenly gone. Makes me think of my matches. Then there’s smoke, and steam. I don’t even know the difference. I bend down, to peer into the computer. The motherboard is totally blown. The fire looks like it was caused by one of the frayed wires – which, I realise now, were probably nibbled; thanks, Mr Mouse! – and it’s blackened half of the inside, best I can see. I get the screwdriver and reach in. I can save the hard drive, I think. It’s hot inside the box, but I can still manage to undo the screws that hold the drive in. It’s enormous, and I think it’ll just be a casing at first, but then when I manage to drag it out, it’s the hard drive itself. Takes about three or four times the room that mine upstairs does, and this one is so much smaller inside. It’s got 10 megabytes printed on the side, which is insane. I couldn’t even fit Organon onto it if I tried.

I take the drive upstairs and clear a space for it on my desk. Move my joss stick burner, some computer magazines, a few issues of the NME and Select that I’ve been cutting up for the pictures. I’ll need to save Mum’s spreadsheets, I’m sure. God knows if she’ll be able to open them any other way.

Then the door downstairs slams – I recognise the sound this time, so different from the bang when the computer exploded I don’t even know how I confused them – and Mum shouts ‘Hello,’ and I shout it back. I scratch at my elbow, until the scab comes off again, because that’s all I’ve got time to do before she comes up to see me; and I can feel the warmth of the blood inside my jumper when I press on it.

When I’m sure they are both asleep, I get back to work. I’m used to staying up for a few hours after them at this point. It helps that Paul’s got this sleep apnoea machine: a mask he sticks on his face that makes him sound like Darth Vader. No idea how Mum sleeps through it – I’m guessing she takes something to help her, she’s got enough bottles of tablets in their bathroom cabinet – but she does. I get the tiny screwdrivers I use on my computer and I take my modem apart. Should have done this before. Inside it, I find the little speaker that makes its sound. There’s a tiny wire, and I snip it, put the case back on, do it up. Plug it into the wall.

Next month, this is going to bite me in the arse. Next month, when that bill comes, Paul is going to go mental, because – I can hear it already – I’ve lied to them, gone behind their backs, let everybody down.

Mum’ll say: You promised us; and I won’t say: I did no such thing.

I watch the flashing red LEDs on the front of the modem, and I catch myself making the little noise – the scree, screeeech – under my breath.

‘You’ve got mail!’ the speakers basically scream at me, and I flap at them to find the power button. I sit, quiet as anything, listening to the house for a minute. To hear if that woke them. But there’s nothing, just the distant hiss and wheeze of Paul’s breathing passing through two closed doors and a load of hallway. Breathe in, breathe out. So controlled you could set your watch to it.

The email is nothing. Spam. Nothing from Shawn. I don’t know what I expected, really. Something. Just a, No worries, my parents are assholes as well, we’ll talk soon . Something like that. But there’s nothing.

Do I write him another one? Tell him I’m online now, maybe if he wants to reply we can chat a bit? Find a chatroom or something? I am actually angry at him right now. It’s not like it was my choice to have to be offline, and am I being punished? By getting no reply? His parents let him on whenever he wants, so I know he’s seen my email. If he told me he was shut off from the Internet after an argument, I know I’d be at least a little bit concerned. I’d at least ask if everything was okay. But then – breathe, Laura, breathe, think of Paul’s sleep-breathing, follow that – maybe he knew I wouldn’t be online, so he didn’t reply? It’s probably that. It’s probably that he’s going to send me more emails over the week, before – of course! – before I get back online at the weekend, when I said I would. He’s got four days to come up with a reply. I should send him a new email. Let him know he doesn’t need to wait. I start typing. I ask him how he is, first. Make it about him. It’s not all about me. Tell him that I managed to sneak some time when they’re asleep. Ask him what time it is there, even though I know – seven hours behind us, so he’s probably just getting back from school himself – and what his day was like. And I ask him for his address, because I want to send him something. I won’t tell him what, but he’ll be excited. I can picture his face, when he opens the tape, when he plays it. This perfect ninety-minute song arc.