We got home, and Adam skinned up whilst I ordered a pizza. A couple of hours without Lisa’s civilising influence, and already we had reverted to being Men. We watched videos and drank beer. We belched and we farted. We reclaimed our primal heritage. We talked about birds and football. It was the perfect antidote. Everything was normal. I didn’t have to worry about some dead person I didn’t even know. I didn’t have to worry about the crappy state of my existence. The most important thing in the world was whether we’d rather shag Penelope Pitstop or Jessica Rabbit. Normally I’d try to make out I was above this kind of conversation, but this wasn’t the time or the place for being superior. I went into Adam’s room to look for some more skins. On his desk was another copy of the Standard, dominated by a picture of a girl, the dead girl. Another recollection rose up inside me like a chunk of half digested food, filling me with a sweet nausea that choked me. The clarity of the memory took me by surprise. It was only an isolated fragment, but it was so vivid as to be almost solid. I could see everything, hear everything, taste everything, smell everything, feel everything. I didn’t know how it had come back to me after such a long time, but it was there. I didn’t know how much of it was real and how much a reconstruction by my subconscious, but she was there in my head, and she wouldn’t leave. We’d been falling over each other at the club, so drunk that we didn’t know where we were. Her friend was busy with some bloke, and she was wandering around looking lost. I was trying to send somebody a text message, but I lacked the co-ordination for it. I looked up, and she stumbled into someone, bounced off, and plunged headlong towards me. My drink came out of my hand, went all over my shirt. In an unsteady voice, she offered to buy me another. Then blankness. Maybe it was just the dope making me paranoid, but I was starting to think that I might have done it. I was the man from the club, who police were seeking to interview. I was the other man the boyfriend had seen at the flat. Maybe I had killed her. No, it couldn’t have been me. It just isn’t the sort of thing I would do. I’d have remembered killing someone, surely. It must have been me. I had been there that night. I was the other man the boyfriend had seen, that much I know. But it couldn’t have been me. I’m not a killer. I just don’t have it in me. But I’ve got a bad temper. Maybe after the boyfriend had come round, she’d gone cold on me, and I’d got into a rage. No, I couldn’t have. Could I? Maybe he’d seen me there, gone crazy and killed her. But I thought I remembered seeing him leave, threatening me, threatening her. Maybe some nutcase had gone round after I’d left, and killed her. No. It must have been me. I pick up the phone, press nine. My finger pauses, presses it again. It pauses again. No. It’s not an emergency. She’s already dead. I hang up. It wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been me. But I should tell the police, eliminate myself from the inquiry. Except they don’t know anything about me. I’ll save myself a lot of hassle if I don’t call. Except if they do find something that tells them I was there, it’ll look bad. But they’re not going to. So I’m going to get away with it. But it wasn’t me. Or was it? Shit, I don’t know. I’ve got to get out of the house. Any minute what may or may not be the truth is going to come spurting out of my mouth like a geyser. I’m not ready to tell them anything. I’ve got to get my head straight before I say anything to anyone. “You found them, mate?” Shit, the skins. I must have been in here for ages. Adam must be getting suspicious. Chill out. He’s got no reason to be suspicious. There’s nothing to connect me with the girl. It’s the perfect crime. Except I didn’t do it. And I’ve got no alibi.
The corollary of constant change is ignorance. … we computer experts barely know what we are doing. We function well in a sea of unknowns. Our experience has prepared us to deal with confusion. A programmer who denies this is probably lying, or else is densely unaware of himself.
Close To The Machine