The Third Person

‘It won’t be there. If it was, my whole hard drive would have been corrupted by now.’

I stopped biting my nail.

Something inside me thought oh fucking shit.

‘What do you mean?’

He tapped the screen.

‘Well, my guess is that it’s this file that started all the trouble.’ He stared at me, as though this should be obvious. ‘If it was on my hard drive, there’s no reason to think it wouldn’t have had exactly the same effect. All my files would be corrupted. I wouldn’t be able to run anything.’

His face fell.

‘Oh shit.’

‘Graham got the file off Liberty,’ Isaid. ‘Every computer he linked through will have a copy of that file on it.’

Dennison nodded. ‘How many?’

‘The search took a while. I don’t know. A lot.’

I remembered what Graham had said to me on the phone that morning:

my computer’s fucking up.

‘Shit.’

‘Well, unless they deleted the file pretty quickly, chances are it’s started corrupting their hard drives.’ Dennison settled back. ‘And that’s it, then: no way back from that. I reckon that most Liberty users set the deletion rate at about once a day.’

I said, ‘But some don’t even set it at all. They just do it manually, after a while.’

He looked at me for a second, and then the computer beeped.

[File not found]

He tapped a key and closed the search window. ‘It’s not on the hard drive.’

I thought back to the internet cafe.

‘I think it’s worse,’ I said. ‘Graham e-mailed me the file as an attachment, earlier on today, but it never arrived. It got lost somewhere on route.’

‘Well it’s out there, then. For better or worse, it’s out there.’

‘For worse.’

I was figuring that millions of pounds’ worth of file damage, coupled with the possible crash of the entire internet was at least as damning, legally speaking, as murdering three criminals. Profit margins have rights, too. I wasn’t sure who exactly they’d charge, but I figured they’d start by arresting everyone they could find on Liberty and then whittling it down. And it seemed pretty likely that me, Graham and Dennison were still going to be there if it got down to three.

Dennison didn’t seem bothered.

‘Maybe. Worse for us. But not from the file’s point of view.’

‘It doesn’t have a fucking point of view.’

‘Maybe not.’

‘It’s a fucking text document. Jesus.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But there’s an implict only there when you say “it’s a fucking text document”, isn’t there? And it’s clearly not only a text document. Look at what it’s done.’

‘This is absolutely insane.’

I felt like a man floating in space who needs to punch something or else he’ll explode.

All I want is to find Amy.

‘Fuck. Wait here.’

Dennison was gone. A creak of the floorboards, and then I felt the vibration of his feet on the stairs.

I sat down in the chair and looked at the screen – bathed myself in its light. I felt empty inside, and it was a weird feeling because actually the whole room seemed just as empty. The dark turned the pillars of paper into weathered, shadowy things that a strong breeze might knock into a flurry of grey, fluttering dust, but there was no breeze in here at all, and so they simply hung there, gathering more. It felt like this room had been bricked up for centuries and only just uncovered – or it would have done without the computer, anyway, which was as incongruous as a laptop in a tomb. The only living thing here, myself included. The screen was giving out an angle of hard light, and I figured that the nicest thing in the world right then would be to fall into it, get pixelated by some sharp, blinding process, and then lie down in the harsh brightness of it all. Spreadeagled and warm beneath a radioactive processor sun.

You’re losing it, I thought, and leant my head back so I could stare at the ceiling instead. It was always possible that I might lose it completely and put my head through the monitor, and at least the ceiling was out of reach.

I heard the creak in the doorway and looked back down.

Two things. There was a message on the screen that said:

[You have received 1 new message]

And Dennison said, ‘You need to see this.’

He kept a small black and white television on the side in the kitchen, and the screen was busy with movement as I followed him into the room and took a seat at a small wooden table in the centre. It took about half a second to realise that we were watching a newsflash of some kind, and then about another five seconds for my jaw to hit the table.

‘Fuck,’ I said. ‘This is really, really bad.’

On-screen, a small bland man was reporting exciting news in a voice that was attempting to be calm, failing only slightly. He was telling us – repeating, most likely – that half of the computers in America were off-line. Servers were just collapsing. There were literally hundreds failing every minute.

‘Yes,’ Dennison said, nodding. But his tone of voice was very close to that of the newsreader, and I got the impression that he didn’t entirely agree.

‘You realise,’ I told him, ‘that we’re going to burn for this? They’re going to fucking arrest us. And probably shoot us.’

Nobody knew what was happening, the newsreader told us. Experts were being consulted from all over the world, and there were already reports of servers crashing in several different countries. This was going to be – as I mentioned – really, really bad.

‘Shit,’ I said.

‘We’ll see.’

I shook my head. Dennison was clearly a man who needed his priorities whacking with a hammer, but I didn’t have the energy to argue with him. Graham had sent me the text, and off it had gone, destroying everything in its path. I could only hope that the entire net was brought down by it, because that was probably the only way that – when the dust had settled – we might escape from this anonymously. But that just seemed inherently undesirable. I liked the internet; I wanted it to stay where it was.

On the screen, the newsreader was explaining that a growing number of internet mail accounts and websites were inaccessible. Government sources suspected a hacker of instigating the attack. If so, it was suggested, it would be the worst instance of computer crime in the history of the world. The perpetrators would be fucking arrested, and probably shot.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘At least your e-mail is working.’

Dennison looked at me.

‘What?’

‘You got mail,’ I said. ‘Just as you called me. So your account is still working.’

I trailed off and stared back at him. And then, after a second or two more of this, we got up without a word and went back upstairs to read the e-mail.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN