Machines Like Me

She stroked my forearm in a gesture of farewell as she turned on her side, away from me. Soon her breathing was regular and deep, and I was left pondering in the monochrome sodium dusk. He’s coming too. She had assumed joint ownership, just as I’d hoped. But an encounter between Adam and an old-style literary curmudgeon like Maxfield Blacke was hard to envisage. I knew from the profile that he still worked in longhand, detested computers, mobile phones, the Internet and all the rest. Apparently, he didn’t, in that priggish cliché, ‘suffer fools gladly’. Or robots. Adam had yet to be woken. He had yet to leave the house, yet to test his luck as a plausible being capable of small talk. I’d already decided to keep him away from my circle of friends until he was a fully adept social creature. Starting out with Maxfield could disable important sub-routines. Miranda might have been hoping to distract her father and energise his writing. Or it was to do with me, somehow in my interests in ways I didn’t understand. Or – I failed to resist this thought – against them?

That was a bad idea, of the kind that comes in the small hours. Like all insomniac brooding, the essence was repetition. Why should I meet her father in the presence of Adam? Of course, it was entirely in my power to insist on keeping him here. But I would be denying the wishes of a woman whose father lay dying. Was he really dying? Was it possible to get gout in your thumb? Bilaterally? Did I really know Miranda? I lay on my side, seeking a cool corner of the pillow, then on my back with a view of a dappled ceiling that now seemed too close, and yellow rather than orange. I asked myself the same questions, I rephrased them and asked them again. I knew what I was about to do, but I delayed, preferring to fret, denying the obvious for almost an hour. Then at last I got up, pulled on my jeans and t-shirt, let myself out and went barefoot down the communal stairs to my own flat.

In the kitchen I didn’t even pause before pulling the blanket clear. Outwardly nothing had changed – eyes closed, that same bronze face, the nose with its hint of cruelty. I reached behind his head, found the spot and pressed. While he was warming up I ate a bowl of cereal.

Just as I was finishing he said, ‘Never be disappointed.’

‘What was that?’

‘I was saying that those who believe in the afterlife will never be disappointed.’

‘You mean, if they’re wrong they’ll never know about it.’

‘Yes.’

I looked at him closely. Was he different now? He had an expectant look. ‘Logical enough. But Adam. I hope you don’t think that’s profound.’

He didn’t reply. I took my empty bowl to the sink and made myself tea. I sat at the table, across from him, and after taking a couple of sips, I said, ‘Why did you say that I shouldn’t trust Miranda?’

‘Oh that …’

‘Come on.’

‘I spoke out of turn and I’m truly sorry.’

‘Answer the question.’

His voice had changed. It was firmer, more expressive in its varied pitch. But the attitude – I needed more time. My immediate, unreliable impression was of an intact presence.

‘I was thinking only of your best interests.’

‘You just said you were sorry.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘I need to hear why you said what you did.’

‘There’s a small but significant possibility that she might harm you.’

I disguised my irritation and said, ‘How significant?’

‘In the terms set by Thomas Bayes, the eighteenth-century clergyman, I’d say one in five, assuming you accept my values for the priors.’

My father, adept at the harmonic progressions of bebop, was a sincere technophobe. He used to say that any faulty electrical device needed no more than a good thump. I drank my tea and considered. In the colossal array of tree-branching networks that governed Adam’s decision-making, there would be a strong weighting in favour of reasonableness.

I said, ‘I happen to know that the possibility is insignificant, close to zero.’

‘I see. I’m so sorry.’

‘We all make mistakes.’

‘We certainly do.’

‘How many mistakes have you made in your life, Adam?’

‘Only this one.’

‘Then it’s important.’

‘Yes.’

‘And important not to repeat it.’

‘Of course.’

‘So we need to analyse how you came to make it, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I agree.’

‘So, in this regrettable process what was your first move?’

He spoke confidently now, seeming to take pleasure in describing his methods. ‘I have privileged access to all court records, criminal as well as the Family Division, even when in camera. Miranda’s name was anonymised, but I matched the case against other circumstantial factors that are also not generally available.’

‘Clever.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Tell me about the case. And the date and place.’

‘The young man, you see, knew very well that the first time he had intimate relations with her …’

He broke off and stared at me, bug-eyed in astonishment, as though he was taking in my presence for the first time. I guessed my short run of discovery was coming to a close. He appeared now to know about the value of reticence.

‘Go on.’

‘Uh, she brought along a half-bottle of vodka.’