Machines Like Me

‘How did that happen?’

‘I was tired of wearing your old jeans and t-shirts. And I decided that some of that money you keep under your bed is mine.’ He looked at me warily.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘You might have a case.’

‘About a week ago. You were out for the afternoon. I took a taxi, my first of course, to Chiltern Street. I bought two suits off the peg, three shirts, two pairs of shoes. You should have seen me, trying on trousers, pointing at this and that. I was completely convincing.’

‘As a human?’

‘They called me sir.’

He sat back in his chair, one arm sprawled across the kitchen table, his suit jacket neatly swelled by impacted muscle, not a crease in view. He looked like one of the young professionals beginning to infiltrate our neighbourhood. The suit went well with the harsh look.

He said, ‘The driver talked the whole way. His daughter had just got a place at university. First ever in the family. He was so proud. When I got out and paid, I shook his hand. But that night I did some research and concluded that lectures, seminars and especially tutorials are an inefficient way of imparting information.’

I said, ‘Well, there’s the ethos. The libraries, important new friendships, a certain teacher who might set your mind on fire …’ I trailed away. None of this had happened to me. ‘Anyway, what would you recommend?’

‘Direct thought transference. Downloading. But, um, of course, biologically …’ He too trailed away, not wishing to be impolite about my limitations. Then he brightened. ‘Speaking of which, I finally got round to Shakespeare. Thirty-seven plays. I was so excited. What characters! Brilliantly realised. Falstaff, Iago – they walk off the page. But the supreme creation is Hamlet. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about him.’

I had never read it or seen it on stage, though I felt I had, or felt obliged to pretend I had. ‘Ah yes,’ I said. ‘Slings and arrows.’

‘Was ever a mind, a particular consciousness, better represented?’

‘Look, before we get on to that, there’s something else we need to talk about. Gorringe. Miranda’s dead set on this … this idea. But it’s stupid, dangerous.’

He gently drummed with his fingertips on the table surface. ‘My fault. I should have explained my decision—’

‘Decision?’

‘Suggestion. I’ve done some work on this. I can take you through it. There’s a general consideration, then there’s the empirical research.’

‘Someone will get hurt.’

It was as if I hadn’t spoken.

‘I hope you’ll excuse me if I don’t tell you it all at this stage. That is, don’t push me when I exclude some final details. The work is ongoing. But look, Charlie, none of us, especially Miranda, can live with this threat, however improbable it is. Her freedom has been compromised. She’s in a state of constant anxiety. It could go on for months, even years. It’s simply not endurable. That’s my general point. So. My first task was to find the best possible likeness of Peter Gorringe. I went on the website of his and Miranda’s old school, found the year photographs and there he was, a great lump in the back row. I found him again in the school magazine, in articles about the rugby and cricket seasons. Then, of course, the press coverage during the trial. A lot of head-under-the-blanket, but I found some useful shots and merged what I had into a composite, high-definition portrait and scanned it. Next, and this was the enjoyable part, I devised some very specialised face-recognition software. Then, I hacked into the Salisbury District Council CCTV system. I set the recognition algorithms to work, mining the period since he came out of prison. That was a bit tricky. There were various setbacks and software glitches, mostly due to problems marrying up with the city’s outdated programs. Using Gorringe’s surname to locate his parents’ house on the edge of town was a great help, even though there are no cameras where they live. I needed to know his most likely route past the nearest camera. At last I was getting good matches and I’ve been able to pick him up in various places when he arrives by bus into town. I can follow him from street to street, camera to camera, as long as he’s in or near the centre. There’s one place he keeps returning to. Don’t trouble your head trying to guess what it is. His parents are still abroad. Perhaps they prefer to stay clear of their convict son. I’ve come to certain conclusions about him that make me think it’s safe to pay a visit. I’ve told Miranda everything that I’ve told you. She knows only what you know. I won’t say more at this stage. I simply ask you to trust me. Now, Charlie, please. I’m desperate to hear your thoughts about Hamlet, about Shakespeare playing his father’s ghost in the first production. And in Ulysses, in the Nestor episode, what about Stephen’s theory?’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘But you go first.’

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