The Man Who Forgot His Wife by John O'Farrell Read Free Book Online Page B

something?’
    ‘I don’t know – it just felt a bit impolite to keep talking about me all the time. I didn’t want to appear self-obsessed or whatever. First impressions and all that …’
    ‘Second,’ said Linda.
    ‘Oh yes, second impressions. For you anyway.’
    ‘One thousand and second,’ said Gary.
    ‘Okay. Well, I’m – this is weird – I am in recruitment,’ said Linda, ‘and Gary is in computers – internet and all that.’
    ‘Right.’ I nodded neutrally. ‘Not data-recovery by any chance, is it?’
    ‘Ha! No, though I know a few people who do specialize in that. They’ll just say you should have backed your brain up on a memory stick. No, I work for myself, designing websites, developing new ideas for the net, you know.’
    ‘Wow! What sort of ideas?’
    ‘Okay, well, I might as well tell you about our big project, then.’
    ‘
Our
big project?’
    ‘Yeah, you and me have been developing this together. We’re developing a site that will completely revolutionize how we consume news.’
    ‘How’s that?’
    ‘This is going to be the future of current affairs.’ I noticed a sudden degree of zealous self-belief in Gary. ‘See, currently all news is top down. Some fascist corporation decides what’s the most important story, sends some lackey to report it, who then serves up all the Murdoch lies to the trusting public.’
    Linda was nodding supportively.
    ‘The internet allows you to turn that model on its head. Imagine millions of readers writing up whatever they might have just witnessed around the globe, uploading their own photos and video footage and text. Millions more readers are searching and clicking on stories that interest them, and hey presto! The story with the most hits becomes the main item of news on the world’s most democratic and unbiased news outlet!’
    ‘It’s ever so funny,’ added Linda. ‘Front page yesterday was a transsexual doing it with a couple of midgets, ha ha ha …’
    ‘Yeah, obviously, we’re still working on the filters and all that. But YouNews is the future, you said so yourself. You can search by region, subject, protest movement, whatever.’
    ‘You must check it out,’ said Linda. ‘I’ve learned how to upload stories. I put up a lovely bit of video yesterday: this cute kitten being surprised by a cuckoo clock!’
    ‘No, Linda, that’s not news! That’s not what the site is for!’
    ‘So, no reporters or editors?’ I observed.
    ‘Exactly! No hacks filing their expenses from around the world, no expensive studios or equipment, and no press barons protecting their political allies or paymasters.’
    I thought about this for a moment, and then pinpointed what made me uneasy about the whole idea.
    ‘But how do you know it’s true?’
    ‘True?’
    ‘Yes, a story that some member of the public has uploaded. How do you know they haven’t just made it up?’
    ‘Well, if they’ve made it up,’ explained Gary, ‘then you always said that other members of the public will say so in the comment thread and it will lose credibility. Or they can re-edit it themselves – it’s like Wikipedia, but for current affairs. You’re really into it, believe me! You and me – we’re going to take on the world!’
    My feelings about Gary’s website echoed a deeper worry I had had ever since my brain had first pressed Control+Alt+Delete. How could I know whether anything was true? I was still fighting a tiny voice in my head that questioned whether my name was really ‘Vaughan’, that I was in fact a teacher and that my marriage was really over.
    Eventually we reached the address where I had been living right up until my fugue. I learned that between moving out of my family home and taking up a residency on the fourth floor of King Edward’s Hospital, I had sofa-surfed between a number of temporary addresses, most recently housesitting near my old neighbourhood for a rich family who were in New York for three months.
    ‘Wow, what an amazing