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Graffeg - Dan Tyte

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126 pages

English

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Description

The internet defines Gerard Kane. But after a death in the family and a dumping, can going off-grid save him?His pursuit of something outside the saturation of data takes him from Cardiff, and a web of family members caught in cycles of selfies and online gambling or relationships which fade without their Instagram filter, to a new community in the Danish woodland.With relentless energy and precise observation, Dan Tyte's second novel focuses on modern social behaviours and the impact of technology on our lives, relationships and perceptions.This sharp and highly contemporary narrative probes into our dependence on the internet, and to what extent we might be able to free ourselves from this, a concern of immediate relevance to an increasing number of the population.

Informations

Publié par	Graffeg
Date de parution	25 mai 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781912654475
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	3 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0450€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Offline Project Published in Great Britain in 2018 by Graffeg Limited
Written by Dan Tyte copyright © 2018. Designed and produced by Graffeg Limited copyright © 2018.
Graffeg Limited, 24 Stradey Park Business Centre, Mwrwg Road, Llangennech, Llanelli, Carmarthenshire SA14 8YP Wales UK Tel 01554 824000 www.graffeg.com
Dan Tyte is hereby identified as the author of this work in accordance with section 77 of the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A CIP Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 9781912654475
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Contents
Part 1: Online
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part 2: Offline
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
About Dan Tyte
Graffeg Fiction

Part 1: Online

Chapter 1
The time on Gerard’s iPhone said 14.02. The real time was 12.02, meaning he had to endure two more hours of Christmas Day with his family. Gerard’s iPhone had set itself to Central European Time. The most central Gerard had been into Europe in the past twelve months was Disneyland Paris.
‘Let’s do selfies. Selfies are the way forward. I took selfies of me and Nanna Judy in the kitchen just then and she was trying to get the phone right after to see what the picture was like, like she wanted to vet it before she got tagged, like she was one of the girls on a night out,’ said Stephanie. Stephanie was Gerard’s twin sister. Gerard’s umbilical cord had wrapped itself around Stephanie’s seconds-old throat during childbirth. The midwife who skilfully untangled the box-fresh body parts was twenty-seven minutes into his first shift since a two-month leave of absence for a stress-related condition. His act was delivered with the dexterity and calm of a croupier in a busy Macau casino and earned him a one column story in the hospital’s staff newsletter and box of mint flavoured Matchmakers from Gerard and Stephanie’s father.
Even when I’m taking the picture, I always smile myself, thought Gerard. Gerard was sat in the living room of his mum’s house on the three-seater leather sofa trying to read his Christmas book, but Nanna Judy kept saying stuff like, ‘Some people don’t even have electricity to cook dinner,’ and, ‘It’s come around quick this year hasn’t it?’
‘Do you want toast or crackers with the smoked salmon?’ said Maureen. Maureen was Gerard and Stephanie’s mum. Nanna Judy was her mum. Gerard had given up reading A Charlie Brown Christmas and put it on the coffee table next to a twelve-inch plastic Santa. He was now talking to Del on WhatsApp. She didn’t wake up until 11.09 when her mum knocked on her door and said, ‘Come on, Delyth, the kids will be here soon. Christmas is for them, not for you.’
Del was Gerard’s new girlfriend, although they were not yet Facebook official. Gerard thought that nothing was real until it had been verified online, although he used the thought selectively.
Today was only the third time Gerard had visited his mum’s house since he’d returned to Cardiff from London. The first time was for an official welcome back meal (or ‘croyso’, as Stephanie had misspelled the Welsh for ‘welcome’ on a tissue paper banner). The second time had been to borrow some clean bedding from his mum. There had been a complaint about the freshness of the linen from an Austrian couple who had booked his attic room as a base for the Brecon Beacons but had been imprisoned in the house by some unseasonably seasonal wet weather and an inability to tie their shoelaces without entering into an existential argument.
Nanna Judy was sat in the living room on the two-seater wearing a white ruffle shirt, a gold chain and velvet trousers.
‘I forgot I had them, the velvet trousers,’ she said.
‘Hold this, Nan,’ said Gerard, handing her a gatefold LCD Soundsystem record. The title of the record was American Dream.
‘What is it?’ said Nanna Judy.
‘It’s the present you got me, Nan,’ said Gerard.
‘Oh yes,’ said Nanna Judy. ‘But what is it?’
‘It’s a record, Nan,’ said Gerard, ‘you know, like in the old days.’ Nanna Judy looked like she didn’t know.
‘It’s vinyl, Nan, a vinyl record.’
‘Oh,’ said Nanna Judy, more lucid now. ‘I gave you my old record player, didn’t I? See? I remember.’
Nanna Judy’s old record player was under Gerard’s bed in what was now the guest room, next to an old record player from Nanna Gwen. Nanna Gwen was dead.
‘I have to put my snap up,’ said Geoff. Despite the date, Geoff was working continental shifts. Yorkshireman Geoff was Gerard and Stephanie’s stepdad but when they talked about him they said he was their mum’s husband.
Gerard was lying on the three-seater writing Twitter statuses in his head for future significant life events. Favourable reviews for his short film, Xanadu, new cat (with girlfriend), new cat (without girlfriend). Nanna Judy broke his concentration.
‘Do you remember a drink called Pony?’
‘Oh, yeah, Pony,’ Maureen shouted from the kitchen.
‘I don’t remember it, Nan,’ said Stephanie, ‘you’re like ninety.’
‘I remember me and my sister Audrey came home and sat on the worktop one Christmas Eve and drank a whole bottle. I think I poisoned myself. I was in the services then and the village squire had to keep asking my mother if I was well again.’
‘A bottle of what, Nan?’ said Stephanie.
‘Port. A whole bottle.’
‘Not Pony?’
‘Pony?’ said Nanna Judy.
‘How old were you, Nan?’ said Gerard. He had given up on life definition through 140 characters.
‘Fourteen. Edith was seventeen.’
‘How old was Audrey?’ said Gerard.
‘Audrey?’ said Nanna Judy.
‘Your sister Audrey,’ said Gerard.
‘Audrey is dead,’ said Nanna Judy.
‘Yes, Nan, but how old was she when you drank the port?’ said Gerard.
‘Audrey didn’t like port. Edith liked port.’
‘Right.’
‘I didn’t like port,’ said Nanna Judy.
‘Speaking of drinks, have another Sol, Gerard,’ Geoff said. Gerard forgot he had a Sol on the coffee table next to the twelve-inch plastic Santa and A Charlie Brown Christmas . Gerard got up and followed Geoff into the kitchen. Geoff opened the garage door. A red Mazda MX sat there, glistening with condensation.
‘Watch your head on this shelf,’ Geoff said, touching the shelf as if to prove its existence.
‘This shelf here has everything you need. Sol, Carling, everything you need. That shelf there, that’s my shelf. Don’t touch that shelf.’
‘I won’t,’ said Gerard.
‘Lime?’ said Geoff.
‘Sure. It is Christmas after all.’
*
In the two months since he started working at AlePunk, Gerard’s taste buds jolted him back to bootcut jeans and fake ID every time he drank lager. He worked three shifts a week at the bar to supplement the loss of income he’d predicted and experienced from the seasonality of his Airbnb entrepreneurism.
Gerard had moved away from London for a number of reasons, most of which he’d forget or make up depending on the audience or the situation. His current favourite was that a city where people were unable to smile at strangers on public transport would struggle to put up a meaningful resistance to the imminent, in relative terms, extra-terrestrial invasion.
Maureen had caught Gerard one Sunday morning when, after two or three hours of fitful sleep, coming down and clothed in the bed of a girl who he liked but wasn’t sure if the feeling was reciprocated, she had called. The offer hadn’t been presented as an ultimatum, but it had felt as such. Grampy Joe’s estate had finally been settled and the amount due to his mum and Geoff was neither wholly unexpected nor insignificant. They wanted him to come back home the following weekend for a family meeting to discuss the options. This was the first time Gerard had heard the phrase ‘family meeting’ from someone who wasn’t a character on a television show.
Gerard had travelled back to Wales on the Friday night by Megabus Gold. He live-tweeted the journey back, resulting in three favourites and four unfollows. The family meeting had taken place the next morning at a Harvester Salad & Grill. Maureen had hurried Gerard along as he drank his tea and searched for WiFi signal in the conservatory so they would make the £4.99 unlimited breakfast deal. Over his second helping of black pudding, Geoff had cleared his throat and said, ‘It’s dead money is renting, son, especially at London prices. There was a mansion house for rent just up through the lanes the other week, looked like something out of Downton Abbey. The Mail said it cost the same per month as a two bed in Kensington.’
Gerard informed them that he didn’t live in Kensington.
Geoff had picked up his coffee, slurped, and said again, ‘Dead money, son.’ Maureen had stepped in and said that what Geoff had meant was that it was about time now that Gerard had got a place to call his own, got his foot on the property ladder. He wasn’t a student anymore. That t