Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller (2 page)

“Aren’t you confused? It only
happened a few weeks ago. How can you not be as confused as me? Do
you know something I don’t?”

I gestured to the make-up and
the jeans.

“It doesn’t look like you’re
affected at all.”

Her face hardened, and I noticed
a glisten in her eyes.

“Well I’m not going to go around
smashing things, am I, Joseph! That doesn’t change anything!”

“It’s hardly the time for
parties though, is it?”

“What should I be doing then,
Joseph? Walk the streets at night howling at the moon? Is that what
you’re going to do? You’ve just got to get on with your life.
That’s all there is.”

“You don’t even understand.
You’re too cold.”

“Fuck you, Joseph!”

She spun out of her chair but I
grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You’re...”

“I’m an idiot, I know.”

She began to tremble and wipe at
her eyes. I realised why she could not stay still for more than a
few seconds. I let go of her arm and she went over to the
mirror.

“I loved her too, Joseph.”

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

I left quickly. Monika would
appreciate a few seconds alone to wipe her tears. She didn’t seem
like the kind of person who broke down easily. I took my time,
splashing water onto my face and washing my hand thoroughly, then
returned to the kitchen.

“Oh, I forgot to ask, how’s
Vicky?”

“She’s fine. At home.”

“On her own?”

“Yeah. I was going to bring her,
but you’re a bad influence.”

“Hah! Better than you!”

“Probably.”

“Ok, I’m just going to go get
dressed. Take some food if you want. I won’t be long.”

She took the jeans and make-up
then left the kitchen. I grabbed a bowl and served up some of the
couscous. I had nearly finished when Monika returned, wearing an
outfit that made the kitchen seem somehow too small for her
extraordinarily long legs and towering physique.

“Very nice.”

“Thanks. You like it? I got it
for free.”

“I meant the couscous. But the
outfit’s nice too. Are you going to eat?”

“No I don’t want to make a mess.
This is for lunch tomorrow.”

As she stretched and bent around
the kitchen, putting things away and storing the couscous in the
fridge, she accentuated various angles and curves of her body. I
watched her shifting muscles while a detached eroticism cindered in
the root of my mind. I suddenly felt guilty, and reentful.

She glanced at the clock.

“I should get going in about
half an hour. Thanks for bringing the money, Joseph.”

“I’m not leaving yet. There’s
something I want to ask you.”

Her eyes widened
expectantly.

“Sit down.”

“What is it?”

“Just listen to me. I’ve been
thinking about the suicide since it happened.”

“Not now Joseph. This isn’t the
time.”

“Just let me say something. It’s
important. You’re the only one I can tell this to.”

Her eyes rolled
sympathetically.

You know, as much as I do, that
Josie didn’t seem capable of committing…of doing that.”

“And?”

“And…so, I don’t think she did.
I think there’s something more to it.”

“Like?”

“Like, what if she was
murdered?”

“Oh God, Joseph. I know this is
tough, but that’s just stupid. Don’t think such things. Give it
time and move on. Go home, rest, and take care of Vicky. I’ve
really got to go. We’ll talk some other time”

“Wait! Come on, Monika. Think
about it.”

“Think about what? I found her,
Joseph. On her bed with the pills on the table. How can that be
murder?”

“What were the pills? Where did
she get them? Where was the suicide note? Come on, you know
Josephine. There’s no chance at all she would commit suicide like
that, even if she was thinking about it, which I still don’t
believe.”

“How can you know that, Joseph?
We don’t know everything about her.”

“Maybe not everything, but
nearly everything. I shared my whole life with her these past few
years, everything. You knew her for even longer, didn’t you? Don’t
you think it’s strange for her to have done that? Honestly?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. And you owe it to
her to at least question it.”

“Look, Josie was always
complicated, and strange. That’s why I loved her. To be honest,
yes, I can imagine her committing suicide. There was a lot about
her we didn’t know, a lot that you didn’t know. Let’s leave it at
that. I really have to go. I’m already late. Sorry Joseph.”

She stood up. I rose with her
and grabbed her arm.

“What do you mean: a lot that I
didn’t know?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“Joseph! Let me go!”

I held her tightly, willing her
to divulge what it was I didn’t know. I stared into her frightened
brown eyes, searching for some clue in them. She froze, mouth
gaping. I realised what I was doing, let her go, and collapsed into
my chair.

“I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck?! You’re insane,
Joseph! Seriously! Look at my arm!”

“I wasn’t going to hurt
you.”

“You already did!”

I looked up at her.

“Sorry.”

She stared at me with a red
anger in her eyes, then slapped me hard across the cheek.

“Get out, Joseph.”

It is in the nature of men to
seek out patterns and meaning within the random chaos of their
surroundings during times of struggle. Faced with the seemingly
infinite forest and its wildly overbearing and complex shapes;
without any indication of direction or human influence, Edward
resorted to that irrational logic. A variation in a bark pattern
was enough to cause him to change direction; a snapped twig
heightened his anticipation. He stumbled through the untamed growth
with nothing but these self-made prophecies.

“What are you reading?” Vicky
said, bounding into the room with some plastic contraption under
her arm.

“Homework.”

I put the pages down and watched
her flick latches and click pieces onto the device, turning it into
some kind of purple mini-laboratory. Within seconds, boxes, tubes,
and other junk were sprawled out around her on the living room
floor.

“What’s that, Vee?”

“It’s a sweet making factory.
I’m gonna make sour blueberries. I wanted to make peach but I’ve
run out. Come and help me.”

“Not now.”

Vicky stopped pouring some
purple liquid into a container and looked at me, then the papers in
my hand.

“Are you upset? Is that one of
Josie’s stories?”

“Yeah.”

“When is she going to take me to
the zoo? She promised.”

I rubbed my eyes, unable to look
at the sad expression I knew she was wearing. She didn’t know. No
moment had seemed like the right one to tell her. Now, it almost
seemed too late. I thought about not telling her at all, perhaps a
smart lie would save her a lot of pain. They had been close,
despite my attempts to keep a distance between them in the
beginning. I hadn’t wanted Vicky to get jealous, or see Josie as
competition. They were too similar to keep apart though; stubborn,
imaginative, and smart. At times it had even seemed that Josie
understood Vicky better than I did.

“Is something wrong?”

Realising I was still rubbing my
face I pulled my hand away. She stared through me with twitching
green eyes. She would have seen through any lie, and she would
never let me get away with avoiding the question. I wasn’t a bad
liar, but I knew when I was beat. Once again she reminded me of
Josie.

“Come here,” I said, and Vicky
spread herself beside me on the couch, her head on my lap. It was
at moments like this, more than any other, that I felt the lack of
an arm. I reached over my left to stroke at her hair.

“Do you remember when we saw
that show, and we talked about why animals eat each other?”

“Don’t change the subject!”

“God, you’re not gonna make this
easy are you? Look, Vicky. I’ll tell you, cause you’re a smart
girl, but you’re not gonna understand until you’re much older, ok?
So don’t try to think about it too much.”

“Yeah. Ok.”

I breathed deeply.

“Josie…is not gonna come back.
She’s dead, Vee.”

After a second’s thought, Vicky
jumped from my lap to look me in the eye, a smile on her face.

“Liar! Tell me!”

She thought I was joking, and
searched me again with those twitching eyes for the punchline, but
it wasn’t there. Her playful smile and twinkling face fell apart.
In its place came a sob of such helplessness I grabbed her
immediately and held her tight, before the thought of fighting back
the tears even entered her mind. She muffled her cries against my
chest, her fists clutching at my sides. I squeezed her skinny body,
urging her to pass the sorrow within her onto me.

We stayed in that awkward
position for what seemed like hours. Vicky fell asleep sobbing, and
I put her to bed before going to bed myself. Soon after, she came
to my room, her face stained with those slow-falling tears that
come from too much crying, and again we clung to each other for
lack of anything else we could do.

*

The university’s main building
had always seemed strange to me. It was built like a prison block,
a looming construction of red brick lined with heavy grey cement in
austere arrangements. It was set in the middle of the city, amidst
the glass and metal of banks and financial centres. The students
that roamed the surrounding streets stood out like a different
species amongst the tied and suited businessmen that paced down
busy pavements.

Reading Josephine’s story again,
I was reminded of her writing group. She had mentioned it to me a
few times, how it stimulated her, and the various members that
joined and left. I recalled her talking about one member in
particular, a Brazilian film student that Josephine had met, been
impressed by, and built up a strong friendship with—all within the
past year. I hadn’t met her, and I couldn’t even remember her name,
but I had the impression she was a thoughtful, unique individual
from Josie’s description of her. They had spent a lot of time
together, and I knew they spoke often about writing. Josephine had
talked at length about how interesting her films had been and how
prolific she was with her talent. Now, I was hoping to find her,
and see if she could tell me anything that would justify my doubts
about Josie’s death. Maybe even what it was that Monika had held
back.

The open area in front of the
university was quieter than the last few times I had been there.
The seeping, damp, coldness of November wasn’t great for outside
congregations. I made my way to the front office and waited
alongside some students until I got the clerk’s attention.

“Hi there,” he said, finally
looking up from the computer.

“Hi. I’m looking for some
information about a certain writing group.”

“Umm, can you be more specific?
We have a lot of groups like that, have you checked the bulletin
board?”

“No, where is it?”

“The online one. If you go to
the website and enter your student id you should be able to find
it.”

“I’m not a student myself. I’m
here for a friend of mine who was in one.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you
with that. Sorry.”

The clerk made to turn away
politely.

“The thing is, she died
recently. I’m her boyfriend, and I’m here to break the news to one
of her friends.”

He looked at me, the second time
within forty-eight hours someone had tried to tell if I was
lying.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Give me
her name and I’ll see if I can find anything out for you.”

“I don’t have the name of her
friend, that’s what I’m trying to find out. Perhaps if you can help
me find this group, though. My girlfriend’s name was Josephine
Baird.”

The clerk typed fast, I got the
impression he lived in front of a screen even when he didn’t need
to. Various people idly hung around in the entrance hall. From
beyond the oversized wooden doors the sound of rain was faintly
audible.

“Umm, I have her record here.
Let me see. I can see what modules she took, her extra modules too,
but there’s nothing about a writing group. Are you sure it wasn’t a
non-credit group? A lot of the student groups are organised without
any interference by the university.”

“You wouldn’t have any record of
that?”

“Well it would probably be on
the online bulletin board, but we wouldn’t have records of the
members, or a schedule. Nothing like that.”

The clerk shrugged
apologetically. I wondered if it was even worth the effort. It was
a long shot, but after a moment’s consideration I realised there
was nothing else I could pursue.

“How many film students do you
have here?”

“Hundreds. What course do you
mean specifically?”

“Film. Arty film. Not film
history or studies or anything. Film, cinematography, making films,
stuff like that.”

The clerk looked at me with
disguised disdain for my crudeness.

“We have two or three courses
like that.”

“Which one involves the most
practical work?”

“The course you probably mean is
Film and TV. It’s in the media block on Cowley Street.”

“Can I see a list of the
students?”

“There are far too many students
for you to find the one you’re looking for.”

“It’s a girl, probably a foreign
student. If I just saw the list I’m sure I could remember the
name.”

“I can’t give you the names of
students. It’s against the rules.”

“That’s ok, just get it up on
the screen. All I want is the name. That’s all.”

I had pushed my luck with the
clerk as far as it would go. We stared at each other for a few
seconds, a deadlock. He gave in, probably realising he wouldn’t
easilly rid of me, and let his speedy fingers hammer once again on
the keyboard.