Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller (27 page)

Following this act (of which I
honestly retain neither guilt nor regret) I felt an exultation of
the emotional meanings the symbols possessed over me. It was at
this time I began to examine them detachedly, in order to document
them and forewarn others of their dangers.

It is my belief, through careful
compilation of my own diaries over the period, as well as the case
studies of others, that the Delete-Man symbol acts as a resolution
to the emotional intensities of the other symbols. It is notable
that despite much documentation and discussion, the Delete-Man’s
effects have not yet become apparent, nor are there many cases
involving it directly. It seems that it is a kind of catalyst.

Nonetheless, previous
speculation within magick traditions link the Delete-Man to death,
suggesting it is potentially the most dangerous of the symbols.
Luckily, it is also the least visible and propagated amongst those
in circulation today; quite possibly due to its dependence upon
other symbols for its potency.

Recognising the immediate need
for some kind of ‘antidote’, I have attempted several strategies of
diminishing and eliminating the Delete-Man’s influence. Although it
is perhaps dangerous to manipulate, perpetrate, or even attempt to
combat the logos, I believe there is no other choice.

The most promising ‘antidote’ I
have developed so far is this:

[Insert diagram #113 here]

The aim of this logo is to
distort the Delete-Man image until it can be recognised as some
kind of smiling face—an association more ubiquitous and possibly
more powerful than the Delete-Man’s original intent. If this
altered symbol can reach a sufficient level of exposure, the
original Delete-Man image (lacking as it does pre-invested,
conscious associations) may be seen as an unfinished version of the
altered symbol. The principle is simply that of facial recognition
overriding our literal vision. In much the same way we accidentally
or easily notice faces where there are none, or in which we
associate simple lines with expressions—it is my hope that the
Delete-Man can eventually be assimilated into an innocuous
association, and thus ecome an harmless image.

It may, in itself, be an unsafe
practice, but having monitored the state of areas in which I have
painted this symbol it seems that the amount of vandalism is not
increasing at the rate of other areas.

Nothing can be certain at the
moment, but the most likely tool against these influences is wider
understanding of their potential and histories. It is with this
intention that I write this. There are others currently aware of
the dangers, and who are also involved in combating the symbols,
although until now there have not been sufficient resources and
evidence to support wide-spread application of counter-measures. A
full list of those groups will be attached elsewhere in this
book.

“Well? What do you think?”

Monika looked up from the snatch
of papers she held with both hands. I had been watching her read
them since she started. She put them down, rubbed her eyes, and
reached for the wine glass on the kitchen table.

“I think I know what you
think.”

I paused before bringing my beer
can to my lips.

“What do you mean?”

“Hang on, let me just go
pee.”

I pulled the papers towards me
and leafed through them once more. I had read them multiple times
already, but the words still fascinated me. Monika’s cat cautiously
walked into the kitchen, eyeing me. I put my hand down to beckon it
but the cat leapt backwards as soon as I moved. I turned back to
the papers.

A few minutes later Monika
re-entered. She filled her glass, picked it up with a trembling
hand, and leant back onto the kitchen counter, gazing into it.

“Well?”

“Wait. I’m thinking.”

“It’s pretty mind-blowing,
right?”

“Yeah. In a sense…”

She sipped slowly and held her
arm tightly across her midriff. I watched her staring solemnly at
the glass, waiting for her to say something.

“So?”

“Joseph…”

“Yes?”

She didn’t move.

“Yes?”

“You killed her father didn’t
you?”

“Shit. Is that all you got from
it?”

Her face was red, probably from
the wine. She glared at me for a few seconds before turning back to
her glass.

“Yes. Of course I killed him.
That doesn’t have anything to do with this though.”

“Doesn’t it?! Fuck.”

“No, it doesn’t. Didn’t you
understand what the book says? These symbols affect—”

“Fuck the symbols! You murdered
someone, Joseph. Don’t you get it? You need to turn yourself in.
Get help. You’ve got problems, Joseph, but you’re too stubborn and
obsessive to see it.”

“Fuck you. I don’t know why I
even expected you to get it.”

I stood up and felt a little
dizzy. I grabbed the papers and forced them into my pocket.

“Damn right I’ve got problems.
I’ve got problems when the person I love spent half their life
weighing eight stone, and the other half cutting themselves. I’ve
got problems when I see someone I love going through the hardest
pain in the world because someone is fucking them up. Yeah I
fucking killed him, and good riddance. I’d do the same again. You
wouldn’t know what it’s like ‘cause you never loved anyone. You
think loving someone means giving them your body. I give my whole
fucking soul.”

“Really? And what about Vicky?
Going out all hours of the night leaving her home alone. Coming
home with all kinds of bruises and injuries, scaring her senseless.
Open your eyes, Joseph.”

I could feel my blood thumping
down every artery of my body.

“You wouldn’t even believe what
I’ve done for Vicky. I’ve done more for her than anyone else will
ever do in her lifetime.”

“What?”

I glared at her. I wanted to
turn and leave but something kept me frozen to the spot.

“Look, I’m sorry Joseph. I
shouldn’t have said that. I don’t want to get you upset. Let’s calm
down.”

She stepped towards me and sat
down at the table, gesturing for me to sit with her; her eyes
lidded and gently apologetic. I felt sick, and it was that more
than anything else that compelled me to settle back down into the
chair.

“Let me see the papers
again.”

I drew them out and put them in
front of her. She flicked through, scanning them as if for
something she had missed.

“What if…”

“What?”

“Don’t bite my head off. But
what if this is just a story. A fiction thing, written like it’s
fact.”

“It’s not.”

“Why not? Josie wrote stories
all the time. That’s all she wrote I thought.”

“Yeah she wrote stories. But
there was always some kind of message in them.”

“Well what if this is just a
story with a message. I don’t know... something about the dangers
of advertising. It could be meant to seem real to get a message
across.”

“It’s not. I know it isn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen these things.
Groups who meet in the park, that media company, I even met the
Doctor, and I was going to meet that Packard guy until he killed
himself. It’s all real.”

“Hmm.”

“And why would she write about
the murder if it wasn’t meant to be taken seriously?”

“I suppose.”

She continued to examine the
words, pausing only to fill her glass again.

“So?”

“Look, Joseph. I think maybe, a
very slight maybe, there is something to this—”

“Slight?”

“—and I think Josie really
believed all of it. But it seems to me, and remember I was just as
close to Josie as you were, that maybe this whole thing is her way
of dealing with the murder.”

“I don’t understand.”

She looked at me sympathetically
and put her hand on my knee.

“What is Josie basically saying
in this book? She’s saying that there are these… symbols, brands,
whatever, in the world around us that affect what we do. That we
can’t control ourselves. Like we don’t really have any say in it,
and that—”

She brought her head a little
closer to mine, and squeezed my knee.

“—we’re not guilty.”

“You think she’s blaming the
murder on the symbols.”

“Well, she is.”

“But really it’s just us
still.”

“Probably.”

I suppressed a violent urge
within me.

“So explain all the things I
mentioned. The suicides: Josie’s and Packard’s. The weird group in
the park. The strange things going on all over London and probably
the world by now.”

“What strange things?”

“Well there was a burning riot
outside my flat this morning for a start.”

Monika sighed and leant back.
Crossing her legs and picking up her glass.

“Strange things happen every
day, everywhere. They always have, and they always will.”

“Not like this. Why don’t you
get it? These things are directly linked with the symbols. The kids
painting them on hijacked trucks, or going on the internet and
talking about them then meeting up like weirdos in the park. Come
on, Monika. Don’t tell me even you can’t see it. It explains
everything.”

I realised I was almost pleading
with her. The only person I ever did that with usually was Vicky,
and even then I surprised myself with it. I wanted her to
understand. I wanted her to be on my side.

“Joseph. Look at me.”

Her eyes were soft again. She
looked beautiful.

“I know this is hard. I feel it
too. Josie was my best friend—probably my only friend. I miss her
like crazy. But she wasn’t perfect. Wonderful, amazing, beautiful,
generous, sweet –but not perfect. She was the smartest person I
ever met—too smart, maybe. This—”

She picked up the papers.

“—is typical Josie. Sweet,
stubborn Josie. Too smart to forget the past, but too stubborn to
admit she’s to blame. It’s the best story she ever wrote, and I’m
sure she drew some comfort from it, but even she couldn’t deny her
guilt.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not, Joseph. Look at me.
I’m not. You know it too. Josie was too smart. She must have felt
horrible after that. Not just because of the murder, but that she
got you to do it for her.”

My face was burning, my eyes
heavy and wet. A shiver shot up my spine and clenched my fist.

“You’re a great guy, Joseph.
I’ve never known anyone like you before. You’re violent, stubborn,
and a borderline psychopath; but I can see that you’re a good guy
deep down. Strong and caring. You just seem to always be in the
wrong place at the wrong time. You owe it to yourself, and to
Vicky, to let this go. Move on and find some happiness in life. Let
someone else take the hits for you.”

“Nobody’s gonna do that for me
now Josie’s gone.”

“I will.”

I raised my head to look her in
the eye and she smiled. My body was trembling, my fist clenched and
my eyes filled with gooey, hot dew. A tornado of half-thoughts and
memories swept through my skull.

Then I understood
everything.

Finding the body, telling me
about the psychiatrist, persuading me against investigating,
dressing like her, the gun in her mother’s drawer, telling
Sebastien we were together, getting close to Vicky—I saw all the
important parts drop slowly and form a perfect picture.

I shook violently, leapt up and
slammed my fist on the table, then swept everything on it into the
wall opposite; wine, glasses, fruit bowl. Monika jumped back,
sending her chair flying. I threw my hand at her but stopped short,
pointing a finger millimetres from her nose.

“You almost had me. Almost
fucking had me.”

“Joseph!”

“Don’t say my name.”

I slowly reached my hand forward
and wrapped my fingers around her neck. She tried to gurgle
something but I squeezed the sound out of her.

“So you want me, do you? All to
yourself? Here I am, then. Josie’s gone, Vicky’s going, and all
I’ve got is you—the plan, right?”

I felt her hands grasp and claw
at my front. I pushed her back until she was pressed up against the
kitchen door. She was visibly choking now. I felt her stifled
coughs pulsate against my palm. Her eyelids peeled back as far as
they could go. Her pupils fixed upon me.

“Almost fucking had me.”

I squeezed harder. Her face
puffed up, vessels beginning to show beneath the skin. She
continued to beat her arms weakly against my sides.

“All this time and it was you.
Right under my nose. Fuck. Clever little bitch. ‘Josie was too
clever for her own good’. Shit. So fucking pleased with
yourself.”

She started to go weak. Her arms
limp and her eyes scattering from side to side in their
sockets.

“What the fuck for? So you could
take control of me and Vicky? Play a happy little family for once?
Instead of letting any guy with a credit card fuck you and leave
you? Did you expect—”

A bomb went off in the centre of
my left thigh. An explosive, increasingly deep pain. All control
left my leg and I tumbled to my side. I scrambled as I fell,
hitting my arm and my head on the kitchen counter.

I reopened my eyes after what
felt like an hour and realised it had been only seconds. Enough
time though for Monika to turn around and scramble clumsily out of
the kitchen towards the front door, coughing and gasping as she
went. She stumbled through the passage, doubled over and clattering
into the walls, then threw the door open and ran out into the
blackness of the night.

There was a handle sticking out
of my leg. A thick, wooden handle with two-inches of red-soaked
metal leading into the flesh of my thigh. I looked out once more
down the passage—Monika was getting away. I gripped the handle and
pulled hard, the pain was unbearable. I howled, purging every
molecule of sound contained within me. The knife was stuck, and
wouldn’t be yanked out. I gripped it firmly once again, closed my
eyes, and pulled as hard as I could. I looked down at it. A bloody
inch emerged from my jeans, then another, and another, and then the
tip.