Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller (30 page)

He smashed into the high glass
window shoulders first. The glass cracked, but it held strong. He
fell to the floor.

“Take your stuff and get
out.”

Hughton tried to go over to him
but I shoved him back into the chair.

“Simon! Are you alright?”

“Ugh.”

“He’s fine. Read.”

Sarah knocked then opened the
door.

“Is everything o—Oh my!”

“Everything is fine. Help him
take his stuff and get out of here. Me and Dr. Hughton need to
talk.”

Sarah helped Simon get to his
feet and leave the room, returning once more to collect his shoes
and coat. Hughton eyed me with a mixture of defiant caution and
curiousity. Sarah glanced back. I gestured for her to close the
door. I sat on the couch that Hughton’s patient had lay on.

“Go on then. Read it.”

“What is it?”

“Just read it.”

The papers had fallen to the
floor in the commotion. I noticed and picked them up, handing them
to Hughton who took them slowly, keeping his dark brown eyes on me.
He sat back, licked his thumb, flicked through the pages, and began
reading.

After a while Hughton flicked
back the pages and tidied the papers against his knee.

“Do you have any more? The
images themselves?”

“I don’t know. I took this from
Josie’s laptop. Maybe there’s more on there.”

“Would you mind if I made a copy
of this?”

“No. Go ahead.”

He got up from the chair and
left the room. Through the doorway I saw him hand the papers to
Sarah and press his hand against her shoulder comfortingly. They
exchanged words then Hughton re-entered the room and handed me the
original copy.

“So?”

“It’s interesting. I had an idea
Josephine was interested in the subject, but never to such an
extent.”

Hughton retreated to his regal
chair and sat down softly.

“And?”

“I’m sorry, Joseph. I’m a little
confused as to why you were so determined to show this to me. What
is it you would like to know exactly?”

“The symbols. The effects. Is
all that stuff possible?”

“Is a symbol possible? I don’t
follow you.”

“You know what I mean! Can a
symbol make someone do things. The things Josie said.”

“Theoretically, yes, it’s
possible. In reality though, it’s unproven, and would employ so
many concepts that we are as yet unsure of that it’s almost beyond
examination.”

“You don’t believe it.”

“Oh no. I believe it.
Absolutely. I would say we’ve had such images in society for at
least a few centuries now.”

“You say that like it’s
meaningless.”

Hughton crossed his hands,
considered them for a moment, uncrossed them, and continued.

“Look. Nothing of what Josephine
wrote is particularly sensational or even revelatory. There is,
yes, some interesting anecdotal evidence, but the idea itself has
been written about many times. It’s a simple, logical
conclusion.”

“Conclusion to what?”

“Modern life.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What would you say are the main
precepts of modern life, Joseph?”

“What’s a precept?”

“Well, in this case, a
fundamental ingredient.”

“I don’t know. Just cut to the
chase.”

“Free markets, liberal exchange
of information, and the commercial consumption of technological
progress. With all those working collectively, it’s obvious that
the logical end point is the most potent message, conveyed in the
most efficient manner, through the most accessible channels—to ‘cut
to the chase’, as it were, these images which Josephine speaks of.
They are inevitable.”

“I knew it! So she was right!
What can you do about it then?”

“Do about it? Joseph, there’s
nothing you can do about it.”

“Wait. One minute you’re telling
me that these symbols exist, dangerous symbols—“

“Probably.”

“—But that you can’t do anything
about it? You don’t even sound like you care.”

“I care, Joseph. Nobody who
spends any time in the study of psychology—or perhaps sociology in
this case—could explore such things without concern. But think
about it for a moment, what exactly can be done? Censorship?
Perhaps some years from now we will see restrictions on
advertising, once it is acknowledged as potentially harmful in some
way, much like cigarettes.

“That would require evidence
however. Irrefutable evidence brought about by extensive research.
And who would fund such research? Who holds the cards? Or the
money, to be precise. Look how long it took for us to discover the
harmful effects of tobacco, still longer for it to be marginalised,
many more years for it to be banned moderately, and yet people
continue to smoke, and to die from it. This is with the knowledge
of direct links between smoking and cancer. Nothing so concrete
could ever be formed with regards to advertising’s effects.”

“What about warning people
though? Telling them about the harmful effects?”

“A good idea. Go ahead and do
so. You won’t be alone. I would warn you against expecting much of
a response though.”

His calm tone frustrated me. I
got up and paced a while, trying to loosen the stiffness in my leg
a little.

“At least if people knew they
might be a bit slower to get sucked in.”

“Would they? How can one know
when they’re ‘sucked in’, Joseph?”

“Well when they start doing
things that aren’t normal.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. Things that they
wouldn’t normally do.”

“I see.”

I looked out of the broken
window. In a reflection Hughton turned in his chair, draping an arm
around the back to face me.

“Do you normally try to throw
people out of glass windows, Joseph? Or pretend to be a policeman
for that matter?”

“That’s got nothing to do with
it.”

“Isn’t it something you’re
prepared to consider?”

I turned and looked at him.

“You’re a smart guy.”

“Thank you.”

“So we’re all screwed. That’s
what you think, then?”

“To tell you the truth, Joseph,
I honestly don’t know. It’s an incredibly complex thing. Think
about the ramifications of such an idea; that we can be
fundamentally affected by such an incidental thing as seeing a
singular image. If Josephine’s evidence is true, and that exposure
to these symbols can lead to such acts as murder, arson, and all
manner of criminal activities, then the intricacies of it are
mind-boggling.

“Where does accountability and
ethics enter the picture? Is a man guilty of murder if one of these
images was the instigator? If the cause was external? Far wiser men
than you or I have spent their entire lives devoted to questions
such as nature versus nurture, the notion of existence, where the
self begins—if indeed it does—and where society ends. The
conclusion to most of those questions? We don’t know for sure. Now
you ask if I am capable of not only answering those questions, but
whether I can influence the answer. I can’t. What’s more, expecting
every individual on Earth to answer those questions also,
regardless of the information you give them, is unfathomable.”

I rubbed my eyes whilst he
spoke. It was too much to take in, but his defeatist tone imbued
all of his words with a hopelessness I couldn’t stomach. I took my
hand away from my eyes and saw a small blue light refracted through
one of the cracks in the window. The park was empty, but on the
street directly below a police car pulled up and halted its siren.
Two officers swiftly exited the car and entered the building.

“Are your colleagues here
already?”

“You called the police?!”

“I instructed Sarah to do so,
yes. I’m sorry, Joseph. I sympathise with you, I really do. But you
cannot assault people like you’ve just done.”

“You’re full of shit.”

I looked around for another
exit, but there was none. I ran to the door and grasped at the
lock.

“How do you lock this?”

Hughton only looked at me with a
calm pleasance. I grasped at a nearby cabinet. It was heavy, but on
the smooth wooden floor I could slide it just enough by pushing it
from the other side. I managed to push about a foot of it in front
of the door.

“What exactly do you hope to
achieve, Joseph?”

I steadied my good foot against
one of the cabinet’s legs, and with one final push tipped it over
against the door.

“Very good. But what now?”

“Shut up.”

A wry smirk extended on
Hughton’s face, like an audience member pleased he got the joke. I
paced around the room, grasping for ideas and looking for something
to fend off the policemen if I had to.

“They’re here now.”

There was a loud knocking at the
door, and a muffled but authoritative voice behind it.

“Police! Open up!”

I paced faster.

“They won’t wait forever,
Joseph.”

“Come on! Open the door!”

There was a loud thump, and the
cabinet shifted slightly.

“Shit.”

“Joseph, remove the cabinet and
be reasonable. You don’t have anything to fear.”

“Shut up.”

“What exactly are you running
from? Or, perhaps more appropriately, running towards?”

“Enough!”

My eye was caught by the small
Japanese teapot I had seen before in Hughton’s office. I picked it
up, tossed it up gently in my hand to feel its weight, then pitched
it at the window as hard as I could. It soared through without
breaking speed, the cracked glass separating for a split-second
before falling like smashed snow.

“What on Earth—”

The door thumped rapidly, the
cabinet shifting every few seconds or so. I ran to the window and
looked out. It was a twenty foot drop. A few feet to one side of
the smashed window was a drainpipe that led to the pavement. I
kicked out the rest of the glass in the side and grasped around. It
was too far, but just above the window there was cabling.

“Joseph! Stop this! You’ll fall!
Don’t be stupid!”

Hughton’s hands grasped at my
coat as I gripped the cabling and swung out of the window.

“Joseph!”

The cabling came away from the
wall mid-swing, but just before it fell too slack my foot made
contact with drainpipe. I hooked it round and pulled myself towards
it, letting go of the cabling and grasping the drainpipe before I
fell head-first backwards. I wrapped my arm around it, hugging it
like some saviour for a brief second.

“He’s outside on the drainpipe!
Go downstairs!”

I shimmied down the drainpipe
roughly, slipping and catching my hand and feet on various boltings
and ridges. In places I had to let go with my arm, and could only
grip the pipe by clutching it between my head and shoulder.

Six feet from the floor I let go
completely and crashed to the ground clumsily, saved from injury
only by the foresight of landing on my good leg and rolling over.
Even so, the impact was hard. I felt the gashes in my hand, and the
strain on my legs. I shuffled to my feet and scrambled for the
nearest doorway.

“Sir? Are you ok? Did you
fall?”

It was an opticians. I ran
through the racks, behind the counter, and into the back.

“Customers aren’t allowed in
there, Sir!”

Bursting through into some sort
of kitchen, I turned and took another route that led to a small
locker room and office. On the far side was a fire exit. I slammed
the handlebar down and fell outside into a cobbled side-street that
branched into various other main roads. I took the smallest one and
kept running until I came upon a series of garages fenced off by a
metal gate. I clambered over it, shuffled towards a corner, where I
couldn’t be seen from the street, and sat down against the
wall.

I pulled out a small shard of
glass that was stuck in my hand, and wrapped it in tissues that I
found in my pocket. My body was ringing with soreness like some
high-pitched signal. I pulled down my jeans a little and checked my
wound; it wasn’t bleeding, but at some point it must have, the
bandage was red through. I readjusted it and carefully pulled up my
jeans.

After a few minutes, and a few
painkillers, I settled down enough to think over what Hughton had
said. Despite the likelihood of him trying to keep me there until
the police arrived there was something in his tone which made me
believe him. That the symbols were real and that there wasn’t much
I could do. I thought of how he’d said people could be affected
without considering what they were doing, and remembered Monika.
Perhaps she couldn’t be blamed either. Confused, frustrated, but
still determined, I pulled my battered body up and kept going.

The route to the address that
Karim had given me, which I suspected was Bianca’s home, led past
my apartment. I decided to stop off and clean myself up a bit
before paying her a visit. The decision was almost telepathic; as I
exited the lift I saw that the front door was open. I pressed up
against the wall beside it and listened for some sound from inside.
It was silent. Slowly, I pushed open the door and entered.

The place was trashed. A chair
from my room lay half-broken in front of the entrance, the clothes
rack that stood outside the bathroom had been tipped over into the
passage, and even the photos on the walls had been ripped away and
tossed to the floor. I went to Vicky’s room; it was even worse. Her
books and CDs were torn and smashed everywhere. Her bed had been
turned over, boxes of her toys opened and discarded, even her teddy
bears ripped open. Her mattress stood against the wall, large
incisions had been made from top to bottom, and much of the foam
ripped out. My room was in the same state, the mattress ripped open
right on the bed, thick springs extending from it like twisted
antennae. Extra care had been taken with my cupboard and desk, the
wood splintered and destroyed. I kicked through the rubble,
absorbing the destruction.