Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller (31 page)

In the living room everything
became clear. The computers were gone. Josie’s white laptop and the
old desktop Vicky used. They had left the keyboard and monitor,
cables extending to the middle of the room; the intruders not even
bothering to unplug them. I checked back in my room but I knew my
battered laptop wouldn’t be there either. I set right the couch
which had been tipped forward and cut into, placed the cushions
back, and dropped down onto it.

Buzzcut. It had to be. Nobody
else would have been able to cause so much damage in the few hours
I had been out, let alone know that I would be out. Nobody else
that I could think of, at least. I tried calculating the damage—how
Vicky would feel if she saw it. I ought take her to a hotel for a
week or two, perhaps, maybe a holiday. I couldn’t let her see
this.

My head thumped. I got up and
poured water into my mouth from the sink. Looking out over the
damage again something caught my eye. The printer was just where it
always was; unmoved, and loaded with paper. Nothing else had
survived in the room. Even the TV had a large crack across the
screen. Examining closer, I remembered what it was that struck me:
The copies of Josie’s book were gone. I had over-cautiously printed
five the night before. Whoever had invaded the flat must have seen
the papers and found what they needed, yanking the computers out
and leaving without further destruction.

Why would Sebastien have wanted
the book? Or perhaps it wasn’t even Buzzcut. I doubted that
Sebastien was the instigator, Josie’s laptop hadn’t had much use
before I took it, although he may have only realised its importance
too late. Whatever the reason, my blood was now up, and I decided
to leave the damage until later. I grabbed something to eat and
headed back out.

The building was relatively new.
Its pristine, yellow bricks and clean, glass front at odds with the
weary, cemented grey and black of the world around it. Obviously a
recent development, filled with singular small apartments for the
influx of students to the area. There was a supermarket in the
building, merged with the entrance, which no doubt did great
business. They had even moved a bus stop from a junction fifty
yards further down to the very front of the entrance.

I hadn’t visited the area in a
long time, having only passed through on the way to the centre of
the city occasionally, but the sense of a new atmosphere was
definite. Passionately unique teenagers entered, exited, laughed
and spoke between the bus stop and entrance. Hurrying, insular
individuals passed through them discretely, their inability to cope
with the forced intimacy of the city written all over their faces.
I hunched down slightly and passed through the entrance as one of
them, finding myself in a lobby which led in three different
directions. I approached a couple sitting against the glass.

“Hey. Do you know where Bianca
Azavedo is?”

“Who?”

“Bianca Azavedo. Brazilian girl,
thick black hair, about this high?”

“Sorry.”

I wandered around for a few
minutes, adjusting to the long noisy halls. Stopping anyone who
looked popular enough to know where Bianca might be. Eventually
someone with a thick, Spanish accent seemed to know who I was
talking about.

“The lesbian?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“She is way up on the fifth
floor. Or, if she no there, try the bar.”

“Which bar?”

“Madre.”

“Madre?”

“My-Tah.”

“Mitre, right.”

He gave me a dirty look.

“Thanks.”

I took the lift to the fifth
floor. It was a long corridor that shot off again in three
directions. I estimated fifteen apartments on the fifth floor
alone. I began knocking on doors. Eventually someone answered who
knew Bianca’s door number—five one three. I found it and knocked.
Nobody answered. After a full minute of knocking I decided to try
the bar.

Just before I turned away I
noticed something. Hopefully, I fumbled around my coat pockets, and
found what I was looking for. The door knob, like many in
multi-apartment buildings with main entrances, was of a
construction that had its screws facing outwards for easy removal.
It was an oversight rarely made anymore, not in poor neighbourhoods
anyway, but it made sense in this new and appealingly open dorm. I
stuffed my pen-knife into the screw heads and twisted, struggling
slightly to gain a good grip upon the tapered head, but eventually
loosening the clean screws. Once the door knob was removed I
checked the hallways, and with a loud clack managed to unbolt the
lock from the inside.

The room was no more spacious
than I had thought, but it had its own small kitchen area and its
own cupboard-sized bathroom. Posters and records covered the walls
and a bass guitar leant up against the corner beside the window.
Aside from a desk filled with books and clutter it was tidy and
sparse. Hurriedly, I began checking the drawers and cupboards. I
had no idea what I was looking for, but the gut feeling that Bianca
knew something important was unshakeable.

I picked up a notebook, a pen
pinned between some pages, which lay next to her laptop. It was
full of sketches, notes and pieces of clippings stuck crudely to
its thick pages. I scanned it for any words I might recognise: the
names of the symbols, or people related to them, but it was a
jumbled mess. I continued searching, the time it was taking
beginning to frustrate me.

Beneath her mattress I struck
gold. I pulled out a large, thick book with expensive-looking
binding. I knew it was her diary before I opened it. It was written
in another language, jagged and large writing. I flicked through
slowly, examining each page. There were mentions of Josie. Words
like ‘amo’, ‘namorada’, ‘morte’ and ‘bonita’ that I had heard
before but didn’t understand surrounded her name.

I slammed the book shut and
shoved it back under her mattress. Whatever it was, I wouldn’t know
until I spoke to Bianca directly. I closed the door, dropped the
handle in front of it, and made my way out.

The Mitre was barely a street
away from the student dorms. Just large enough to serve as a
halfway-house between the dorms and the rest of the city, but just
old enough to appeal to the students who had come to London from
around the world. I stepped between the smokers and pushed through
the heavy wooden doors. It was barely lunchtime but the place was
packed. Groups squeezed into cubicles, stood nearly three deep at
the bar, and ate ferociously from hot, greasy plates at the tables
by the windows. Weaving between the crowd I scanned the pub from
wall to wall, searching for that lustrous thick hair that had stood
out to me in the café.

“What can I get you?”

I was at the bar, and an idly
chatting barmaid had disengaged from an idle customer to serve
me.

“Nothing, thanks. I’m looking
for someone.”

“Who?”

“Bianca Azavedo. You know
her?”

“No, sorry.”

I returned to scanning the room,
circling the edges where the booths were. In the corner, a large
collection of students sat; sprawled out and relaxed, empty glasses
covering the tables between them. They had obviously been there the
whole day, and I reckoned of the ten or so there was a good chance
one knew of Bianca if she came to the bar at all.

“Excuse me.”

The bar was loud, and the group
engrossed in themselves.

“Hey!”

A guy with a beard and
thick-rimmed glasses turned to me.

“Yes?”

“Do you know a girl called
Bianca Azavedo?”

“Sorry?”

“Bianca Azavedo.”

A couple of the people next to
him noticed me.

“Wait a minute. Guys. Guys. This
guy wants to know if we heard of a…Who?”

“Bianca Azavedo.”

“Bianca Azavedo. A girl?

“Yeah.”

“Ha! Is it a girl?! How many
boys called Bianca do you know, Charlie?”

“Shut up.”

“Is that the Italian girl?”

“What one? Oh, no. Not her.
That’s Isabelle.”

“Wait. Sanjay. Oi! Do you know a
girl called Bianca Azavedo?”

“I don’t. Why?”

“This guy wants to know.”

As they continued to talk
amongst themselves, rifling through their collective memories, I
noticed a well-dressed, dark-skinned boy in the corner. His hair
was shiny and peaked, his eyebrow pierced. He spoke with an
attractive Asian girl. Something drew me to him, as if we had met
already. I caught his attention.

“Hey, do I know you?”

He looked at me curiously,
noticing my arm, and shook his head.

“What’s your name?”

“Abdi. You?”

“Abdi Bedard?”

“Yeah. Who are you?”

The rest of the group had
re-engaged with one another now, forgetting me and my request.

“I need to speak with you. You
mind coming outside for a second?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He said something to the Asian
girl and they both made their way towards me, tip-toeing between
the extended legs and crowded area of the group. We exited the pub
together and found some space amidst the smokers. Abdi took out a
cigarette, handed one to the Asian girl, and offered one to me.

“No thanks.”

“So what do you need?”

He lit both of their cigarettes
and took a long puff, exchanging a brief, flirty smile with the
girl.

“What happened to you? Where did
you go?”

“What? I’m right here.”

“The past few months. Where have
you been? Karim was looking for you everywhere.”

At the mention of his brother
Abdi groaned melodramatically. Smiling almost as he did so.

“Oh, man. Are you a friend of my
brother? Oh, crap.”

“I’m not a friend, but he asked
me to keep an eye out for you.”

“Look, man. When you see my
brother again tell him everything’s cool. I’m fine, he doesn’t need
to worry. I’ll come and see him soon. Ok? Tell him that.”

“Ok. Next time I’m at the
hospital I’ll tell him that.”

“Hospital? What?”

“Yeah. He’s in the
hospital.”

“What, is he sick?”

“He had an accident.”

“What happened to him?”

“Why don’t you go and find
out?”

“Man, I can’t deal with
that.”

“Deal with what?”

“Pfft.”

He shook his head dismissively
at the Asian girl, who remained silent but for a sympathetic
eyebrow raise.

“So what have you been doing all
this time?”

“You wouldn’t even want to
know.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, man. There’s stuff going
on that you wouldn’t even be able to handle.”

“Stuff like these symbols?”

“What?”

“Symbols making people do crazy
things?”

“Yeah. What, how do you
kno—”

I twisted his collar and slammed
him up against the pub window.

“Listen to me you smug little
shit. You’re going to see your brother. I made a promise I’d bring
you to him and I’ll do it even if it means I have to carve you up
and deliver you in pieces.”

I slammed him against the window
again, taking the breath out of him.

“Ok, man! Easy! I’ll go. I was
going to go anyway. I’ll go tomorrow.”

“Right now.”

He grimaced. I thought about
ripping out his eyebrow piercing, and he seemed to sense it.

“Ok, man! We’ll go. Ok.
Christ.”

I let go of his collar, allowed
him to correct his clothes, and took a hold of his arm.

“Jesus, man. Let me go, I’m not
going to run away.”

“This way.”

I pulled him with me, dragging
him forward whenever he fell behind. The hospital was quite a way.
I led him to a station. We passed the turnstiles and boarded a
train in silence.

“This is crazy. You don’t even
understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

He said nothing, hanging his
head and sulking instead. We got off the train and went to another
platform to change.

“How do you know about the
symbols anyway, man?”

“Long story. Everyone I meet
seems to know about them though.”

“Pfft. Yeah.”

“What are you doing with
them?”

“Oh, man. Are you kidding? I’m
not doing anything with them. I’m fighting against them.”

His reply shocked me. I didn’t
even notice the train roll by the platform.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s go, man.”

We boarded the train together.
It was crowded, so Karim and I ended up squeezed into a corner by
the doors.

“What do you mean, fighting
them?”

“Shh! Keep it down, man.”

I spoke quietly.

“Go on.”

“I can’t say.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know what side you’re
on.”

“I’m not on anybody’s side. I
just don’t like what I’m hearing about these things.”

“Me neither, man. That’s why
we’re trying to fight them.”

“Fight them how? Who? I don’t
get it.”

“Look, it’s like this. There are
these groups that started tagging these symbols in a lot of places.
Then more and more and more—like a gang. It became like a gang
sign, right? Now, though, these people started to do all kinds of
crazy shit. Hijacking cars, burning shops, beating people up. Real
heavy stuff.”

“I know all of that. So what are
you doing?”

“Well, we’re trying to fight
back. It’s like, all these kids are using these symbols like some
kind of banner to just go crazy with, right? They’re already angry
with the world, and society, and politicians, and everything. But
this is like a trick. They want the kids to go crazy, so they can
criminalise them, and have an excuse for the police state,
man.”

“You sound paranoid.”

“Don’t believe me then. You know
the symbols make people go crazy though, right?”

“Go on.”

“Anyway, we’re trying to come up
with something different, persuade people not to get tricked by
these symbols. Be angry, but at the right people. In the right way.
You get me?”