Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller (32 page)

The train stopped at our
station. Pushed by the flow of people we were separated for a few
seconds. When we drew close and walked together again Abdi
continued where he left off.

“Not just kids, man, but all
kinds of people. They’re already disillusioned with how things are,
but they don’t know why, and they don’t know what to do about it.
That’s how it works right, they beat you so bad you don’t even know
why you’re angry. These symbols though, they’re obvious. You can
see the effects on everyone. It’s one step too far, man.”

“How do you know you’re not
being affected?”

“Cause we’re against it,
man.”

“Against it, for it; seems to me
like if you give a shit either way it’s got to you.”

“You don’t get it, man.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

We took the stairs up and out of
the tube station. It had begun to rain slightly, the brief winter
light already waning to a dirty-grey. I took Abdi’s arm and pulled
him in the direction of the hospital.

“Enough, man! I’m here, aren’t
I?”

“Take a look at this.”

I pulled out the now-crumpled
pages of Josie’s book and handed them to him, ready to catch him if
he decided to flee. He took them eagerly and skimmed through.

“Jesus! Who wrote this? This is
just what we’re talking about!”

“You think it helps?”

“Oh, man! This is it! This is,
like, proof. You could take this stuff in court, man! It better not
be a hoax or something. Can I have this?”

I snatched the papers back from
him.

“It’s not a hoax. If it’s on
these papers it’s true.”

“You gotta let me show those
papers to some people, man. It’ll explode.”

I eyed him for a few seconds.
His enthusiasm was child-like, too much so to be false.

“We’ll have to make copies then.
This is the last one I’ve got.”

“Here. Wait.”

He pulled out a sleek looking
phone and reached for the papers. I held them tight.

“Relax, man. I’m just gonna take
a picture of them.”

“How are you gonna read them
from a photo?”

“Eight megapixels, man!”

I had no idea what it meant, but
I let him photograph the papers anyway, holding each one up for
him. Once he was done we carried on up the street.

“Abdi.”

“What?”

“I don’t understand one thing.
If what you’re doing is good—I mean, with good intentions, why did
you run away from your brother?”

“Oh, man. You won’t
understand.”

“I want to.”

“Ok. Look, it’s like this: my
brother is from a different country, a different time, man. He
wouldn’t understand any of this.”

“Did you even try to tell him
about it?”

“Who do you think knows my
brother better? You or me? He doesn’t understand anything. Except
work all your life, and save your money. You think he would believe
me if I told him there are symbols that affect people’s minds?
Pfft! He’d think I was talking about magic or something. Think I
was crazy… Actually he already does, I’m sure of it.”

I looked at him, half-hateful,
and half-miserable at what he was saying.

“He loves you more than
anything, Abdi. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you. He tried to
put you first always.”

Abdi shot me a grimace.

“Ok, man. You’re freaking me out
a little bit. No. I know what you mean though. I love him too, man.
He’s my bro. But I got to live my life too, you know. We’re just
too different. I can’t let him tell me what to do forever.”

I felt like crying.

We reached the hospital and I
led Abdi up to the bed where I had spoken with Karim. He wasn’t
there. After a brief check with the nurse we were led to another
ward. Aside from a few casts and bandages the patients in this new
ward looked fairly healthy. Karim was again in the corner. We
walked over to him.

Karim didn’t notice Abdi until
he was at the foot of the bed. When he did, there was a brief
second of silence in which Karim opened his mouth and his eyes as
wide as they would go. Once the moment of disbelief left his face,
he began a long, volatile tirade in his native language at Abdi.
Sitting up and pulling at him. Abdi tried to defend himself
verbally, but his whimpering tone was swallowed by Karim’s blasts
of reproaches and affections. Karim pulled Abdi, hugging and
kissing him, then pushing him away and pointing an accusatory
finger.

“Joseph!”

Karim turned towards me with
open arms, beckoning me forward. He called my name over and over,
along with some other words in his language. I approached him and
when I was near enough he placed both hands on my face and pulled
me towards him, kissing me aggressively on the mouth.

“Joseph! Angel!”

He let me go and I immediately
wiped my mouth.

“You keep promise! Good man. I
take back bad words. You good. Stupid maybe. Good, yes.”

I nodded and turned to
leave.

“Wait! Thank you! Angel! I must
say, thank you!”

“It’s ok. See you, Karim.”

“Stay! We talk.”

I looked at Abdi.

“No. You talk with your brother.
Seems like you should.”

“Ok. You come see me, Joseph.
Make another promise, ok?”

“No. One is enough.”

“Haha! Such angry man!”

“Actually. Karim…”

“Yes?”

“There is one thing you could
help me with.”

“Yes? Tell me.”

“When you followed me, did you
ever see someone else following me? A big guy with—”

“Yes yes yes. Big man. Look like
army. Yes.”

“Short hair on the top like
this?”

“Yes. Him. I see him many times.
Outside your house. Stop in car when you go to school, or
Josephine, or—”

“Wait. Stop. He followed me back
when Josie was alive?”

“Yes! No! Josephine.”

“What?”

“He follow Josephine. Like
me.”

I repeated the notion in my mind
until it sunk in. Once again I felt clueless.

“Not so much. Sometimes. Once
the week. I see him sometimes.”

It nearly made sense. Sebastien
could have set Buzzcut after Josie long before she died, he would
no doubt have liked snooping on her when she broke contact.
Although why would he have set him on her before she died…

“I know where he go. Where he
work.”

“The army guy?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“One company. Wait, I don’t
remember.”

“Try. I have to know.”

He looked at me, visibly
squirming to try and remember the name. He turned to Abdi and said
something in their language, making gestures with it.

“He’s saying, like, this thing.
Crap, I don’t know how to say it. Like a dip. Ketchup?
Mixture?”

“Mixed sources.”

Karim shouted.

“Na’am! Yes!”

I ran through the hospital
corridors. The events of the past few weeks spinning wildly through
my mind. With perfect clarity the direct connections began to shape
themselves. One thing linked to another, and it was getting clearer
at each step. Buzzcut, Mixed Sources, Hughton, Packard, Caroline
King. Josie had been killed because she was about to reveal their
secrets.

“Careful, mate. Floor’s wet up
ahead.”

What Josie was about to say in
her book, probably to anyone she could hand a copy to, must have
made certain people very worried. With evidence that the symbols
had powerful, unknown effects their whole business and all its
money could have suffered. At some point, with all the questions,
meetings, and research, she had probably drawn attention to
herself. No doubt they themselves would have known they were
dealing with something potentially bigger than they were.

Packard had to be the link.
Perhaps he wasn’t as concerned about the symbols as he claimed, and
had been siphoning information Josie gave him back to Mixed
Sources. Or perhaps he had tried to raise complaints himself and
had been shut down. It would explain his sudden disappearance.

I skidded past a rolling
stretcher and swung into the lift, tapping anxiously at the ground
floor button.

“It doesn’t go any faster if you
press it like that, you know.”

“Shut up.”

The door opened and I sprinted
out towards the lobby.

They probably hadn’t known about
the book. Just that Josie had been poking around. Buzzcut would
have seen her paint the variations on the symbols all over the city
though. Maybe at this point they realised Josie wasn’t just another
happy consumer of their products. Buzzcut was probably some grunt
they had keep tabs on her to stop her doing anything with the
information, or at least stay one step ahead if she did. But they
can’t have known about the book until…

“Excuse me! Can’t you see what
you just did?”

“What?”

“You nearly knocked that old man
out of his wheelchair! Be a bit more careful, please!”

Hughton: Josie’s psychiatrist,
contributor to her book, and most important of all, a prescriber of
pills. Too smart to be suspected—Josie certainly hadn’t—but the
fact my flat had been trashed, and all copies of her book stolen
minutes after I had showed him a copy pointed suspicion right at
him. It would have been the easiest thing to prescribe something he
knew could have killed Josie. A higher dose perhaps, or something
that would cause a reaction with another prescription. I remembered
the wry grin on his face when he thought I was trapped, it was all
the confirmation I needed.

I found myself in the lobby,
pushing through a crowded accident room.

“Slow down! Your wife giving
birth or something?”

“Move!”

But Hughton had no reason to
kill her himself; a price perhaps, but no reason. Neither did
Claude, or Buzzcut. Sebastien was too much of a coward; all talk
and no action. And Monika did love Josie, I was an idiot to forget
that, and a sorry one too. Only one person had the reason, the
power, and the arrogance to kill her: Caroline King. Protecting
those symbols that she accidentally discovered and irresponsibly
used.

I surged forward into the
revolving doors, hitting the crisp, cold wind head-first.

A few metres out from the exit I
noticed a couple of phone booths. I took one, fumbled all my change
into the slot, and dialled the operator. He put me through to Mixed
Sources.

“Mixed Sources, how can I help
you?”

“Put me through to Caroline
King.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Caroline. King. Your boss. Put
me through.”

“Ms. King doesn’t take
unsolicited calls I’m afraid, sir. You would need to speak to her
secretary in order to arrange an appointment.”

“Just put me through! I have
something very important to say.”

“Do you have an appointment
sir?”

“I don’t need one.”

“Sir, please calm down.”

“I am fucking calm! I’d be a lot
fucking calmer if you put me through.”

“Sir, may I take your name?”

“No, look. I know Caroline King.
I have something really important to tell her.”

“Would you like me to take a
message?”

“Ok, fine. Take a message. You
got a pen? Tell her I’m coming there to break her in fucking two.
I’m gonna do to her what she did to my girlfriend. You got
that?”

“…”

“Good. See you in a bit.”

I urged the bus to go faster.
Tensed like a bulldog on a collar whenever it made a stop or halted
at traffic lights. When it pulled in on Oxford Street, a short way
from Soho Square, I hit the pavement before the doors had even
opened fully.

It was only by remembering the
number, 45 Frith Street, that I could find Media Sources. There
were virtually no markings outside but for its logo printed less
than a foot wide on the glass front. A jarring collection of lines
that I presumed was the Joke-Man. Below it, in tiny writing, was
written ‘Mixed Sources: One Message’. I slammed through the glass
door to find myself in a bizarre environment which made no sense.
To my left and right there were large desks spanning a huge room
about forty foot wide. Directly in front of me, another wide desk
faced the entrance, differentiated only by its lack of clutter and
personalisation. A young girl wearing a plastic flower in her hair
sat behind it. She looked at me and I approached.

“Where’s Caroline King?”

“Oh! We just spoke on the phone,
didn’t we? I’m sorry. I told you on the phone, she doesn’t take
unsoli—”

“Enough. Just tell her I’m
here.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I took your
message and sent it to her secretary, but—”

I slapped my hand down on the
table. Glass partitions towards the far end of the area caught my
eye. They looked like offices, important ones. I jumped around the
reception and began heading towards them, sweeping past what seemed
like hundreds of wide, self-contained desks on either side.

“Sir! Stop! Security!”

I ran faster, clattering into
chairs and sending papers and stationary flying.

“Thom! Stop him!”

“What’s going on?”

“He’s some crazy drunk, get him
out of here!”

Someone slid out on a wheeled
office chair, blocking my path. I grabbed the back of his chair and
tipped it aside, spinning him out beside me.

“Rob! Rob!”

“Where’s the other security
guard!?”

I felt my coat shrink, someone
had grabbed it from behind. I stamped my good leg backwards,
missed, turned slightly, and stamped it again. It hit his thigh,
just above his knee. I whipped my arm around just as he fell,
breaking his grip and smacking him back-handed into a photocopying
machine. Two nearby girls shrieked and backed away.

The glass doors was frosted at
head-height, impossible to see through. I hit it shoulder first,
the doors swung open lightly, sending me stumbling forward into a
corridor of even more frosted glass. Printed across a large double
door at the end of the corridor, in simple white letters, was the
name Caroline King.