Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller (7 page)

The story struck me. It seemed
to glow off the page. Perhaps illogically, it felt in a way like
some sort of proof; of the possibility that at least my suspicions
were justified. A murder which had at first seemed like suicide—it
was almost the same. And yet in that case it had eventually been
revealed that there was more to it. The lack of information
frustrated me, and I made a mental note to read more about the
story when I had the chance.

As I leafed through the rest of
the newspaper, I got the notion that strange things were happening
all around London. I noticed a story about a used ambulance being
used to abduct people and pump them full of psychotropic drugs.
Another story mentioned a drugs ring that had been using unmapped,
underground tunnels built during WWII to avoid detection. One
article mentioned an alarming trend of violence breaking out during
concerts within the past few months.

I rarely read newspapers. I
would idly check out the news on TV when I had the chance, and
perhaps I had simply lost touch, or perhaps I was just noticing
these kinds of stories more now. But it seemed like these sorts of
things didn’t usually happen. I felt concerned.

I reached my stop and got out.
The station wasn’t too far from Monika’s house, but it was bitingly
cold, and I hadn’t eaten since morning. I arrived at her front door
shivering and tired. She opened the door with a frown and invited
me in.

There were loud voices and
laughter emanating from the living room. I followed Monika through
the door and saw five incredibly attractive people sitting around
the coffee table, drinking aromatic drinks and smoking. Vicky was
standing next to an incredibly thin, short-haired blonde. She was
wearing a pair of oversized pink glasses and a beaded necklace that
obviously belonged to the blonde. They were laughing and giggling
as if they were both teenagers. The others watched and laughed too.
Of them, three were girls and one a guy. All were meticulously
dressed and alluring. It was like walking into the pages of a
magazine, and I imagined that together these people made any
situation seem like a fashion shoot.

Vicky saw me and squealed.

“Big bro!”

“Hey. You look very nice. Where
did you get those?”

“Belinda gave them to me.”

The blonde smiled at me and I
smiled back.

“Is she your sister?” asked the
guy. I noticed they were all looking at me, and felt all the more
self-conscious for it.

“Yeah. I hope she didn’t cause
you any trouble.”

“Aw, she’s a sweetie. So cute,”
said a redhead in some sort of retro 80’s get-up. She turned to the
girl next to her and laughed: “I want a little sister now!”

“Are you going to come out with
us?” asked Vicky.

“No, we’ve got to go home.
You’ve got school tomorrow.”

“But I want to go out to party
with Belinda.”

I groaned internally as soon as
she said it. I could tell she wasn’t about to leave without a
fight, and with everyone around a scene seemed unavoidable.
Luckily, Monika pressed a hand on my shoulder.

“Can you come with me a second,
Joseph? I want to have a quick word.”

I followed her into the kitchen
where she fumbled in a tiny handbag and pulled out a slip of
paper.

“Here. This is the number of
Josie’s psychiatrist.”

“That was fast.”

“Her mum called me while I was
out: Talked for nearly an hour about the funeral—crying on the
phone, making me cry too. She wants an alteration on her dress,
wants the drapes to be red, doesn’t want too many snacks
afterwards, wants this, wants that. She’s a slave driver.”

“So how did you get it out of
her?”

“I told her Josie and I had the
same psychiatrist, but that I lost his number and couldn’t remember
his name because it was such a long time ago. Blah blah blah.
Eventually she got it for me.”

“Smart.”

“Are you saying I’m not?”

“Did she mention me at all?”

“Yes. She told me not to tell
you where the funeral was going to be held.”

“So where is it going to be
held?”

Monika laughed.

“I’m serious. I want to
know.”

Her laughter turned into a look
of shock.

“Joseph, no. Please don’t go and
make a scene. It’s not fair to Josie.”

“That I go to her funeral? How
is it fair that I’m not even allowed?”

“It’s not. I’m not saying
that.”

Monika steadied herself on the
table and held her head. She had obviously had a few drinks
already.

“You can go leave flowers and
visit her afterwards, Joseph. The funeral is just going to be her
mother and some old friends crying.”

Monika was right. I didn’t even
want to be at the funeral. I wasn’t sentimental about things like
that, and it would obviously end in a scene, much as I might try to
avoid it. I had only met Josie’s mother once, and she had judged me
as scum right then. Nevertheless, I wanted to be there out of a
sense of principle, and the hope of somehow getting a hold of
Josie’s personal belongings that had been entrusted to her
mother.

“Ok. I won’t go,” I said,
although I still wasn’t sure.

“Joseph, I wanted to talk to you
about Vicky.”

“What about her? Did something
happen today?”

“No, no. She was a sweetheart
all day. I took her to the office, everybody loves her. She was
trying on clothes, had pictures taken, everything. She loved
it.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Yes. Well, that’s it, Joseph.
We spoke a little bit and…”

Monika trailed off, thinking
about what she was going to say.

“Joseph. Don’t bite my head off
for saying this. But I think you should let her mix with people a
bit more. She loves it so much, she’s so sociable. She told me
that—”

“Fuck you, Monika. Fuck you. You
picked her up from school once and now you’re telling me what she
needs? You haven’t got a fucking clue.”

“Joseph—”

“No, shut up. I’ve had a tough
day, and I don’t like your tone. When you wake up early every
morning to make a packed lunch, or do her homework with her, or buy
her shoes, or have her come wake you up in the middle of the night
because of nightmares; then you can talk to me about her.”

“She told me, Joseph.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she did. If
anything is wrong with her, then it’s that she’s spoilt. I break my
back trying to make her life great. I always put her first. She’s
beginning to take it for granted.”

“I know, but—”

“The government don’t even know
our mother’s gone. If they did they’d put her in a foster home or
something, I live every day in fear they’ll come knocking and start
asking questions.”

“Joseph, will you just listen to
me for a second?”

“What?”

“I know you do that. I’m not
telling you that you need to change. Vicky loves you a lot. You do
a fantastic job of raising her right. I’m just saying she would
like to meet more people. I remember when I was a girl—I was a lot
like Vicky—and I wanted to meet people, socialise, but I never got
the chance. It makes me sad.”

“Fuck you. I’m done here. Thanks
for the number. I’m gonna get Vicky and leave.”

I went to the living room where
Monika’s friends were still in high spirits.

“Come on Vicky. It’s pretty
late.”

“I don’t want to go home.”

“You’ve got school
tomorrow.”

“I can go to party and go to
school after.”

“No you can’t. You’re already
sleepy, I can tell. Come on.”

“I don’t want to!”

The blonde girl turned Vicky
around to face her, and in a sweet, child-like voice said:

“Don’t worry, you can come to
another party with us someday. We’re not going to a good party
anyway.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise,” said the blonde,
and despite the effort, I felt some sort of indignation towards
her. I never made promises to Vicky I wasn’t sure I could keep. She
took promises seriously.

I took Vicky by the hand as she
said goodbye over and over again to everyone.

“Aren’t you going to give the
sunglasses back to the nice girl?”

“It’s ok,” the blonde smiled.
“She can keep them.”

“Thanks.”

Once Vicky had kissed and hugged
and shared one last joke with everyone, including Monika, we left.
On the train home Vicky knelt on the seat and stared at her
reflection in the window, playing with her new sunglasses and
pouting. She didn’t seem angry at me, which I was grateful for.

“Why did you call me big bro,
Vicky?”

“That’s what Monika calls
you.”

“Ah, I see.”

By the end of the train ride
Vicky was nodding off with her head on my chest. I gently woke her
up and we made our way home. She leapt onto her bed as soon as she
could and crashed out. I didn’t bother waking her up to get her to
brush her teeth, it was already past nine. I took off her shoes and
over clothes and tucked her in, then grabbed a drink out of the
fridge and flicked the TV on.

Ten minutes later I turned it
off and decided to work out. I thought about calling the
psychiatrist, but supposed his office would be closed at that late
hour. I wasn’t particularly into working out either, as we didn’t
have any fruit or decent food. Working out without eating
nutritiously afterwards isn’t the best, but I was far too anxious
for bed just yet.

I was done after about forty
minutes. My body ached and I could feel sleep coming on. In the
shower I noticed a bruise coming up on my neck, presumably from
Sewerbird’s punch. My clothes were filthy from scuffling on the
roof too.

I wrapped a towel around my
waist and emptied my coat and trouser pockets to get them ready for
the wash. I found the scrap of paper with the radio message on it,
the psychiatrist’s number, and also Bianca’s. Once I’d put my
clothes in the laundry basket I went to the phone and dialled.

It rang through to her answering
machine—that sultry Brazilian accent.

“Hey Bianca, it’s Joseph. Just
calling to say thanks for the heads up about Sewerbird. I saw him
today, and he told me some pretty interesting stuff. Can’t get my
head around it though, so I was wondering if you wanted to meet up
again perhaps. Something about a delete-man? Anyway, let me know,
you have my number. Bye.”

I took one last look into the
fridge, wrote a note on it to do some shopping, then dropped onto
the couch. I thought about turning on the TV again but I knew I'd
end up wasting hours watching something dull if I did. Instead I
reached over to the drawers next to the couch and pulled out some
papers from the pile in the first drawer.

The Warden was an indulgent man,
unable to resist furthering my humiliation. He spat on my
food—sometimes spilling it entirely onto the floor-and when he
locked the door he would take his time, ensuring that I heard the
loud clack of the bolt closing multiple times. Then he would wave
the key in front of his grinning cheeks before shutting the hatch
on the grill and whistling his way to the next cell.

I saw in him all that I despised
about humanity. I swore never to enjoy such base pleasures; never
to revel in another’s misfortune. I would stare at him as he locked
my door, and perhaps he mistook my intense glare for bitter hatred,
or a jealousy that fed his ego. In fact, I was memorising-little by
little-the exact contours of the key. When the lights went out, I
scratched by the dim moonlight my own out of a wooden spoon I had
stolen from the kitchen, and when it was complete, I escaped.

The washed-out lights and
plastic floors induced a kind of waking coma in me as I browsed the
aisles of cans and refrigerators. I still felt a little uneasy,
however, and—with that absence of thought that comes over people in
supermarkets—allowed my mind to turn melancholic. I found myself
contemplating things I wouldn’t normally.

It wasn’t even the middle of
November, yet the Christmas adverts were imposingly omnipresent;
like warnings of an imminent event that only stringent preparation
would enable you to survive. I had never liked Christmas, the ones
I could remember were tinged with sadness: Vicky and I sitting on
the floor of our apartment, too full from turkey to enjoy the sweet
deserts I had bought too much of; tired, stupid jingles emanating
from the TV, and then Vicky playing with whatever I had bought her
alone as I watched oppressively conventional families on TV. Before
that, when mum had lived with us, there were arguments. Her getting
drunk by ten am, random people coming by the house, awkwardly
sitting around and her trying to construct within minutes the
pretence of a long-term stable family.

It wasn’t long ago, when the
tentative first adverts and warning shots of red and green had
first began appearing, that I had considered this year could have
been my first good Christmas: Josie, Vicky, and me. Cooking
together, eating together, a few more presents under the tree,
laughter: A Christmas that felt like the start of things, rather
than an end to another drab year.

I had hoped in a way that Josie
would have been some kind of good female role model for Vicky.
There were times when it seemed I was surrounded by women, that my
life had been dictated by them, and as much as I resented those I
didn’t like, I was deeply defensive, perhaps dependent even, on
those I did.

Monika—and I would never say it
out loud—was maybe right about Vicky. I wasn’t blind; I could see
Vicky wasn’t much like me, she was social, outgoing, caring. I was
proud of her for it, but at the same time afraid that I wouldn’t be
able to provide what Vicky needed. Afraid that soon I would stop
understanding her, would stifle her simply by being who I was, and
being the only real person in her life with any authority. I didn’t
want to be like those parents that over-thought everything their
kids did, the ones that tried to contrive their entire lives. All I
wanted was for Vicky to be happy, confident in herself. To support
her and let her find her own way. It scared me to think that
finding her own way might mean abandoning me.