Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller (9 page)

“Vicky. Keep it down. I’m not
feeling well.”

They carried on screaming as
they fired soft foam bullets at each other over my head.

“Vicky! Stop it!”

They carried on, my shout lost
amidst their own excitement. A foam bullet hit me on the face, and
though it didn’t hurt, it was close enough to my new scar to make
me jump.

“Enough!”

I got up and grabbed the
colourful plastic gun from Sandy’s boy, and threw it against the
wall. It shattered in two.

“Take your brother and go home,
Davy. You can’t play here today.”

He looked at me for a few
seconds before hanging his head and running out of the room. When
the door clattered shut, Vicky glared at me, red-faced and
tempered.

“I fucking hate you!“

She ran to her room and slammed
the door three times.

I grabbed my jacket and checked
that the psychiatrist’s address that Monika had given me was in the
pocket, then left—slamming the door myself.

As I approached the tube station
I pulled the scrap of paper out of my pocket. In that tall, elegant
writing Monika had scrawled the name Dr John Hughton. Below it, his
number and address. I realised that I had no idea where the street
was, and decided to call. I found a telephone booth just outside
the station.

Inside, a beefy guy in a hood
was leaning up against the glass, uttering only a few words every
minute. I checked the time and waited. It was getting late. The sky
was darkening, and rush hour just beginning. The sporadic groups of
people emerging from the station gradually increasing into a steady
flow. I wasn’t aware of how psychotherapists operated, and I wasn’t
sure if they kept office hours, but I felt adamant that I had to
see him today. I didn’t want to risk visiting too late, and knew I
had to get there fast.

The occupant showed no signs of
life, let alone finishing his call. I knocked on the booth and when
he glanced around I held up my watch. He calmly resumed into his
original posture and continued. I began to pace around the booth,
keeping my eyes fixed on him. While I knew was aware of my
presence, he seemed not to care. I guessed he was deliberately
taking his time, and almost certain that he wasn’t paying for the
call either. Eventually I yanked open the door.

“Are you kidding me? I’ve been
waiting for twenty minutes.”

“Close the fucking door.”

“I only need it for half a
minute.”

“Are you deaf? Close the fucking
door.”

We were staring at each other
for all of two seconds before he grabbed the door and slammed it
shut. My blood went hot. The scar on my face began to sting, and my
knee throbbed. I closed my eyes and breathed. I took one last look
at him and turned towards the station.

I was almost at the entrance
before I realised I had no idea where I was going. I spun on my
heels and walked straight back towards the phone booth. I swung the
door open, grabbed a handful of the guy’s hood, and shoved him face
first into the phone. It hit him somewhere in the nose and I heard
a crack. He dropped the phone and brought his hands to his face. I
let go of his hood and punched him stiffly beneath the ribs.
Winded, he slumped over in the phone booth; coughing and spitting
blood. I shoved him to the side so I could make the call.

After a few rings a message
played.

“Hello, this is the office of
Dr. Hughton. Dr. Hughton is currently on holiday and will not be
available until Thursday the 11th of November. If you wish to
discuss appointment times, please leave a message after the tone
with your contact details and somebody will get back to you. Thank
you.”

A tone played and I slammed the
phone down. The guy was squirming against my foot, still trying to
control the flow of blood out of his nose. I shoved him with the
sole of my shoe and picked up the receiver again.

“Directory enquiries; Linda
speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hi, I’m looking for the number
of a media company called Mixed Sources.”

“Ok, one moment sir. Do you have
the address?”

“No, sorry. It’s somewhere in
London if that helps.”

“Bear with me a moment,
please.”

I heard the heavy clacking of a
fast typist.

“I have a number for Mixed
Sources Media and Creative Content in Soho.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Shall I put you through?”

“Yes please.”

“Ok, thank you for your
call.”

The background chatter of the
call center cut out, and a second later the phone rang.

“Mixed Sources, how can I help
you?”

“Hey. Can you put me through to
a Claude Packard?”

There was an awkward pause.

“I’m sorry. Claude isn’t
available now.”

“It’s urgent. I have a package
for him that is very important.”

Again, there was an awkward
pause; this time longer.

“I’m sorry, Claude passed away
recently. If you bring the package to the office we’ll take care of
it.”

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry.”

“That’s ok. Just bring the
package to the office. All of his projects are running through
other people now.”

“How did he die?”

“Suicide.”

“Oh.”

“Hold on a moment.”

I heard another enquiring voice,
and she put me on hold.

“Sorry about that.”

“No problem.”

“Yeah, so just bring the package
by and we’ll make sure it gets sorted. Do you have the
address?”

“No.”

“Ok, so it’s 45 Frith Street.
It’s just off Soho Square to your left if you’re coming from
Charing Cross Road.”

“Ok, thank you very much. One
thing, though. I needed to talk to Claude about something. Who
would I speak to now?”

“Well that depends on the
project. What was it?”

I thought about mentioning the
delete-man, but the superstitious mumbo-jumbo Sewerbird had
attached to it made me think it was a bad idea.

“It’s actually a very private
project I can’t talk to anyone else about.”

“I see.”

“This is why I’d like to know
who I could talk to now.”

“Of course. Well you’d probably
want to speak to Caroline then. But she’s extremely busy at the
moment.”

“I can imagine.”

“May I take your name?”

“Yes, it’s Joseph Baird.”

It was Josephine’s surname, not
mine. I hoped that maybe Josie had contacted Claude, and the
surname might get me a bit closer.

“And Caroline?...”

“Caroline King. Like I said, if
you come by and drop off the package we’ll take care of it. I’ll
take your details and let Caroline know, then get back to you when
you can arrange a meeting. But like I said, that could take quite a
while.”

I gave her my number, said
goodbye, and left the phonebooth. A couple of people were standing
and looking at me as I left. The bloody-nosed man still crumpled
and squirming in the corner. I shoved my hand in my pocket and
walked away quickly.

I kept walking for what seemed
like hours. I wanted to go home, to make up with Vicky, and to work
out, but I felt both emotionally drained and on the verge of some
discovery. I wanted to go to Mixed Sources but I had no package,
and the person I’d spoken to on the phone was keen to tell me that
it would be difficult to see Carol.

Claude Packard had committed
suicide. I spun the thought over and over again in my mind. I
wanted to tell someone; to point out that people with good media
jobs at offices in Soho don’t commit suicide in the middle of
projects. I wanted to lay it all out for them, all the things I had
seen so far, and say ‘do you still think there’s nothing behind
this?’ And yet, the moment I thought that, I knew that people would
say that it was all in my head. That a message on a roof-top and
some superstitious imagery doesn’t mean anything at all.

I wandered past Jack’s old
apartment, where we’d spent many evenings after work getting stoned
and watching kung fu films. The pub, where we’d all meet up to
bitch about management and discuss how we could get better pay.
Eventually, I found myself at the dog pound Josie had worked at for
a while. I went inside and asked if I could look at the dogs. The
clerk gave me a weird look, but I mentioned Josie and she lit
up.

The dogs were mostly quiet as I
idled past the cages. Apart from a few smaller dogs that yapped
incessantly, most watched me with cautious, tired eyes. The pound
worker followed me, telling of the dogs’ backstories and
personalities. I didn’t really listen. I was thinking about what I
would do next.

“Are you alright?”

The question startled me as if
from a drunk stupor, and I found myself in front of a Labrador that
stood wagging its tail and looking at me pitifully, as if I were
the one locked up.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, I’ve got
a bit of a headache. I should go.”

I left hurriedly and wandered
around again, taking every side street I didn’t know and hoping to
get lost, but always finding myself somewhere familiar. I passed by
a stationary shop and bought a parcel box and a newspaper. A little
further down the road I entered a café that was mostly empty and
ordered a coffee and a piece of strawberry cake. I took a booth
near the back and laid the paper out in front of me.

GIRL ARRESTED FOR DESTROYING
BOOKSHOP

Becky Ardour was taken into
custody yesterday morning under charges of vandalism and attempted
arson. The history student, aged 23, was seen sweeping books off
shelves and pushing over several large bookcases before lighting
them on fire. “She was a regular customer,” said one… no previous
indications of unstable mental health… fire service arrived before
any…

SEX VAMPIRES

Hospitals are reporting an
increase in bizarre, sex-related injuries. Primarily caused by
intense biting, patients with symptoms related to deviant practises
and over-exertion during intercourse have become regular
occurrences at… “always had strange cases, but it just gets
weirder”… attributed to the increasing presence of vampires in the
media…

DAYTRIPPER COPYCATS

More than several ambulances
have now been hijacked as the on-going trend of ‘daytripping’
continues. Since the first case was reported in October of several
drug-users stealing an ambulance and kidnapping members of the
public with the aim of inducing psychotropic episodes there have
been over ten reports of kidnappings. The suspects are believed to
be different in at least three of the cases. Although no links have
been drawn yet between the suspects… police are warning of… driven
through the park during the night… one of whom stood on the roof of
the ambulance exposing himself as they passed by…

I finished my coffee and ordered
another. There was a computer in the corner of the café and I paid
for an hour’s worth of internet time. Online, I began searching for
all I could find on the bizarre things I saw in the newspaper. I
still wasn’t sure whether I had simply been out of touch, or
whether there genuinely was an alarming amount of strange,
unexplained occurrences happening in tandem.

My search was fairly fruitless.
Aside from discovering more stories that seemed completely odd,
when I tried to find any comment on the trend itself I found only
extremist and unpalatable comments about how everything was an
indication of the decline of British values.

I tried searching for anything
regarding the delete-man, but the ambiguity of the terms wouldn’t
give me anything substantial. I tried adding Sewerbird’s name,
Claude’s name, Mixed Sources, Caroline King, and even Josephine’s
name to the search terms, but it just threw up more obscure links.
Eventually I caved in, and half-heartedly began searching for
mentions of the delete-man alongside words such as ‘occult’,
‘symbology’, and ‘demons’. Unsurprisingly, I began to find a few
pages that spoke about the delete-man.

Most of the articles mentioned
it in passing. Often as one of many various types of curse, or
spell. The most articulate definition was from a website obviously
aimed at pre-teen girls who were interested in witchcraft:

...some of the most powerful,
and dangerous, spells are those which evoke a certain kind of djinn
– chaos djinni. Once conjured, these djinni cannot be controlled,
and will cause people to act strangely and malevolently. If you
notice someone acting weird, chances are there’s a djinn nearby!
Although there are many types of djinni, some of the more common
ones are Marid, Ifrit, Ghul, and Sila – although there are more
modern interpretations of them such as the Deleterman and
Carnilata.

Most of the references were like
that. Brief mentions in passing, usually in conjunction with some
chaotic curse or spirit that caused people to act strangely.
Initially it seemed to fit in well with everything I had
discovered, but so did several religious fanatics, doomsayers, and
conspiracy theorists I’d found online.

Although I didn’t believe any of
it, the seriousness of the people who did was obvious, and
ultimately all I cared about was why Josie had been interested in
this stuff. No doubt it was something she was drawn to. She was
curious about a lot of things, but there must have been something
beyond the mumbo jumbo and teenage love-spells which had dragged
her even deeper into this. Something bigger and more tangible.

I kept browsing and found a link
to a bookshop which seemed familiar. I racked my brains until I
remembered that I had visited it with Josephine a long time ago on
one of our meandering walks. We had only popped in for a moment,
although she had struck up some conversation with the owner whilst
I had wandered amongst the anarcho-spiritual books that it
specialised in. I noted down the address, took my things and left
the cafe.

I had grown used to the dull
throbbing pain in my knee, but when I brought my hand to my face
the scar felt moist. It had begun to bleed again, possibly due to
the warmth of the café. I put the box I had bought onto the
pavement and held a tissue to it for a while until the bleeding
slowed.