Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller (21 page)

Vicky was already at Sandy’s; I
had woken her up and taken her there earlier in the morning;
telling her that I had some things to do, and giving her some money
to spend. Sandy was going Christmas shopping with her kids, and I
had yet to buy any presents for Vicky—although I did have something
special in mind. Vicky was smart with money, and I reckoned she
would enjoy being given some to go a bit crazy with.

For the fourth time that morning
I stood in the middle of the living room ensuring that I had
everything I needed, and trying to foresee any problems that might
arise. Once I was sure I was as prepared as I could I be, I drank a
few glasses of water in huge gulps, threw my backpack over my
shoulder and left the apartment.

The tower block had only one
proper entrance to the front, which opened out to the parking area,
and then the road. There was, however, a walkway towards the back
which looked out upon a grassy area. Growing up, it had been a kind
of rite of passage to make the long drop from the walkway to the
ground below. It was about ten feet, and once you were old enough
(and big enough) to make it then games of chase or hide and seek
were a lot easier. Even as a teenager I would see the kids who
played amongst the tower block zipping around and making the drop,
with the smaller ones sometimes forlornly turning and heading back
out for the easier (but longer) route of the front entrance. Since
they’d introduced recycling bins just below the walkway a few years
ago the drop could be taken by anyone, and though still dangerous,
the small kids could follow the bigger ones—albeit at a slower
pace. The grassy area led out to a small wall—easy to climb—and
then another road. I reached the 1st floor and instead of taking
the stairway down to the front entrance, where I knew Buzzcut would
be waiting, I turned around and headed for the walkway.

It was cold and quiet. Sunday
morning tiredness seemed to pervade the chilly atmosphere. I
reached the walkway, put my hand on the rail and leapt over. It
would have been safer to climb over and hand-drop but I wanted to
be quick. I landed on my feet and stumbled a little. Regaining my
balance I sprinted to the wall, and again put my hand down to
hurdle over it. There were a few people on the road, but they paid
no attention, and I began jogging into the fog—towards the train
station.

“I can’t stand it anymore. Can
we go yet?”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s bad, but
we’ve only been here an hour. Wait until my mother brings the cake
out, and then we’ll have a quick drink and go to my place.”

“What about if I go now and meet
you there?”

“No, please don’t. They would
love that. They’d feel vindicated.”

“Your brother has asked me about
ten times about my arm. He’s just trying to provoke me now.”

“I know, I know. I don’t want to
be here either, but I have to.”

“Why? I don’t understand. Why
can’t you just tell them to go to hell?”

“They’re my family, Joseph.”

“Ok. Alright. Suppose I’ll just
keep my head down until it’s over then.”

“Thanks.”

The house was far enough from
the centre of London to be untainted by the dirtiness of crowded
urban living, yet close enough to make it an appealing town house.
It must have cost a lot. I reached the station after a half hour
tube ride, and slowly walked up the spacious and pristine road
scanning all the way. I couldn’t quite remember the location of the
house, having only been there once, but I would recognise it when I
saw it.

Sure enough, towards the end of
the road I noticed a line of four shiny black cars with darkened
windows. I crossed to the opposite side and approached slowly.
Smartly dressed, capped drivers stood solemnly at the wheels. It
was definitely the right one. I felt the pang of some memory and
pushed it to the back of my mind.

“So how did you meet? Josie
never told us.”

“Yes I did!”

“Did you? I don’t remember.”

“Yes I did. I told you. I was
on… Hoxton Street I think it was. A friend of Joseph’s called his
name from across the street. He was really shouting, like screaming
almost. I thought he was saying my name, so I turned around and
called back. Joseph was right in front of me, looking at me like I
was crazy! Then I realised and said ‘Oh, my name is Josie’. And
then we got talking, and that was that.”

“Oh, how cute!”

“No.”

“What?”

“No. Tell them the truth.”

“Don’t, Joseph…”

“Come on, why can’t they
know?”

“I don’t want them to.”

“You shouldn’t feel ashamed.
Don’t worry.”

I reached over and held her
hand. She squeezed mine. Her eyes were passive; her brow furrowed.
It was one of those moments when I understood why Josie needed me.
An instant where I felt like I could help her as much as much as
she helped me. Aggressive, stupid, overly-protective me.

“We met in a support group. I
was there for anger management, and Josie was there for
self-harming.”

Her mother raised a chubby hand
to her mouth. The others gaped; speechless.

“Oh my…”

“But she hasn’t self-harmed
since we’ve been together, and I’ve only put punched two guys
since.”

I checked the time, it was a
little after ten. Monika had said they were leaving at ten, so I
found a decent spot on the opposite side of the road, just behind a
large four wheel drive and sat on the three foot high brick wall
that lined a garden. I was out of view; but by leaning slightly I
could make out the entrance of the house. I looked around for other
people, but the road was tranquil and empty aside from a dog walker
who passed by more interested in his Chihuahua than anything I was
doing.

After about ten minutes the door
opened, and a few black-suited men proceeded to usher demurely
dressed women through it. Soon, a steady stream of people was
pouring out, and they began to get into the black cars. They must
have been limos with extra seats for all the groups that herded
into them. I noticed Monika, tall and slim in a classy dress; and
Josie’s mother, short and squat, her legs like pale kebabs poking
out from under her skirt. She wore a netted veil, and kept dabbing
her hand beneath it. I felt a surge of hatred in my throat, and by
the time I’d gone through a long mental rant about why it made me
sick, the cars had begun pulling out. Sebastien came out with a few
people last, his smug face plastered with the same annoying air of
authority that he’d worn when he’d turned up at my house. He opened
the door for some blonde I vaguely remembered as his wife, looked
up and down the street, then entered. The last car pulled away with
him inside it. I waited a whole minute before checking once again
that the street was empty and nobody was looking from the windows
of the neighbouring houses. I took to my feet, grabbed my bag and
sprinted over to the house as swiftly as I could.

The house was large and stood on
its own. I managed to get over a locked wooden fence that led down
a path to the side of the house by throwing my bag over and pulling
myself up onto it. The house was just as I remembered it; too open
and isolated for proper security. Once I was over the gate, I
scanned around outside the house from the garden, all the way to
the other side. The garden was huge; bigger than I remembered. From
the road it was difficult to imagine so much greenery and space lay
just beyond the house. I found a large window on the side and
checked it for alarm system sensors. There were none, but I was
still anticipating some other sort of alarm once inside. I found
the outside breaker box nearby and remembered the location.

I looked around once again and
lay my bag down; fishing inside for the tape. I attached some to
large areas of the window in order to maintain the strength of the
glass, then reached back into my bag for the glass cutter. I
attached it firmly to the lower corner of the window, close to the
handle on the inside, and pressed it hard as I scored a seven inch
circle. I pushed it round a few more times, and then tapped at the
glass. Another couple of turns turns and it was thin enough, I
pulled firmly on the centre of the cutter. After some slight
twisting the perfect circle came away from the window and into my
hand. I slid the glass off and placed it on the grass beside me. I
threw the glass cutter into my bag and reached through the hole to
open the window from the inside. Within seconds I was standing in
the large, marble and granite kitchen. I moved slowly towards the
place I guessed the fuse box was, checking the corners of the
ceiling for motion sensors before striking lucky: An airing
cupboard just outside the kitchen entrance in the long hallway. I
slammed all the switches down and hoped that would do enough to
stop any further alarms from triggering should there be any.

I stalked around for a few
moments amongst the first floor and all its many rooms. I reckoned
that the laptop was with the rest of Josie’s things in her old
bedroom, up on the second floor. Something compelled me to scan the
rooms on the first floor, however. I took various objects and put
them in my bag, things that looked expensive. As I passed through
the rooms I became less interested in them, lost in my thoughts.
Each minor detail of the house that I could recall inducing that
nauseous memory again like little pinpricks in my scalp.

“No. I didn’t at all. I just
pushed him out of the way.”

“Who? Sab—Sorry, Sebastien
Baird?”

“Yeah, him. Josie’s
brother.”

“Josephine Baird?”

“Who else?”

“According to Mr. Baird you
provoked then attacked him; punching him but missing his face,
hitting him in the chest instead, and causing him to fall backwards
onto a table and sustain a head injury.”

“That’s a lie.”

“He also says you threatened him
previously in the kitchen, after he asked you to leave
the…party?”

“Birthday party. Josie’s. That’s
another lie.”

“There are witnesses that
corroborate his statement.”

“Look, here’s what happened. We
were sitting in the living room. Josie was arguing with her mother.
She got upset, started crying, and then stormed upstairs; to her
room probably. Her mum and her friend went after her, still
shouting. I went after them—after Josie, to speak to her, take her
out of there. Sebastien stepped in front of me and tried to stop
me, like he was looking after her or something. He grabbed my
shoulders to stop me, and I just put my hand out and pushed him
aside. That’s it.”

“He fell over so hard that he
went completely over the table.”

“I don’t know why. Maybe he was
acting up.”

“You underestimated your own
strength, eh?”

“I underestimated what a weed he
is.”

“You understand that we’ll have
to detain you for the night, at the very least. At this point
however, it doesn’t seem like anyone wants to press charges. Count
yourself lucky.”

“Yeah, I’m the luckiest guy in
the world.”

“Indeed you are. This could turn
into a very serious case of assault if Mr. Baird has sustained any
long-term injuries.”

“He’ll be fine. Believe me.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“He’s playing this all up;
trying to paint me as some kind of bully. There was no need to get
you guys—I mean—get the police involved.”

“Really now?”

“Yeah, really. That thing you
mentioned in the kitchen, I didn’t threat him. He was trying to get
me to punch him or something; provoke me. He was winding me up all
day.”

“Why would he want you to punch
him?”

“Because he hates that I’m
dating his sister.”

“You don’t come out of this
seeming very nice Joseph. According to you, you only shoved him,
yet he somehow fell over a table and injured himself. Although he
has witnesses that say the contrary. He wanted you to punch him, so
that you would seem like a bad guy presumably, and the reason for
that is that he dislikes you dating his sister. Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not saying that’s not true,
Joseph, but even you must admit it’s a little hard to believe.”

“Whatever. Believe what you
like. I don’t have more to say. You should know it takes more than
a few statements from one incident to judge.”

“We’re not judging you Joseph.
We’re just going to detain you for the night, and ask you to keep a
wide berth from the Bairds for a while.”

“Gladly.”

I made my way up the
thickly-carpeted staircase to the first floor. I found Josie’s old
room and pushed the door open. It was just as I thought it would
be; maintained as if she still lived there. The room felt
peculiarly comforting yet artificial. The objects, the colours, the
lay-out; it was all unmistakably hers, right down to the large,
worn rug on the floor – no doubt there because she loved to sit and
lie on the floor when writing, drawing, or doing some other
activity. Yet it was all so tidy, too ordered and unused. Josie
tidied a lot, but she made a mess even faster.

Her bed was made, a light bed
cover decorated with yellow flowers—her favourite colour.
Postcards, cutting and photos decorated the walls above the bed and
the desk. Against the window was a long electric piano, a pile of
music sheets lay on the floor beneath it. Her desk was tidy, yet
there was still barely any space left for all the pens, papers, and
decorations that lay on it. In the middle of it all was her
laptop—white with the sticker of a Japanese cartoon character in
the corner. I opened up my bag and carefully put it in, curling up
the power cable and dropping it in afterwards. I looked around for
anything else that might be useful and found myself scanning the
pictures along the walls. I was not in any of them. I always
avoided having my picture taken, and soon after we had met Josie
had moved in with Monika; yet the random spaces between the
pictures indicated that some had been removed. I smirked at how
predictably vindictive her mother could be.