Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller (3 page)

“There are quite a few students
still that fall into that criteria.”

“That’s ok. Just show me the
names.”

I leaned over the reception desk
and the clerk swivelled the monitor reluctantly for me to see. I
scanned the list of about a hundred names.

“Bianca! That’s it! Bianca
Azevedo. Thanks a lot for that.”

“Ok, good. We don’t usually give
out that kind of information. It’s really—”

I turned and left before the
clerk could hum and haw at me further, slamming through the giant
doors into a thick downpour. I had wet feet before even thinking of
where I was heading. It was likely pointless, but it was a
discovery nonetheless. I felt somehow closer to Josie. It was
empowering. That faint sense of accomplishment spurred me on to
Cowley Street. It was only a few crossings away, signposted by the
stream of fashionably clothed students that hurried through the
rain. After scanning the area’s side streets I found it, and
without hesitation escaped into the angular building.

It was a distinctly different
place from the main university block. There didn’t seem to be any
kind of reception, no clerks behind computers or stuffy main halls.
Instead, the walls were coloured with various artworks, and even
the students milling about seemed to do so in a more comfortable
fashion.

I paced along the corridors,
following signs that sounded vaguely like where I needed to go.
Asking various students where I might find her eventually led me to
a large corridor with few doors. I approached someone playing with
their phone beside one and asked once again.

“I think she’s in a lecture
now.”

He took me along the corridor
towards another door and I thanked him. Pressing my ear to it, I
could just about make out the lecturer’s old, jaded, and comforting
voice. I pushed the door open slightly and looked in. The room was
nearly full, and the lecturer in full flow. I considered barging in
and announcing I had a message for Bianca, but the lecturer didn’t
seem informal enough to let that kind of thing slide. I considered
my options, and decided to brave it. I entered the hall as quietly
as I could, and slid into one of the seats at the back, next to a
semi-sleeping blond almost horizontal in her chair.

“Excuse me,” I whispered to her,
“is Bianca Azavedo in this class?”

The blond sat up a little and
scanned the room, then pointed out a girl with a mass of swept
brunette hair towards the far side of the hall.

“Thanks.”

I waited until the class was
over, and stopped Bianca as she left. She had a pretty face with
large, dark, eyes that widened as they looked up at me from her
small frame. I told her who I was and why I was there, and we set
out to find some place comfortable to talk.

As we made our way to a café
that she had suggested I made small talk, recounting the lengths
I’d gone to in order to find her. I tried to get her talking, but
she seemed subdued and more than a little mistrustful of my
intentions. I figured she was hit on a lot, but there seemed more
to it. Something that seemed to bother her about me in
particular.

The café was a cosy one, and
fairly busy with students seeking refuge from the rain. Bianca and
I got lucky, finding a discreet table near a window towards the
back. Bianca sat at the table and I went up to get the drinks. As I
waited in the queue I looked over at her, she was staring dreamily
out of the window. Her previously meticulous hair hung sleek and
bedraggled from the rain around her dark-skinned neck. She wore a
loose knitted top that hung off her shoulders and didn’t have a
neckline so much as a large hole which dared to reveal breast but
for the white vest she wore beneath it. I paid for the coffees—one
latte, one straight black—and brought them back to the table.

We sat playing with our hot
coffees and watching people behind the window pane for a while. It
was I who broke the silence.

“So you know about
Josephine?”

“Yes, someone from university
told me. I’m still shocked.”

She paused for a split second
before emphasising the word ‘shocked’. Whether it was an
affectation, or a carryover from English not being her first
language, I wasn’t sure.

“I feel the same, believe
me.”

“It’s why you wanted to talk to
me?”

“Not really. Josephine used to
talk a lot about you. She really liked you.”

“Josephine was an amazing
person.”

“Yeah.”

“Not because she was kind, or
generous. She was very, very different.”

“I know what you mean.”

“You know, she was always so
insightful. I remember when I first met her I was like something
changed, inside me. She made me think differently. I was fascinated
by her. You know when you have this internal dialogue, with
yourself, for days after I met her I imagined this internal
dialogue with her. Do you understand?”

I watched Bianca talk with
animated gestures, taken aback by the sudden openness with which
she spoke.

“Yeah, of course.”

“And you? Did you love her?”

“What kind of a question is
that? I was her boyfriend. Of course I loved her.”

She looked away suddenly. It
seemed obvious then why Bianca was mistrustful of me, and why she
spoke so enthusiastically about Josie. It was a jealousy I knew
well, and rather than hate her I empathised with her for it.

“Josie really admired you as
well. She spoke about your films a lot.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah. All the time. I remember
one she told me about. About a guy who falls asleep on a wall, and
every movement he made in his sleep feeling really dangerous,
because it could lead to him falling off.”

“Oh that. It was long ago.”

Bianca flashed me a small smile
which seemed to be as humourous as she ever got. She glanced
outside, squinted a little, then turned back to me. After another
coffee-sipping pause she spoke.

“What happened with
Josephine?”

“She…They found her in her room,
overdosed on some pills.”

“But she didn’t leave any
sign?”

“You mean a note? No,
nothing.”

“It’s so strange.”

“Yes, exactly. That’s why I
found you. It doesn’t make sense at all. Everything about Josie
goes against this. Nobody will tell me anything, her mother doesn’t
talk to me. The police don’t give a shit either. They just put it
down as suicide and moved on.”

“They didn’t investigate?”

“They said they would, but they
also said they don’t have evidence to do a full investigation. I
knew her though, and that’s enough. I don’t need evidence. I know
she didn’t commit suicide. So I’m going to find out what really
happened.”

“Wait a minute. You think she
was murdered?”

“Yes!”

The word came out louder than I
intended. I felt my muscles tense as I said it. I slammed my hand
on the table, rattling the cups. With the exclamation, I realised
my own conviction, the power of my own belief in it. I stared
straight into Bianca’s wide black eyes.

She smiled vaguely, looked
outside again, seemed to notice something, then turned to face
me.

“You’re frightening. I can see
why Josephine loved you.”

“Can you help me?”

“What do you want? I don’t know
what to tell you.”

“I don’t know either, but I know
there were things about Josie I didn’t know.”

She screwed her face slightly,
as if in deep thought.

“Did you know she was writing a
book?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what about?”

I felt a pang of guilt as I
answered.

“No.”

“Well, I don’t know either
really. Probably nobody does. She talked about it, a little. But it
seemed very vague idea. She was interested in strange things,
strange people. I think that her book was about these people. She
met a few of the people I think.”

“Who?”

“Let me think…There was one guy,
he was like a conspiracy guy, like a crazy guy—artist type. An
artist. She met him I think, and she said he was very
affected.”

“What was his name?”

“It was a strange name, a fake
name. Wait…I try to remember…it was Sewage. No, wait a
minute…Sewerbird.”

“Sewerbird?”

That vague smile again.

“He is some weird guy, that’s
why Josephine met him. Will you look for him?”

“Yes.”

Bianca rummaged in her bag for a
pen and wrote on a napkin.

“Call me if you find
anything.”

“Sure.”

I took the pen from her, tore
off a piece of napkin and wrote my number down.

“You call me too; if you think
of anything else worth checking out.”

She took the napkin, placed it
deep within her bag, and glanced outside again.

“Look outside.”

“What?”

I turned towards the window in
time to see the figure of a tall, gaunt man turn and run down an
alleyway on the other side of the street.

“Did you see?”

“The guy running?”

“He was watching us since we got
here.”

In the dream, Josephine sat
demurely, away in some haze, as if in some abstract portrait. She
appeared as glimpses of flesh, remembered expressions; Monika’s
legs in that dress, or Bianca’s olive shoulders. She looked at me
expectantly, waiting for me to engage her, and I knew I should, but
for some reason I didn’t want to. It was too much, I couldn’t deal
with it. She opened her mouth and emitted some chime-like sound. I
yearned to approach, but I backed away, apologising as she sat
there watching.

I awoke startled. Sweaty and
hungover. Vicky was bobbing up and down on the bed.

“Why are you still
asle-ee-eep?”

“Mm? I went out last night,
leave me alone.”

Vicky stopped bouncing, got off
the bed and left my room without saying a word, closing the door
behind her. She didn’t like it when I told her to go away. In our
intimate household it was the worst kind of insult. It took me a
few minutes before I could gather my sluggish thoughts from that
strange dreamworld.

I pulled myself out of bed and
felt the huge pain in my head shift its weight from the front to
the back. There was no way I could go out for a run, as I usually
did on Sunday mornings. Maybe later in the day, if I could shake
off this headache.

As I staggered into the kitchen
Vicky glared, then turned away from me. She was pulling some orange
juice out of the fridge. I went over and grabbed her.

“Get off!”

I lifted her up in the air and
threw her over my shoulder.

“Argh! I’m gonna crush you!”

“Stop it! I’m going to spill
it!”

I spun her until she giggled
uncontrollably and the orange juice fell out of her hands. I tossed
her onto the couch. My headache exploded.

“Oh God, I shouldn’t have done
that.”

“The juice! You made me do
it.”

“Can you fix me some breakfast?
I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Where did you go?”

Even the vague winter light that
seeped through the curtains of the living room forced me to squint.
I rubbed my eyes.

“Jack called me late last night
after you went to sleep. I went out drinking.”

I recalled drinks, pubs, clubs,
drugs, girls, music, a band—perhaps—but I couldn’t tell whether
they were memories of last night, or nights I’d had long ago. All I
could remember clearly was my reluctance to go out, and Jack’s
unwillingness to accept no for an answer.

“I don’t know Jack.”

“We used to work together. I
don’t know him anymore either.”

As I walked to the sanctuary of
the shower Vicky called out: “My friends are coming today.”

“Great.”

Our apartment wasn’t large, but
it was nice enough. Two small bedrooms and a living room with an
area sectioned off for the kitchen. We even had a balcony. The
apartment was a last, guilt-saving gift from our mother, who had
run off with a Turkish hotel clerk half her age. We never talked
about it.

I was relieved more than
anything else the day our mother had called from yet another spur
of the moment holiday to tell us she wasn’t coming back this time.
I had grown used to people taking an irrational dislike to me early
on in life. Whether they found my disability disturbing, or
something in my nature scary, I don’t know—and I didn’t care. I
could deal with it when it came from strangers. I needed nothing
from them, and preferred if they left me to my own business. My
mother, however, had been an immovably negative presence in my
life, one that I couldn’t choose to ignore. Having to live with
someone who you know dislikes you is overbearingly stressful.
Things were better now, just Vicky and I.

Almost a year now since she had
left. Vicky rarely asked questions about her, and had only once
asked about her father. I told her the truth: I didn’t know, and it
didn’t matter. I never felt the need to discover who my father was,
why he left, or if Vicky and I even shared the same father. I was
an adult; it was too late. I didn’t want security or redemption,
and what little I got of that I chose to pass on to Vicky. It would
probably be the only thing I ever did that was worthwhile.

It had become almost a regular
thing for Vicky to have friends over on weekends. During the
summer, Josephine and old workmates would occasionally visit. We’d
get a small barbecue going on the balcony and drink. Vicky enjoyed
being amongst people outside of school, and ever since my workmates
had found new jobs or forgotten me she had taken it upon herself to
make invitations of her own.

Sunday passed by in a haze of
screaming children, Wii games, and a kitchen ravaged by child-made
chocolate cupcakes. One of Vicky’s friends had come with their
older sister as chaperone. I gave her a beer and pretended to
listen to her complain about her life as she smoked on the
balcony.