Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller (4 page)

The last of the parents came
late in the evening to pick up their kid. I had long since given up
any hope of my run, a work-out, or even any peace. As soon as the
last child was gone I fell upon the couch and stretched out, almost
dozing off instantly.

“Vicky?”

“Yeah?”

“Come here a sec.”

She bounded over to me with a
face full of chocolate and flour.

“Look, I’m not telling you off
or anything, but in future you should tell me before you invite
your friends over.”

“Ok.”

“You know I don’t mind, but it’s
not fair to me not knowing. For a while they won’t be able to come,
I’ve got some things I need to do. Important things. You
understand?”

She gave me a wary look.

“Hmm, sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, it’s alright.
Just remember ok?”

“Is it about Josephine?”

“What? No. Anyway, let’s clean
up. You throw the rubbish in the bin, and I’ll take it out. Load up
some stuff in the dishwasher if you can too, before you go to bed.
I’ll do the rest. Oh, and hand me the laptop from the table?”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to!”

She stood there for a second,
pouting sternly at her feet, then ran out of the room.

“I don’t want to!”

I heard her kick something then
slam her bedroom door.

I wanted to let it go, pour a
glass of water and go to bed, but it would have been wrong to let
her throw fits, and I certainly wasn’t going to clean the kitchen
by myself. I sat for a few minutes to compose myself and to let
Vicky cool off, then went to her room.

I pushed open the door and saw
her lying on the bed in the foetal position, clutching a pillow to
her face.

“I’m not going to argue with
you. I’m tired, I’ve got a headache, and I’ve just let you and your
friends make a mess of the house. Go put the rubbish in the
bin.”

She mumbled something into the
pillow.

“Now! I’m gonna stand here until
you do.”

“No!”

“Stop being a brat!”

“You’re a brat!”

“I mean it!”

“Go away!”

“If you don’t do as I say your
friends are never coming into this house again.”

“Leave me alone!”

“Why are you being such a bitch
Josie? Get in there and clean the kitchen now!”

“Don’t call me Josie!”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Look. It’s ten forty-seven now.
If that kitchen isn’t cleared up by eleven-twenty I’m gonna get rid
of the Wii, and you can take yourself to school and walk yourself
home again for the whole week.”

I turned to leave then added:
“You’ll be grounded for a month, too.”

I left her room, grabbed the
laptop, and went to my room.

It hurt to be like that with
Vicky. I lay on the bed and thought about it for minutes. I should
have handled it better, not shouted. I wondered if I’d been in the
wrong somehow, she wasn’t usually that confrontational. She was
probably just upset she couldn’t play party host for a while. After
seeing how much fun and sugar she had with her friends that made
sense. In the end I put it down to the heightened emotions and bad
diet of the day. It would all be over tomorrow. Maybe I’d bring it
up again when the mood was better.

Eventually I heard Vicky’s door
open, and then the clattering of plates in the kitchen. I imagined
her red face bitter and teary as she forced herself to clean. As
much as I wanted to go out and hug her I knew it would only make it
worse.

Had I really called her Josie?
Was she just being a smart alec— insinuating that I was angry for
some other reason? Josie was on my mind a lot, it wouldn’t be that
strange, but still, it had never happened before.

After she finished and returned
to her room I went to the kitchen and took the trash out. Vicky had
loaded most of the dishwasher, leaving only a few cups in protest.
I put them in and wiped down the counter a bit. It wasn’t as clean
as we usually kept it, but it was enough for now. Exhausted, and
still a little disappointed I hadn’t gone for a run, I returned to
my room and opened the laptop.

A search for ‘Sewerbird’
revealed immediate results. Under the images of seagulls near pipes
there were a couple of articles that contained the name. From the
blog posts and random comments I gathered that Sewerbird was some
kind of proto-anarchist, Crowley-loving protester; essentially just
a junked-up screwball who had gained a bit of local celebrity
through creating art installations (a mountain of shopping carts in
the middle of a road somewhere being the most newsworthy), and
having more than the usual junkie’s turn of phrase. Despite that,
it also seemed like he had had quite a few violent run-ins with
various festival-goers and locals from small towns in England.

More searching revealed a few
pictures. The most striking showed him in full flow as he prepared
to lob a rock through a bank during the annual May day protests. He
had a gaunt, bony look about him. From his blond-stubbled face a
wide slit of a mouth revealed barely half his teeth remained. His
head was shaved on one side, while on the other greasy locks hung
like tattered gold wallpaper. Above the neck of his duffel coat
could be seen a dramatic but tired tattoo of some sort.

It didn’t surprise me that he
seemed dangerous and unappealing; Josie had always been interested
in such things. I could imagine the revulsion she might have felt
only inspiring her to question him further.

Eventually I stumbled upon
something tangible; a news article from a few months earlier about
a squat in south London. The article reported an unoccupied grand
house in a wealthy area, worth over two million pounds, had been
adopted as a home by Sewerbird, a couple of other
famous-but-homeless artists, and even some rich kids looking to rub
noses with danger without straying too far from home. Via the legal
rights of squatters, and some disputes concerning the ownership of
the house, they had been allowed to stay for the past six months.
It seemed that the place had become some sort of haven for all
sorts of young, alternative, kids from the area, and whoever they
found entertaining enough to adopt.

I noted the address and slapped
the laptop shut. Then I closed my eyes, and sank into sleep.

Fifteen minutes later the phone
woke me up. I reached over and fumbled it to my ear. It was a
familiar voice.

“I’m sorry to call so late,
Joseph. I just don’t know who to call, all my friends are bitches.
I can’t stay in this apartment tonight; it reminds me of her all
the time. I’m so scared, Joseph.”

She wasn’t crying, but almost.
As soon as I heard Monika’s exasperated, pleading tone, I knew
where it was leading. I gave her my address and got up to make some
coffee.

I was dirty from the party,
emotionally exhausted after arguing with Vicky, eager to sleep in
preparation for going to the squat tomorrow, and my headache still
hadn’t cleared up. All I wanted was sleep, but for Monika to ask me
for help, after what had happened between us, she must have had
nowhere else to go.

After about an hour of flicking
through dull, late-night TV Monika arrived. She looked nowhere near
as good as the last time I saw her. She wore ill-fitting jeans, an
unwashed t-shirt, and hastily applied make-up that distorted her
natural looks more than it helped them.

I gave her permission to the
kitchen and as she investigated the fridge and cupboards, eating
anything that she found interesting, she told me a drawn out and
overly descriptive story of irrational hatreds, sex, and confused
emotions. From the myriad of names and stuttering chronology I
deciphered that she had been sleeping with someone she shouldn’t
have been, which had led to a lot of gossip about her at work, and
culminated in her being dumped by both an on-off boyfriend and her
illicit lover. It was enough for me to imitate interest; Monika was
giving herself permission to be self-absorbed and really just
wanted to sound off. It was only when she eventually spoke of how
the apartment had felt scary to her since Josie’s death, and how
she had tried to spend every night since then with other people,
that I felt like I finally understood.

Monika could have buzzed around
my kitchen saying the same thing different ways all night.
Eventually she slowed down just enough for me to propose sleeping,
and I was greatly relieved when she agreed. After some negotiation
we agreed to both sleep in my bed. At that point I would have slept
on a bed of broken glass, and I suggested she took my bed while I
took the couch; but beneath the guise of politeness I could tell
Monika wasn’t used to sleeping alone. To end what had become an
incredibly long night I didn’t pretend to care.

I fell asleep to the sound of
Monika talking about her dreams.

Vicky was steely with me
throughout the next morning. She caught a glimpse of Monika
sleeping through the door, and the hypocrisy of telling her not to
invite friends over then having a stranger in my bed was not lost
on her. I tried to joke around as I took her to school, and while
she smirked and occasionally giggled, she refused to join in. I
sensed that the resentment she was festering wouldn’t dissipate
soon.

When I arrived back home Monika
was awake and had already made herself comfortable. One of Vicky’s
pop CDs was booming throughout the apartment, and clothes were
strewn all over the bathroom and my bedroom. She zoomed amongst the
rooms, picking clothes, changing, combing her hair, and texting on
her phone. Eventually she emerged into the living room wearing one
of my hoodies and a pair of black jeans I didn’t even know I still
had.

“Why do you wear so many dark
colours, Joseph?”

“I just prefer it,” I said as I
looked for the mp3 player I wore whilst running.

“You shouldn’t wear so many
patterns if you don’t want to draw attention to your arm.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nevermind. I wish I lived in a
place where everyone dressed right.”

“Move to Italy then. I hear
they’re very trendy there.”

“I’d love to go there.”

“Ok, I’m going out for a run.
Will you be here in about an hour?”

She gestured towards the
computer.

“Can I check my emails?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

The second I left the apartment
and began to pump my legs I felt better. I ran faster than usual,
every stride taking me one step further from the things that were
beginning to drag me down: Monika, Vicky, my apartment, the past. I
forgot them, and as they faded from my mind I focused again on my
purpose. I would find Sewerbird, and find out everything Josie had
been doing before she died—good or bad. I pushed forward into
clean, cold, air.

Monika was sitting at the
computer, chatting to people over IM when I got back home. She was
still there after I’d showered and changed. The focus with which
she stared at the screen made me think she was talking to one of
the important figures in last night’s story.

“I need you to pick up Vicky
from school, I have to go somewhere.”

“What time? I don’t even
remember what she looks like. She probably doesn’t even remember
me.”

I handed her a daisy I had
brought home from my run.

“Put that in your hair. She
knows you might pick her up. She’ll look for the flower. When she
sees you she’ll say ‘sausage dog’, and you say ‘chocolate cupcake’.
A little game.”

“Aw, cute!”

“Here’s the spare key. I’m
going. I’ll call you later.”

“Wait. Joseph.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for letting me
stay.”

“No problem.”

I walked to the door, paused for
a second, then turned back.

“Sorry about what happened at
your place. I let the stress get to me sometimes.”

“It’s ok, Joseph. I feel a bit
stupid too; complaining about silly things when you have actual
problems, taking care of Vicky and everything.”

“Whatever. Don’t think about
it.”

Her face softened slightly.

“Remember when I said there were
things about Josephine you didn’t know?”

My heart dropped a beat.

“Well, I should have told you I
suppose. It’s not that big a deal, really. Just that she was seeing
a psychiatrist for quite a while.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s not strange
really, half the people I know these days have psychiatrists. She
never told me though. I just found out because I saw an appointment
card in her bag once.”

“What’s the address?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I
didn’t want to say anything about it. She never mentioned it. I
only found out by accident. I only remembered it because of that.
It’s the kind of thing she would usually mention to me. Maybe not
talk about; but at least mention. It felt like some secret that she
was keeping.”

“Have you got the card?”

“No. Sorry Joseph.”

“Can you find out who it
was?”

“Not really.”

“Maybe you could ask her mum, go
through her stuff. You must be able to find out somehow.”

“I don’t think so, Joseph.”

“You don’t remember the name at
all? An initial? Search for a list of psychiatrists in the area,
maybe you’ll recognise it.”

“Hmm.”

“Maybe you could remember the
type of card even, the style, the font. I could even try to match
up the styles or something. Or the date that you saw on the card,
how long ago it was. Maybe that could help.”

“Ok, ok! Relax! I will try to
find out who it was. I think her mum has her stuff still, She’d
probably let me look through it if I say there’s something of mine
in there.”

“Perfect!”

“Well, don’t count on it Joseph.
I don’t know for sure, but I’ll try.”