Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller

by Johnny Vineaux

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What the fuck?! You’re insane, Joseph! Seriously! Look at my arm!”

  “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

  “You already did!”

  I looked up at her.

  “Sorry.”

  She stared at me with a red anger in her eyes, then slapped me hard across the cheek.

  “Get out, Joseph.”

  Chapter 2

  It is in the nature of men to seek out patterns and meaning within the random chaos of their surroundings during times of struggle. Faced with the seemingly infinite forest and its wildly overbearing and complex shapes; without any indication of direction or human influence, Edward resorted to that irrational logic. A variation in a bark pattern was enough to cause him to change direction; a snapped twig heightened his anticipation. He stumbled through the untamed growth with nothing but these self-made prophecies.

  “What are you reading?” Vicky said, bounding into the room with some plastic contraption under her arm.

  “Homework.”

  I put the pages down and watched her flick latches and click pieces onto the device, turning it into some kind of purple mini-laboratory. Within seconds, boxes, tubes, and other junk were sprawled out around her on the living room floor.

  “What’s that, Vee?”

  “It’s a sweet making factory. I’m gonna make sour blueberries. I wanted to make peach but I’ve run out. Come and help me.”

  “Not now.”

  Vicky stopped pouring some purple liquid into a container and looked at me, then the papers in my hand.

  “Are you upset? Is that one of Josie’s stories?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When is she going to take me to the zoo? She promised.”

  I rubbed my eyes, unable to look at the sad expression I knew she was wearing. She didn’t know. No moment had seemed like the right one to tell her. Now, it almost seemed too late. I thought about not telling her at all, perhaps a smart lie would save her a lot of pain. They had been close, despite my attempts to keep a distance between them in the beginning. I hadn’t wanted Vicky to get jealous, or see Josie as competition. They were too similar to keep apart though; stubborn, imaginative, and smart. At times it had even seemed that Josie understood Vicky better than I did.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Realising I was still rubbing my face I pulled my hand away. She stared through me with twitching green eyes. She would have seen through any lie, and she would never let me get away with avoiding the question. I wasn’t a bad liar, but I knew when I was beat. Once again she reminded me of Josie.

  “Come here,” I said, and Vicky spread herself beside me on the couch, her head on my lap. It was at moments like this, more than any other, that I felt the lack of an arm. I reached over my left to stroke at her hair.

  “Do you remember when we saw that show, and we talked about why animals eat each other?”

  “Don’t change the subject!”

  “God, you’re not gonna make this easy are you? Look, Vicky. I’ll tell you, cause you’re a smart girl, but you’re not gonna understand until you’re much older, ok? So don’t try to think about it too much.”

  “Yeah. Ok.”

  I breathed deeply.

  “Josie…is not gonna come back. She’s dead, Vee.”

  After a second’s thought, Vicky jumped from my lap to look me in the eye, a smile on her face.

  “Liar! Tell me!”

  She thought I was joking, and searched me again with those twitching eyes for the punchline, but it wasn’t there. Her playful smile and twinkling face fell apart. In its place came a sob of such helplessness I grabbed her immediately and held her tight, before the thought of fighting back the tears even entered her mind. She muffled her cries against my chest, her fists clutching at my sides. I squeezed her skinny body, urging her to pass the sorrow within her onto me.

  We stayed in that awkward position for what seemed like hours. Vicky fell asleep sobbing, and I put her to bed before going to bed myself. Soon after, she came to my room, her face stained with those slow-falling tears that come from too much crying, and again we clung to each other for lack of anything else we could do.

  *

  The university’s main building had always seemed strange to me. It was built like a prison block, a looming construction of red brick lined with heavy grey cement in austere arrangements. It was set in the middle of the city, amidst the glass and metal of banks and financial centres. The students that roamed the surrounding streets stood out like a different species amongst the tied and suited businessmen that paced down busy pavements.

  Reading Josephine’s story again, I was reminded of her writing group. She had mentioned it to me a few times, how it stimulated her, and the various members that joined and left. I recalled her talking about one member in particular, a Brazilian film student that Josephine had met, been impressed by, and built up a strong friendship with—all within the past year. I hadn’t met her, and I couldn’t even remember her name, but I had the impression she was a thoughtful, unique individual from Josie’s description of her. They had spent a lot of time together, and I knew they spoke often about writing. Josephine had talked at length about how interesting her films had been and how prolific she was with her talent. Now, I was hoping to find her, and see if she could tell me anything that would justify my doubts about Josie’s death. Maybe even what it was that Monika had held back.

  The open area in front of the university was quieter than the last few times I had been there. The seeping, damp, coldness of November wasn’t great for outside congregations. I made my way to the front office and waited alongside some students until I got the clerk’s attention.

  “Hi there,” he said, finally looking up from the computer.

  “Hi. I’m looking for some information about a certain writing group.”

  “Umm, can you be more specific? We have a lot of groups like that, have you checked the bulletin board?”

  “No, where is it?”

  “The online one. If you go to the website and enter your student id you should be able to find it.”

  “I’m not a student myself. I’m here for a friend of mine who was in one.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. Sorry.”

  The clerk made to turn away politely.

  “The thing is, she died recently. I’m her boyfriend, and I’m here to break the news to one of her friends.”

  He looked at me, the second time within forty-eight hours someone had tried to tell if I was lying.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Give me her name and I’ll see if I can find anything out for you.”

  “I don’t have the name of her friend, that’s what I’m trying to find out. Perhaps if you can help me find this group, though. My girlfriend’s name was Josephine Baird.”

  The clerk typed fast, I got the impression he lived in front of a screen even when he didn’t need to. Various people idly hung around in the entrance hall. From beyond the oversized wooden doors the sound of rain was faintly audible.

  “Umm, I have her record here. Let me see. I can see what modules she took, her extra modules too, but there’s nothing about a writing group. Are you sure it wasn’t a non-credit group? A lot of the student groups are organised without any interference by the university.”

  “You wouldn’t have any record of that?”

  “Well it would probably be on the online bulletin board, but we wouldn’t have records of the members, or a schedule. Nothing like that.”

  The clerk shrugged apologetically. I wondered if it was even worth the effort. It was a long shot, but after a moment’s consideration I realised there was nothing else I could pursue.

  “How many film students do you have here?”

  “Hundreds. What course do you mean specifically?”

  “Film. Arty film. Not film history or studies or anything. Film, cinematography, making films, stuff like that.”

  The clerk loo
ked at me with disguised disdain for my crudeness.

  “We have two or three courses like that.”

  “Which one involves the most practical work?”

  “The course you probably mean is Film and TV. It’s in the media block on Cowley Street.”

  “Can I see a list of the students?”

  “There are far too many students for you to find the one you’re looking for.”

  “It’s a girl, probably a foreign student. If I just saw the list I’m sure I could remember the name.”

  “I can’t give you the names of students. It’s against the rules.”

  “That’s ok, just get it up on the screen. All I want is the name. That’s all.”

  I had pushed my luck with the clerk as far as it would go. We stared at each other for a few seconds, a deadlock. He gave in, probably realising he wouldn’t easilly rid of me, and let his speedy fingers hammer once again on the keyboard.

  “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.

&nb
sp; “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.”