Chapter 3
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.
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 t
he 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.”
Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller Page 3