Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller

by Johnny Vineaux

  “Fuck you. I’m done here. Thanks for the number. I’m gonna get Vicky and leave.”

  I went to the living room where Monika’s friends were still in high spirits.

  “Come on Vicky. It’s pretty late.”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  “You’ve got school tomorrow.”

  “I can go to party and go to school after.”

  “No you can’t. You’re already sleepy, I can tell. Come on.”

  “I don’t want to!”

  The blonde girl turned Vicky around to face her, and in a sweet, child-like voice said:

  “Don’t worry, you can come to another party with us someday. We’re not going to a good party anyway.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “I promise,” said the blonde, and despite the effort, I felt some sort of indignation towards her. I never made promises to Vicky I wasn’t sure I could keep. She took promises seriously.

  I took Vicky by the hand as she said goodbye over and over again to everyone.

  “Aren’t you going to give the sunglasses back to the nice girl?”

  “It’s ok,” the blonde smiled. “She can keep them.”

  “Thanks.”

  Once Vicky had kissed and hugged and shared one last joke with everyone, including Monika, we left. On the train home Vicky knelt on the seat and stared at her reflection in the window, playing with her new sunglasses and pouting. She didn’t seem angry at me, which I was grateful for.

  “Why did you call me big bro, Vicky?”

  “That’s what Monika calls you.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  By the end of the train ride Vicky was nodding off with her head on my chest. I gently woke her up and we made our way home. She leapt onto her bed as soon as she could and crashed out. I didn’t bother waking her up to get her to brush her teeth, it was already past nine. I took off her shoes and over clothes and tucked her in, then grabbed a drink out of the fridge and flicked the TV on.

  Ten minutes later I turned it off and decided to work out. I thought about calling the psychiatrist, but supposed his office would be closed at that late hour. I wasn’t particularly into working out either, as we didn’t have any fruit or decent food. Working out without eating nutritiously afterwards isn’t the best, but I was far too anxious for bed just yet.

  I was done after about forty minutes. My body ached and I could feel sleep coming on. In the shower I noticed a bruise coming up on my neck, presumably from Sewerbird’s punch. My clothes were filthy from scuffling on the roof too.

  I wrapped a towel around my waist and emptied my coat and trouser pockets to get them ready for the wash. I found the scrap of paper with the radio message on it, the psychiatrist’s number, and also Bianca’s. Once I’d put my clothes in the laundry basket I went to the phone and dialled.

  It rang through to her answering machine—that sultry Brazilian accent.

  “Hey Bianca, it’s Joseph. Just calling to say thanks for the heads up about Sewerbird. I saw him today, and he told me some pretty interesting stuff. Can’t get my head around it though, so I was wondering if you wanted to meet up again perhaps. Something about a delete-man? Anyway, let me know, you have my number. Bye.”

  I took one last look into the fridge, wrote a note on it to do some shopping, then dropped onto the couch. I thought about turning on the TV again but I knew I'd end up wasting hours watching something dull if I did. Instead I reached over to the drawers next to the couch and pulled out some papers from the pile in the first drawer.

  The Warden was an indulgent man, unable to resist furthering my humiliation. He spat on my food—sometimes spilling it entirely onto the floor-and when he locked the door he would take his time, ensuring that I heard the loud clack of the bolt closing multiple times. Then he would wave the key in front of his grinning cheeks before shutting the hatch on the grill and whistling his way to the next cell.

  I saw in him all that I despised about humanity. I swore never to enjoy such base pleasures; never to revel in another’s misfortune. I would stare at him as he locked my door, and perhaps he mistook my intense glare for bitter hatred, or a jealousy that fed his ego. In fact, I was memorising-little by little-the exact contours of the key. When the lights went out, I scratched by the dim moonlight my own out of a wooden spoon I had stolen from the kitchen, and when it was complete, I escaped.

  Chapter 6

  The washed-out lights and plastic floors induced a kind of waking coma in me as I browsed the aisles of cans and refrigerators. I still felt a little uneasy, however, and—with that absence of thought that comes over people in supermarkets—allowed my mind to turn melancholic. I found myself contemplating things I wouldn’t normally.

  It wasn’t even the middle of November, yet the Christmas adverts were imposingly omnipresent; like warnings of an imminent event that only stringent preparation would enable you to survive. I had never liked Christmas, the ones I could remember were tinged with sadness: Vicky and I sitting on the floor of our apartment, too full from turkey to enjoy the sweet deserts I had bought too much of; tired, stupid jingles emanating from the TV, and then Vicky playing with whatever I had bought her alone as I watched oppressively conventional families on TV. Before that, when mum had lived with us, there were arguments. Her getting drunk by ten am, random people coming by the house, awkwardly sitting around and her trying to construct within minutes the pretence of a long-term stable family.

  It wasn’t long ago, when the tentative first adverts and warning shots of red and green had first began appearing, that I had considered this year could have been my first good Christmas: Josie, Vicky, and me. Cooking together, eating together, a few more presents under the tree, laughter: A Christmas that felt like the start of things, rather than an end to another drab year.

  I had hoped in a way that Josie would have been some kind of good female role model for Vicky. There were times when it seemed I was surrounded by women, that my life had been dictated by them, and as much as I resented those I didn’t like, I was deeply defensive, perhaps dependent even, on those I did.

  Monika—and I would never say it out loud—was maybe right about Vicky. I wasn’t blind; I could see Vicky wasn’t much like me, she was social, outgoing, caring. I was proud of her for it, but at the same time afraid that I wouldn’t be able to provide what Vicky needed. Afraid that soon I would stop understanding her, would stifle her simply by being who I was, and being the only real person in her life with any authority. I didn’t want to be like those parents that over-thought everything their kids did, the ones that tried to contrive their entire lives. All I wanted was for Vicky to be happy, confident in herself. To support her and let her find her own way. It scared me to think that finding her own way might mean abandoning me.

  Ironically, it was Josie who had seemed to bring Vicky out of her shell. Who got her trying the things she read about in books for real. Who gave her cds and books from another world. I was more optimistic then. It had felt like Josie would guide her in those things I could never understand, and eventually I trusted Josie to do that. Now it was like Josie had opened the door and Vicky was running through it and away from me.

  How could anyone who knew these things think Josie had committed suicide? I felt almost angry when I considered the notion. Angry, then angrier still when I thought about who had taken her away unnecessarily. That thought stuck in my chest like a stake. That, but for someone out there, Josie could still be here. That everything could be better, for me and for Vicky.

  Numb from the shop lights and self-pity, I paid for my shopping and left the supermarket. In my self-absorbed mood I almost didn’t noticed the sudden, strange gesture across the street. It happened in my periphery, and I turned to it immediately. For a split second I made eye contact, before some instinct pulled my head away and told me to act naturally.

  As I made my way down the street, I tried to recollect where I had seen that face before; what was familiar about it. A few blocks down I rem
embered: The thin guy that Bianca had pointed out at the café. Was it the same guy? All I could really remember was the tall, gaunt frame, and what seemed like lank, black hair. The guy I had just seen certainly had that look. I walked on, conscious of not turning around, hopeful that he might follow me—if indeed he was following me. Was I being paranoid? I had read once that most sensations of coincidence or de ja vu occurred not because of strange or similar circumstances, but actually because we just remembered them that way. At that point, numb from the sickly bright supermarket, and hopelessly depressed, it was entirely plausible that my mind was playing tricks on me.

  After making my way to the end of the street, I stepped into a cornershop. The window was almost entirely full of posters, phone card tariffs, and adverts. He wouldn’t see me as I leant over the ice-cream freezer, and peered out through a gap in the posters. At first the street seemed empty, then I noticed a figure standing in a doorway, a little further back from where I’d approached the shop. I couldn’t make out a face, but his hair was lank and black.

  Had the tall man been wearing a green jacket like that? I wasn’t sure, but something was definitely wrong. He looked around anxiously. I thought I noticed him look over at the shop. He reached into one of the side pockets in his green jacket, pulled out a small notebook, and intensely wrote something down in it before shoving it hurriedly back into his pocket.

  I pulled away from the freezer. Was it possible that I was being followed? I ambled through the cornerstore so as not to draw attention from the shopkeeper, wracking my brains to think of who and why anyone would be following me. I remembered the stoic but deliberate way Bianca had pointed the man out to me in the cafe.

  “He was watching us since we got here.”

  I had seen him then, but only vaguely. A shabbily dressed figure in the rain that turned and walked away. I was usually pretty sharp at noticing stuff, and I felt like I could read people well, but I had always been bad at remembering faces.

  After circling the store twice, pretending to look at tin cans and sweets, I resolved to go and simply ask whoever it was. I made for the door before realising I had what was probably fifteen kilos of shopping bag in my hand. If the guy had been following me, he might not take kindly to a head-on meeting, and with all that weight he would no doubt get away easily. It was, perhaps, an unnecessary measure, but I put my bags down beside the counter.

  “Can I leave these bags here for a second? I’ve just got to go make a call.”

  The shopkeeper glanced at me with a furrowed brow before noticing my arm.

  “You won’t be long?”

  “No, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Thanks.”

  I peeked out of the window again. He was still there, with that anxious, nervy look. A few drops of rain fell onto the window, and the heavy, grey, midday sky hinted at more to come. I swung the door open and walked briskly towards him.

  Upon scanning the street nervously, as he had been doing since he’d stood there, his gaze fell upon me, and I thought that for a split second I detected some kind of fear in his eyes. As I continued walking towards him, he seemed to suddenly realise it was him I was interested in, and shifted his feet quickly. I got within about five yards of him and raised my hand to address him. As if the gesture was some sort of threat, he immediately sprung his heels in the opposite direction and began to run. He did all this in such an awkward, unpredictable manner that it took almost a full two seconds before I started after him.

  His tall frame had a long stride, and he covered a lot of ground with his head start, but I was confident I could catch him pretty quickly in a straight race. He must have realised this himself. He swung his head round to see how close I was, and I caught a look of extreme fear in the whites of his eyes. I got almost close enough to think about jumping at him when he suddenly spun off the main road and down into a crowded, cobbled side street. It was a market street, with stalls, shops, and arches; where shoppers walked at near standing pace and in large groups, gawking at bric-a-brac and delicacies.

  He found a gap on the side and sprinted down it. I made to follow him and slammed straight into a group of young women who had been staring into a shop window. They screamed. I was thrown forward, hitting then skidding upon the hard, rough stones. My knee, then my arm, then my jaw hit the floor in quick succession, and huge bombs of pain exploded in my body. I blacked out for a second, it took me another to gather my awareness. The girls were sprawled over the pavement, still screaming. I pulled myself up and continued running.

  The marketplace got busier further in, and I had completely lost sight of the tall man. I kept running, shoving past people and taking advantage of every gap I found; hoping that he wasn’t smart enough to stop in a doorway somewhere and wait for me to pass. There was a line of cars parked to one side of the road, and I leapt onto one of them. I took a second to balance myself and scan the road from that high viewpoint. I caught a small glimpse of fast moving green about fifty yards ahead. Hoping that I wouldn’t slip, I leapt to the next car roof. There were screams and shouts as I began running upon the line of parked cars, my eyes fixed upon the place I had seen the green jacket up ahead.

  I reached the last car, dropped down to street level, and continued running. The loud clanging I had made running on the cars, coupled with the screaming of those I was knocking into, had drawn attention to me. People dispersed in front of me, presumably where green jacket had either pushed or scared them out of the way. I followed in his slipstream until I caught sight of his lank hair again.

  We were almost at the end of the market street, where the crowd thinned out. In the open space, I gained ground fast. I was close enough to tackle him. He looked back and I saw the white in his eyes again.

  A split second before I jumped, a saloon car seemed to materialise from thin air, and sent him flying. The sound of squealing tires filled the marketplace, and the car swerved off sideways, clattering into the corner of the crossroads while the tall man flipped head over heels and landed in an angular position on the other side. I skidded to a stop, the car sliding uncontrollably mere inches in front of me. My eyes still fixed on the stationary figure of the man I had been pursuing.

  My first instinct was not to check if he was ok, nor the driver of the car. The thought of calling an ambulance didn’t even enter my mind. Instead, I ran over to the prone figure and searched his pockets as all about me screams and shouts erupted. I hurriedly stuffed everything I found in his jacket and jeans pockets into my own then sprinted away. I ran faster away from him than I had chasing him.

  I ran until I couldn’t hear the screams anymore, and until the brick walled commercial area turned into an estate that I wasn’t too familiar with. I ran for a small, dark alley and dropped against the wall. The second I stopped moving I felt the pain in my body from the fall in the marketplace. My jeans were ripped at the knee, and there was blood on my face. It took a whole five minutes before I caught my breath, and once I had, I pulled out what I had stolen from the tall guy. The notebook, the pen, two scrunched-up pieces of paper, a card wallet with some cash cards, travel card, a driver’s licence that revealed his name was Karim Bedard, and a fancy mobile phone.

  I opened the notebook, it was full of gibberish; some language not even Latin, maybe Arabic, or Indian. I couldn’t even recognise the characters. The two pieces of paper were just receipts, but I kept them anyway. The mobile phone was a fancy kind of touchscreen, I wasn’t any good with gadgets; all I could figure out to do was find his contacts list. I scanned a few of the names, there were over a hundred, and none of them looked familiar.

  I pulled out a tissue and held it to my face. The stinging pain was getting worse, and by touch I guessed I had some kind of cut there. The threat of rain came good, and the random drops that had come and gone all day turned into a consistent shower. I pulled myself up and tried to find my way out of the estate.

  As soon as I found a road I knew, and began heading towards home, I remembered the shopping I had left b
ehind. It was well past midday, and though my face was hurting pretty badly, my knee getting more painful with every step, it had been a long time since Vicky had had a proper, filling, meal. I turned around and walked back towards the shop, careful to take a route that went nowhere near the market street.

  By the time I arrived home it was almost three. I dropped the shopping in the kitchen and went straight to the bathroom, knowing that the next time I sat down I wouldn’t want to to get up for quite a while. All kinds of pain were pulsating through my knee, and it was so swollen I could feel the blood pumping around it. I looked in the mirror and underneath the caked blood made out a scar that went vertically across my jawline. My search for plasters turned up nothing, and I made do with washing it up a little. The stinging sensation was almost a relief from the torturing throb of my knee. I put the shopping that needed to go in the fridge away, and sat on the sofa. I tried different positions, but none of them made the pain any easier.

  With a little effort I reached over and picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey Sandy. It’s Joseph.”

  “Oh hiya, Joseph. You good?”

  “Yeah, you?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Could you do me a little favour?”

  “You want me to pick Vicky up?”

  “Yeah, if you could. I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Sure, no problem hun. Today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No problem. You alright?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I just can’t make it in time today.”

  “Oh that’s alright. How’s Vicky, she good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Still doing those guitar lessons?”

  “No, no, I couldn’t find a teacher.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. It was Cassie’s kid who was doing them. She kept telling me about it at the gates. You should have asked her for the teacher.”

  “Yeah, I might.”