“I was going to get my Davy to do some, but he just doesn’t sit still long enough. He’d drive the teacher mad! My youngest would love it though, she loves singing and all that. Very creative, you know. Next year I’m gonna start taking her to ballet.”
“That’d be good.”
“That place down the street, you know it? Gosh, what’s the name… They keep saying they’re gonna do classes at the school, but they can’t sort out their elbows from their arses down there. Remember those karate lessons they did? What? All of three weeks then they had to shut it down because the instructor got in an argument. My God, what a joke that was.”
“Yeah, what was that all about? Anyway, let me know when you start taking Rachel to ballet, I was thinking of taking Vicky. Thanks for that, I owe you one.”
“It’s that place… God, I’m useless with names.”
“It’s alright, I’ll see you soon anyway, thanks Sandy.”
“Ok, take care then babe.”
“You too. Bye.”
I put the phone down, glad with the relatively short conversation. Sandy was a kind woman, and lived in the same block, so Vicky could come home after playing with her kids at will. But she had a tendency to talk quite a lot. I was more than happy to sit still and play listening post on most occasions, but the events of the day had burnt me out a little.
I pulled out the fancy mobile I’d taken from green jacket and played with it a little more. Eventually I figured out how to access the messages, and read them intently. They were mostly just messages about meet ups and times—nothing of any worth. I pulled out the notebook. More foreign writing. I threw it at the TV in frustration and stretched out on the couch.
I didn’t sleep so much as zone out, coming to my senses when I heard screams around me. Vicky had brought Sandy’s two boys to the apartment, and they were running from room to room with toy guns. Shouting nonsensical words they had probably picked up from some cartoon or video game.
One of the boys ran into the room with Vicky and hid behind the couch I was lying on.
“Vicky. Keep it down. I’m not feeling well.”
They carried on screaming as they fired soft foam bullets at each other over my head.
“Vicky! Stop it!”
They carried on, my shout lost amidst their own excitement. A foam bullet hit me on the face, and though it didn’t hurt, it was close enough to my new scar to make me jump.
“Enough!”
I got up and grabbed the colourful plastic gun from Sandy’s boy, and threw it against the wall. It shattered in two.
“Take your brother and go home, Davy. You can’t play here today.”
He looked at me for a few seconds before hanging his head and running out of the room. When the door clattered shut, Vicky glared at me, red-faced and tempered.
“I fucking hate you!“
She ran to her room and slammed the door three times.
I grabbed my jacket and checked that the psychiatrist’s address that Monika had given me was in the pocket, then left—slamming the door myself.
Chapter 7
As I approached the tube station I pulled the scrap of paper out of my pocket. In that tall, elegant writing Monika had scrawled the name Dr John Hughton. Below it, his number and address. I realised that I had no idea where the street was, and decided to call. I found a telephone booth just outside the station.
Inside, a beefy guy in a hood was leaning up against the glass, uttering only a few words every minute. I checked the time and waited. It was getting late. The sky was darkening, and rush hour just beginning. The sporadic groups of people emerging from the station gradually increasing into a steady flow. I wasn’t aware of how psychotherapists operated, and I wasn’t sure if they kept office hours, but I felt adamant that I had to see him today. I didn’t want to risk visiting too late, and knew I had to get there fast.
The occupant showed no signs of life, let alone finishing his call. I knocked on the booth and when he glanced around I held up my watch. He calmly resumed into his original posture and continued. I began to pace around the booth, keeping my eyes fixed on him. While I knew was aware of my presence, he seemed not to care. I guessed he was deliberately taking his time, and almost certain that he wasn’t paying for the call either. Eventually I yanked open the door.
“Are you kidding me? I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes.”
“Close the fucking door.”
“I only need it for half a minute.”
“Are you deaf? Close the fucking door.”
We were staring at each other for all of two seconds before he grabbed the door and slammed it shut. My blood went hot. The scar on my face began to sting, and my knee throbbed. I closed my eyes and breathed. I took one last look at him and turned towards the station.
I was almost at the entrance before I realised I had no idea where I was going. I spun on my heels and walked straight back towards the phone booth. I swung the door open, grabbed a handful of the guy’s hood, and shoved him face first into the phone. It hit him somewhere in the nose and I heard a crack. He dropped the phone and brought his hands to his face. I let go of his hood and punched him stiffly beneath the ribs. Winded, he slumped over in the phone booth; coughing and spitting blood. I shoved him to the side so I could make the call.
After a few rings a message played.
“Hello, this is the office of Dr. Hughton. Dr. Hughton is currently on holiday and will not be available until Thursday the 11th of November. If you wish to discuss appointment times, please leave a message after the tone with your contact details and somebody will get back to you. Thank you.”
A tone played and I slammed the phone down. The guy was squirming against my foot, still trying to control the flow of blood out of his nose. I shoved him with the sole of my shoe and picked up the receiver again.
“Directory enquiries; Linda speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hi, I’m looking for the number of a media company called Mixed Sources.”
“Ok, one moment sir. Do you have the address?”
“No, sorry. It’s somewhere in London if that helps.”
“Bear with me a moment, please.”
I heard the heavy clacking of a fast typist.
“I have a number for Mixed Sources Media and Creative Content in Soho.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Shall I put you through?”
“Yes please.”
“Ok, thank you for your call.”
The background chatter of the call center cut out, and a second later the phone rang.
“Mixed Sources, how can I help you?”
“Hey. Can you put me through to a Claude Packard?”
There was an awkward pause.
“I’m sorry. Claude isn’t available now.”
“It’s urgent. I have a package for him that is very important.”
Again, there was an awkward pause; this time longer.
“I’m sorry, Claude passed away recently. If you bring the package to the office we’ll take care of it.”
“Oh, I see. I’m sorry.”
“That’s ok. Just bring the package to the office. All of his projects are running through other people now.”
“How did he die?”
“Suicide.”
“Oh.”
“Hold on a moment.”
I heard another enquiring voice, and she put me on hold.
“Sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
“Yeah, so just bring the package by and we’ll make sure it gets sorted. Do you have the address?”
“No.”
“Ok, so it’s 45 Frith Street. It’s just off Soho Square to your left if you’re coming from Charing Cross Road.”
“Ok, thank you very much. One thing, though. I needed to talk to Claude about something. Who would I speak to now?”
“Well that depends on the project. What was it?”
I thought about mentioning the delete-man, but the superstitious m
umbo-jumbo Sewerbird had attached to it made me think it was a bad idea.
“It’s actually a very private project I can’t talk to anyone else about.”
“I see.”
“This is why I’d like to know who I could talk to now.”
“Of course. Well you’d probably want to speak to Caroline then. But she’s extremely busy at the moment.”
“I can imagine.”
“May I take your name?”
“Yes, it’s Joseph Baird.”
It was Josephine’s surname, not mine. I hoped that maybe Josie had contacted Claude, and the surname might get me a bit closer.
“And Caroline?...”
“Caroline King. Like I said, if you come by and drop off the package we’ll take care of it. I’ll take your details and let Caroline know, then get back to you when you can arrange a meeting. But like I said, that could take quite a while.”
I gave her my number, said goodbye, and left the phonebooth. A couple of people were standing and looking at me as I left. The bloody-nosed man still crumpled and squirming in the corner. I shoved my hand in my pocket and walked away quickly.
I kept walking for what seemed like hours. I wanted to go home, to make up with Vicky, and to work out, but I felt both emotionally drained and on the verge of some discovery. I wanted to go to Mixed Sources but I had no package, and the person I’d spoken to on the phone was keen to tell me that it would be difficult to see Carol.
Claude Packard had committed suicide. I spun the thought over and over again in my mind. I wanted to tell someone; to point out that people with good media jobs at offices in Soho don’t commit suicide in the middle of projects. I wanted to lay it all out for them, all the things I had seen so far, and say ‘do you still think there’s nothing behind this?’ And yet, the moment I thought that, I knew that people would say that it was all in my head. That a message on a roof-top and some superstitious imagery doesn’t mean anything at all.
I wandered past Jack’s old apartment, where we’d spent many evenings after work getting stoned and watching kung fu films. The pub, where we’d all meet up to bitch about management and discuss how we could get better pay. Eventually, I found myself at the dog pound Josie had worked at for a while. I went inside and asked if I could look at the dogs. The clerk gave me a weird look, but I mentioned Josie and she lit up.
The dogs were mostly quiet as I idled past the cages. Apart from a few smaller dogs that yapped incessantly, most watched me with cautious, tired eyes. The pound worker followed me, telling of the dogs’ backstories and personalities. I didn’t really listen. I was thinking about what I would do next.
“Are you alright?”
The question startled me as if from a drunk stupor, and I found myself in front of a Labrador that stood wagging its tail and looking at me pitifully, as if I were the one locked up.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, I’ve got a bit of a headache. I should go.”
I left hurriedly and wandered around again, taking every side street I didn’t know and hoping to get lost, but always finding myself somewhere familiar. I passed by a stationary shop and bought a parcel box and a newspaper. A little further down the road I entered a café that was mostly empty and ordered a coffee and a piece of strawberry cake. I took a booth near the back and laid the paper out in front of me.
GIRL ARRESTED FOR DESTROYING BOOKSHOP
Becky Ardour was taken into custody yesterday morning under charges of vandalism and attempted arson. The history student, aged 23, was seen sweeping books off shelves and pushing over several large bookcases before lighting them on fire. “She was a regular customer,” said one… no previous indications of unstable mental health… fire service arrived before any…
SEX VAMPIRES
Hospitals are reporting an increase in bizarre, sex-related injuries. Primarily caused by intense biting, patients with symptoms related to deviant practises and over-exertion during intercourse have become regular occurrences at… “always had strange cases, but it just gets weirder”… attributed to the increasing presence of vampires in the media…
DAYTRIPPER COPYCATS
More than several ambulances have now been hijacked as the on-going trend of ‘daytripping’ continues. Since the first case was reported in October of several drug-users stealing an ambulance and kidnapping members of the public with the aim of inducing psychotropic episodes there have been over ten reports of kidnappings. The suspects are believed to be different in at least three of the cases. Although no links have been drawn yet between the suspects… police are warning of… driven through the park during the night… one of whom stood on the roof of the ambulance exposing himself as they passed by…
I finished my coffee and ordered another. There was a computer in the corner of the café and I paid for an hour’s worth of internet time. Online, I began searching for all I could find on the bizarre things I saw in the newspaper. I still wasn’t sure whether I had simply been out of touch, or whether there genuinely was an alarming amount of strange, unexplained occurrences happening in tandem.
My search was fairly fruitless. Aside from discovering more stories that seemed completely odd, when I tried to find any comment on the trend itself I found only extremist and unpalatable comments about how everything was an indication of the decline of British values.
I tried searching for anything regarding the delete-man, but the ambiguity of the terms wouldn’t give me anything substantial. I tried adding Sewerbird’s name, Claude’s name, Mixed Sources, Caroline King, and even Josephine’s name to the search terms, but it just threw up more obscure links. Eventually I caved in, and half-heartedly began searching for mentions of the delete-man alongside words such as ‘occult’, ‘symbology’, and ‘demons’. Unsurprisingly, I began to find a few pages that spoke about the delete-man.
Most of the articles mentioned it in passing. Often as one of many various types of curse, or spell. The most articulate definition was from a website obviously aimed at pre-teen girls who were interested in witchcraft:
...some of the most powerful, and dangerous, spells are those which evoke a certain kind of djinn – chaos djinni. Once conjured, these djinni cannot be controlled, and will cause people to act strangely and malevolently. If you notice someone acting weird, chances are there’s a djinn nearby! Although there are many types of djinni, some of the more common ones are Marid, Ifrit, Ghul, and Sila – although there are more modern interpretations of them such as the Deleterman and Carnilata.
Most of the references were like that. Brief mentions in passing, usually in conjunction with some chaotic curse or spirit that caused people to act strangely. Initially it seemed to fit in well with everything I had discovered, but so did several religious fanatics, doomsayers, and conspiracy theorists I’d found online.
Although I didn’t believe any of it, the seriousness of the people who did was obvious, and ultimately all I cared about was why Josie had been interested in this stuff. No doubt it was something she was drawn to. She was curious about a lot of things, but there must have been something beyond the mumbo jumbo and teenage love-spells which had dragged her even deeper into this. Something bigger and more tangible.
I kept browsing and found a link to a bookshop which seemed familiar. I racked my brains until I remembered that I had visited it with Josephine a long time ago on one of our meandering walks. We had only popped in for a moment, although she had struck up some conversation with the owner whilst I had wandered amongst the anarcho-spiritual books that it specialised in. I noted down the address, took my things and left the cafe.
I had grown used to the dull throbbing pain in my knee, but when I brought my hand to my face the scar felt moist. It had begun to bleed again, possibly due to the warmth of the café. I put the box I had bought onto the pavement and held a tissue to it for a while until the bleeding slowed.
It was colder and windier than before, the air moist and brittle. I mulled everything over in my mind: The suicide of Claude Packar
d, the occultist websites, the seemingly strange events occurring all over London, and the message on the rooftop. I didn’t really care about any of it, though. Every train of thought only led me back to that one question of who had killed Josie. The world could have stopped turning and crumbled in on itself for all I cared, I just needed to know. So far, all my efforts hadn’t revealed anything. Unless I was willing to believe in djinn—and I wasn’t—then I had pretty much just been going round in circles. I resolved to stop being so nice, to harden myself and take answers from people if they were not willing to give them. Angry that I had to do everything alone, a well of hatred and anger began to build up inside of me.
Monika’s plea that I shouldn’t ‘lose myself’ echoed in my ears as I paced ahead painfully. Unconsciously, I found myself walking towards the apartment she had shared with Josie. I stood on the opposite side of the street, gazing at the window that I had put my foot through in anger. It was now fixed, and although slightly different, I remembered standing in that very spot months ago, looking up at Josie dancing in her bedroom for a few minutes before I had knocked on the door to see her.
As if through the power of the memory, the light in the room came on. I stood back a bit. The only other light on in the house was a faint glimmer from the kitchen that came through the iced glass of the door. My breath stopped in my throat, in that moment I was not as sceptical of the djinn as I had been. I felt that fluttering of the heart that occurs when something you want so intensely seems on the verge of occurring almost supernaturally. I backed off a bit to see into the window a bit better, keeping my stare on the bedroom window.
It seemed like hours before anything happened. Without thought I dropped what I was carrying and stood up on the bench of the bus stop opposite the house, in order to get a better angle. My heart beat fast, and I felt the trickle of blood down my neck as my scar opened up again. A figure passed by the window, and I almost shouted. A few seconds later it passed by again, bending over in the process. I shifted along the bench and managed to get half a view of the person from behind.
Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller Page 7