Burnt out from excitement and constant chatter, Vicky drifted away to sleep on the couch as Monika and I finished the bottle of wine and started on a few beers. We were well on our way to nodding off drunk ourselves.
“It’s late. I’ll get Vicky into bed.”
“I should get going.”
“No, stay. Finish your drink.”
I carried Vicky to her room, undressed her, and tucked her in. I returned to the living room where Monika fondled her beer contemplatively. I pulled a plastic carrier bag from a cupboard and handed it to her.
“Here, hold this open. I’m gonna clear up a bit.”
She held the bag sullenly as I threw empty cartons and dirty napkins into it.
“What time is the funeral tomorrow?”
“We’re taking the cars from her mother’s house at ten in the morning. Service will probably finished by afternoon.”
“Then back to her house?”
“Yeah. She asked me to fix a buffet and some other stuff.”
“What time will the service be over?”
Monika glared at me.
“I’m just asking. I won’t be anywhere near it.”
“Afternoon. Maybe around midday. Funerals are always shorter than you expect, but then again, it’s a long drive to the cemetery.”
“Tie that bag up for me.”
I began clearing away the cutlery.
“Have you really killed someone, Joseph?”
I took the bag from her and put it in the trash.
“I was waiting for you to bring that up again.”
“It’s not something you can forget easily.”
“Does it really matter?”
“Some of the stuff you say… is just ridiculous.”
I felt the swell of alcohol as I dropped onto the chair opposite her.
“Everybody is going to die. You, me, Vicky. People forget that.”
“But there’s a big difference between dying naturally and murder.”
“Everyone’s a murderer. We kill animals every day that we don’t need to. There are starving Africans starving to death that people could save if they gave a bit of money. Wars that nobody cares about, little girls in sweatshops working themselves to death to make all our stuff, people feeding their kids junk food and making them breathe smoke. Everyone is killing everyone.”
“You sound like Josie. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Everything. Everyone is a murderer. The only difference with me is I don’t lie to myself that I’m innocent.”
“You’re insane Joseph. Ok then, if we’re all murderers, then why are you so worked up about Josephine?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“She didn’t deserve to die.”
“Neither do any of the people you mentioned.”
“Yeah, but they weren’t murdered.”
“But you just said there wasn’t a difference!”
“No I didn’t. I don’t remember. But she didn’t deserve to die, that’s the point.”
“And what about the person you killed?”
“They did deserve it.”
Monika snorted and shook her head. I was frustrating her.
“Each time we talk, Joseph, I get the impression you’re getting worse and worse. You’ve got issues. I really think you need to speak to someone, but I know you won’t.”
I downed the rest of my beer and put my head back on the chair.
“I speak to too many people as it is.”
“Let me just say something, Joseph. To me, it seems like you’re feeling guilty about what you did. All that stuff you said sounds like you’ve been trying to justify it. And maybe—I’m just saying—that’s the reason you’re so obsessed with Josie’s death.”
“Whatever.”
“Think about it. It’s your way of dealing with your own past. Do you not see how that makes sense? It seems obvious the more I think about it.”
“Because you’re drunk.”
“Haha! No, if anything you’re drunk. You’ve revealed more about yourself in the past two minutes than almost all the time I’ve known you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“But you know me, right?”
“Yeah I know you.”
“Of course.”
“Miss beautiful. Miss universe. Trendy clothes. Fancy job. Couple of rich boyfriends, poor you. Never actually loved anyone, never hated anyone.”
“Fuck off.”
“Tell me then, have you ever wanted to kill someone? Of course not. You don’t care about anything enough.”
“I’m not a psychopath.”
“No, you’re just little miss perfect.”
“What if I have wanted to kill someone? Does that make me a good person in your eyes?”
“It would make you human. That’s a start.”
“Ok, yeah. I’ve wanted to kill someone.”
“Who? Who did you want to kill?”
“Fuck off. I’m not telling you.”
“Go on. Tell me. I don’t believe you.”
She took a slow sip of beer and swept a hand through her thick, dark hair.
“My…”
She trailed off and sighed.
“Who?”
“Forget it.”
“Come on.”
“Let’s just say there’s a reason I sometimes feel uncomfortable with male attention.”
“You were—”
“No. I wasn’t.”
She fingered her beer gently, then remembered it and took another slow sip before speaking again.
“My mother was… kind of a… sort of prostitute.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
She swept her hand through her hair again. It was trembling.
“It took me a while to realise it. I was a teenager, and then you hear stories and stuff. But before that, I had no idea. I just used to see guys, coming to the house all the time and thought they were… I don’t know really. I hated them though. I knew something was bad though. I didn’t really know anything, though, I just hated them because they took all her attention.”
“I’m sorry, Monika.”
“Silly, really.”
“I’m an arsehole. I shouldn’t have said all that.”
“Forget it.”
We sat in silence for what seemed like hours. I didn’t want to move or say anything for fear of cracking what little remained of her.
“There was this gun; that she kept in a drawer. I don’t know why. I stole it once, and put it under my mattress. I don’t even know what I was thinking, but I had imagined I would shoot this one guy. This really fat guy who had a smug grin on his face all the time, and once pushed me out of the way.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I kept the gun there for days, then one day my mother noticed it was missing, searched my room, and found it. She just smacked me a couple of times, ranted a little while, and never mentioned it again.”
She wiped a tear.
“It wasn’t in the drawer anymore after that.”
I reached into my pocket but couldn’t find a tissue. Standing up to go over to my coat I felt the dizzying force of the alcohol I had drunk. I returned from the hallway and handed her the packet.
“Thanks.”
“It’s late. I’ll walk you home.”
Chapter 16
I shoved the glass cutter, hammer, pliers, tape, and other equipment into my backpack and dumped it in the kitchen. It was after nine, and still dark outside. I stepped out onto the balcony and looked out over the parking spaces. The blue saloon was still there, and I could just about make out Buzzcut’s broad hand resting on the steering wheel. I went back inside and got dressed. Jeans, black hoody, a grey beanie hat, a scarf that I wore high enough to cover my jaw, and an old rain jacket I had been given and never worn because it was a little small for me.
Vicky was already at Sandy’s; I had woken her up and taken her there ea
rlier in the morning; telling her that I had some things to do, and giving her some money to spend. Sandy was going Christmas shopping with her kids, and I had yet to buy any presents for Vicky—although I did have something special in mind. Vicky was smart with money, and I reckoned she would enjoy being given some to go a bit crazy with.
For the fourth time that morning I stood in the middle of the living room ensuring that I had everything I needed, and trying to foresee any problems that might arise. Once I was sure I was as prepared as I could I be, I drank a few glasses of water in huge gulps, threw my backpack over my shoulder and left the apartment.
The tower block had only one proper entrance to the front, which opened out to the parking area, and then the road. There was, however, a walkway towards the back which looked out upon a grassy area. Growing up, it had been a kind of rite of passage to make the long drop from the walkway to the ground below. It was about ten feet, and once you were old enough (and big enough) to make it then games of chase or hide and seek were a lot easier. Even as a teenager I would see the kids who played amongst the tower block zipping around and making the drop, with the smaller ones sometimes forlornly turning and heading back out for the easier (but longer) route of the front entrance. Since they’d introduced recycling bins just below the walkway a few years ago the drop could be taken by anyone, and though still dangerous, the small kids could follow the bigger ones—albeit at a slower pace. The grassy area led out to a small wall—easy to climb—and then another road. I reached the 1st floor and instead of taking the stairway down to the front entrance, where I knew Buzzcut would be waiting, I turned around and headed for the walkway.
It was cold and quiet. Sunday morning tiredness seemed to pervade the chilly atmosphere. I reached the walkway, put my hand on the rail and leapt over. It would have been safer to climb over and hand-drop but I wanted to be quick. I landed on my feet and stumbled a little. Regaining my balance I sprinted to the wall, and again put my hand down to hurdle over it. There were a few people on the road, but they paid no attention, and I began jogging into the fog—towards the train station.
“I can’t stand it anymore. Can we go yet?”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s bad, but we’ve only been here an hour. Wait until my mother brings the cake out, and then we’ll have a quick drink and go to my place.”
“What about if I go now and meet you there?”
“No, please don’t. They would love that. They’d feel vindicated.”
“Your brother has asked me about ten times about my arm. He’s just trying to provoke me now.”
“I know, I know. I don’t want to be here either, but I have to.”
“Why? I don’t understand. Why can’t you just tell them to go to hell?”
“They’re my family, Joseph.”
“Ok. Alright. Suppose I’ll just keep my head down until it’s over then.”
“Thanks.”
The house was far enough from the centre of London to be untainted by the dirtiness of crowded urban living, yet close enough to make it an appealing town house. It must have cost a lot. I reached the station after a half hour tube ride, and slowly walked up the spacious and pristine road scanning all the way. I couldn’t quite remember the location of the house, having only been there once, but I would recognise it when I saw it.
Sure enough, towards the end of the road I noticed a line of four shiny black cars with darkened windows. I crossed to the opposite side and approached slowly. Smartly dressed, capped drivers stood solemnly at the wheels. It was definitely the right one. I felt the pang of some memory and pushed it to the back of my mind.
“So how did you meet? Josie never told us.”
“Yes I did!”
“Did you? I don’t remember.”
“Yes I did. I told you. I was on… Hoxton Street I think it was. A friend of Joseph’s called his name from across the street. He was really shouting, like screaming almost. I thought he was saying my name, so I turned around and called back. Joseph was right in front of me, looking at me like I was crazy! Then I realised and said ‘Oh, my name is Josie’. And then we got talking, and that was that.”
“Oh, how cute!”
“No.”
“What?”
“No. Tell them the truth.”
“Don’t, Joseph…”
“Come on, why can’t they know?”
“I don’t want them to.”
“You shouldn’t feel ashamed. Don’t worry.”
I reached over and held her hand. She squeezed mine. Her eyes were passive; her brow furrowed. It was one of those moments when I understood why Josie needed me. An instant where I felt like I could help her as much as much as she helped me. Aggressive, stupid, overly-protective me.
“We met in a support group. I was there for anger management, and Josie was there for self-harming.”
Her mother raised a chubby hand to her mouth. The others gaped; speechless.
“Oh my…”
“But she hasn’t self-harmed since we’ve been together, and I’ve only put punched two guys since.”
I checked the time, it was a little after ten. Monika had said they were leaving at ten, so I found a decent spot on the opposite side of the road, just behind a large four wheel drive and sat on the three foot high brick wall that lined a garden. I was out of view; but by leaning slightly I could make out the entrance of the house. I looked around for other people, but the road was tranquil and empty aside from a dog walker who passed by more interested in his Chihuahua than anything I was doing.
After about ten minutes the door opened, and a few black-suited men proceeded to usher demurely dressed women through it. Soon, a steady stream of people was pouring out, and they began to get into the black cars. They must have been limos with extra seats for all the groups that herded into them. I noticed Monika, tall and slim in a classy dress; and Josie’s mother, short and squat, her legs like pale kebabs poking out from under her skirt. She wore a netted veil, and kept dabbing her hand beneath it. I felt a surge of hatred in my throat, and by the time I’d gone through a long mental rant about why it made me sick, the cars had begun pulling out. Sebastien came out with a few people last, his smug face plastered with the same annoying air of authority that he’d worn when he’d turned up at my house. He opened the door for some blonde I vaguely remembered as his wife, looked up and down the street, then entered. The last car pulled away with him inside it. I waited a whole minute before checking once again that the street was empty and nobody was looking from the windows of the neighbouring houses. I took to my feet, grabbed my bag and sprinted over to the house as swiftly as I could.
The house was large and stood on its own. I managed to get over a locked wooden fence that led down a path to the side of the house by throwing my bag over and pulling myself up onto it. The house was just as I remembered it; too open and isolated for proper security. Once I was over the gate, I scanned around outside the house from the garden, all the way to the other side. The garden was huge; bigger than I remembered. From the road it was difficult to imagine so much greenery and space lay just beyond the house. I found a large window on the side and checked it for alarm system sensors. There were none, but I was still anticipating some other sort of alarm once inside. I found the outside breaker box nearby and remembered the location.
I looked around once again and lay my bag down; fishing inside for the tape. I attached some to large areas of the window in order to maintain the strength of the glass, then reached back into my bag for the glass cutter. I attached it firmly to the lower corner of the window, close to the handle on the inside, and pressed it hard as I scored a seven inch circle. I pushed it round a few more times, and then tapped at the glass. Another couple of turns turns and it was thin enough, I pulled firmly on the centre of the cutter. After some slight twisting the perfect circle came away from the window and into my hand. I slid the glass off and placed it on the grass beside me. I threw the glass cutter into my bag and reached through the
hole to open the window from the inside. Within seconds I was standing in the large, marble and granite kitchen. I moved slowly towards the place I guessed the fuse box was, checking the corners of the ceiling for motion sensors before striking lucky: An airing cupboard just outside the kitchen entrance in the long hallway. I slammed all the switches down and hoped that would do enough to stop any further alarms from triggering should there be any.
I stalked around for a few moments amongst the first floor and all its many rooms. I reckoned that the laptop was with the rest of Josie’s things in her old bedroom, up on the second floor. Something compelled me to scan the rooms on the first floor, however. I took various objects and put them in my bag, things that looked expensive. As I passed through the rooms I became less interested in them, lost in my thoughts. Each minor detail of the house that I could recall inducing that nauseous memory again like little pinpricks in my scalp.
“No. I didn’t at all. I just pushed him out of the way.”
“Who? Sab—Sorry, Sebastien Baird?”
“Yeah, him. Josie’s brother.”
“Josephine Baird?”
“Who else?”
“According to Mr. Baird you provoked then attacked him; punching him but missing his face, hitting him in the chest instead, and causing him to fall backwards onto a table and sustain a head injury.”
“That’s a lie.”
“He also says you threatened him previously in the kitchen, after he asked you to leave the…party?”
“Birthday party. Josie’s. That’s another lie.”
“There are witnesses that corroborate his statement.”
“Look, here’s what happened. We were sitting in the living room. Josie was arguing with her mother. She got upset, started crying, and then stormed upstairs; to her room probably. Her mum and her friend went after her, still shouting. I went after them—after Josie, to speak to her, take her out of there. Sebastien stepped in front of me and tried to stop me, like he was looking after her or something. He grabbed my shoulders to stop me, and I just put my hand out and pushed him aside. That’s it.”
Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller Page 16