“We’ll have to make copies then. This is the last one I’ve got.”
“Here. Wait.”
He pulled out a sleek looking phone and reached for the papers. I held them tight.
“Relax, man. I’m just gonna take a picture of them.”
“How are you gonna read them from a photo?”
“Eight megapixels, man!”
I had no idea what it meant, but I let him photograph the papers anyway, holding each one up for him. Once he was done we carried on up the street.
“Abdi.”
“What?”
“I don’t understand one thing. If what you’re doing is good—I mean, with good intentions, why did you run away from your brother?”
“Oh, man. You won’t understand.”
“I want to.”
“Ok. Look, it’s like this: my brother is from a different country, a different time, man. He wouldn’t understand any of this.”
“Did you even try to tell him about it?”
“Who do you think knows my brother better? You or me? He doesn’t understand anything. Except work all your life, and save your money. You think he would believe me if I told him there are symbols that affect people’s minds? Pfft! He’d think I was talking about magic or something. Think I was crazy… Actually he already does, I’m sure of it.”
I looked at him, half-hateful, and half-miserable at what he was saying.
“He loves you more than anything, Abdi. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you. He tried to put you first always.”
Abdi shot me a grimace.
“Ok, man. You’re freaking me out a little bit. No. I know what you mean though. I love him too, man. He’s my bro. But I got to live my life too, you know. We’re just too different. I can’t let him tell me what to do forever.”
I felt like crying.
We reached the hospital and I led Abdi up to the bed where I had spoken with Karim. He wasn’t there. After a brief check with the nurse we were led to another ward. Aside from a few casts and bandages the patients in this new ward looked fairly healthy. Karim was again in the corner. We walked over to him.
Karim didn’t notice Abdi until he was at the foot of the bed. When he did, there was a brief second of silence in which Karim opened his mouth and his eyes as wide as they would go. Once the moment of disbelief left his face, he began a long, volatile tirade in his native language at Abdi. Sitting up and pulling at him. Abdi tried to defend himself verbally, but his whimpering tone was swallowed by Karim’s blasts of reproaches and affections. Karim pulled Abdi, hugging and kissing him, then pushing him away and pointing an accusatory finger.
“Joseph!”
Karim turned towards me with open arms, beckoning me forward. He called my name over and over, along with some other words in his language. I approached him and when I was near enough he placed both hands on my face and pulled me towards him, kissing me aggressively on the mouth.
“Joseph! Angel!”
He let me go and I immediately wiped my mouth.
“You keep promise! Good man. I take back bad words. You good. Stupid maybe. Good, yes.”
I nodded and turned to leave.
“Wait! Thank you! Angel! I must say, thank you!”
“It’s ok. See you, Karim.”
“Stay! We talk.”
I looked at Abdi.
“No. You talk with your brother. Seems like you should.”
“Ok. You come see me, Joseph. Make another promise, ok?”
“No. One is enough.”
“Haha! Such angry man!”
“Actually. Karim…”
“Yes?”
“There is one thing you could help me with.”
“Yes? Tell me.”
“When you followed me, did you ever see someone else following me? A big guy with—”
“Yes yes yes. Big man. Look like army. Yes.”
“Short hair on the top like this?”
“Yes. Him. I see him many times. Outside your house. Stop in car when you go to school, or Josephine, or—”
“Wait. Stop. He followed me back when Josie was alive?”
“Yes! No! Josephine.”
“What?”
“He follow Josephine. Like me.”
I repeated the notion in my mind until it sunk in. Once again I felt clueless.
“Not so much. Sometimes. Once the week. I see him sometimes.”
It nearly made sense. Sebastien could have set Buzzcut after Josie long before she died, he would no doubt have liked snooping on her when she broke contact. Although why would he have set him on her before she died…
“I know where he go. Where he work.”
“The army guy?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“One company. Wait, I don’t remember.”
“Try. I have to know.”
He looked at me, visibly squirming to try and remember the name. He turned to Abdi and said something in their language, making gestures with it.
“He’s saying, like, this thing. Crap, I don’t know how to say it. Like a dip. Ketchup? Mixture?”
“Mixed sources.”
Karim shouted.
“Na’am! Yes!”
Chapter 23
I ran through the hospital corridors. The events of the past few weeks spinning wildly through my mind. With perfect clarity the direct connections began to shape themselves. One thing linked to another, and it was getting clearer at each step. Buzzcut, Mixed Sources, Hughton, Packard, Caroline King. Josie had been killed because she was about to reveal their secrets.
“Careful, mate. Floor’s wet up ahead.”
What Josie was about to say in her book, probably to anyone she could hand a copy to, must have made certain people very worried. With evidence that the symbols had powerful, unknown effects their whole business and all its money could have suffered. At some point, with all the questions, meetings, and research, she had probably drawn attention to herself. No doubt they themselves would have known they were dealing with something potentially bigger than they were.
Packard had to be the link. Perhaps he wasn’t as concerned about the symbols as he claimed, and had been siphoning information Josie gave him back to Mixed Sources. Or perhaps he had tried to raise complaints himself and had been shut down. It would explain his sudden disappearance.
I skidded past a rolling stretcher and swung into the lift, tapping anxiously at the ground floor button.
“It doesn’t go any faster if you press it like that, you know.”
“Shut up.”
The door opened and I sprinted out towards the lobby.
They probably hadn’t known about the book. Just that Josie had been poking around. Buzzcut would have seen her paint the variations on the symbols all over the city though. Maybe at this point they realised Josie wasn’t just another happy consumer of their products. Buzzcut was probably some grunt they had keep tabs on her to stop her doing anything with the information, or at least stay one step ahead if she did. But they can’t have known about the book until…
“Excuse me! Can’t you see what you just did?”
“What?”
“You nearly knocked that old man out of his wheelchair! Be a bit more careful, please!”
Hughton: Josie’s psychiatrist, contributor to her book, and most important of all, a prescriber of pills. Too smart to be suspected—Josie certainly hadn’t—but the fact my flat had been trashed, and all copies of her book stolen minutes after I had showed him a copy pointed suspicion right at him. It would have been the easiest thing to prescribe something he knew could have killed Josie. A higher dose perhaps, or something that would cause a reaction with another prescription. I remembered the wry grin on his face when he thought I was trapped, it was all the confirmation I needed.
I found myself in the lobby, pushing through a crowded accident room.
“Slow down! Your wife giving birth or something?”
“Move!”
/> But Hughton had no reason to kill her himself; a price perhaps, but no reason. Neither did Claude, or Buzzcut. Sebastien was too much of a coward; all talk and no action. And Monika did love Josie, I was an idiot to forget that, and a sorry one too. Only one person had the reason, the power, and the arrogance to kill her: Caroline King. Protecting those symbols that she accidentally discovered and irresponsibly used.
I surged forward into the revolving doors, hitting the crisp, cold wind head-first.
A few metres out from the exit I noticed a couple of phone booths. I took one, fumbled all my change into the slot, and dialled the operator. He put me through to Mixed Sources.
“Mixed Sources, how can I help you?”
“Put me through to Caroline King.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Caroline. King. Your boss. Put me through.”
“Ms. King doesn’t take unsolicited calls I’m afraid, sir. You would need to speak to her secretary in order to arrange an appointment.”
“Just put me through! I have something very important to say.”
“Do you have an appointment sir?”
“I don’t need one.”
“Sir, please calm down.”
“I am fucking calm! I’d be a lot fucking calmer if you put me through.”
“Sir, may I take your name?”
“No, look. I know Caroline King. I have something really important to tell her.”
“Would you like me to take a message?”
“Ok, fine. Take a message. You got a pen? Tell her I’m coming there to break her in fucking two. I’m gonna do to her what she did to my girlfriend. You got that?”
“…”
“Good. See you in a bit.”
I urged the bus to go faster. Tensed like a bulldog on a collar whenever it made a stop or halted at traffic lights. When it pulled in on Oxford Street, a short way from Soho Square, I hit the pavement before the doors had even opened fully.
It was only by remembering the number, 45 Frith Street, that I could find Media Sources. There were virtually no markings outside but for its logo printed less than a foot wide on the glass front. A jarring collection of lines that I presumed was the Joke-Man. Below it, in tiny writing, was written ‘Mixed Sources: One Message’. I slammed through the glass door to find myself in a bizarre environment which made no sense. To my left and right there were large desks spanning a huge room about forty foot wide. Directly in front of me, another wide desk faced the entrance, differentiated only by its lack of clutter and personalisation. A young girl wearing a plastic flower in her hair sat behind it. She looked at me and I approached.
“Where’s Caroline King?”
“Oh! We just spoke on the phone, didn’t we? I’m sorry. I told you on the phone, she doesn’t take unsoli—”
“Enough. Just tell her I’m here.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I took your message and sent it to her secretary, but—”
I slapped my hand down on the table. Glass partitions towards the far end of the area caught my eye. They looked like offices, important ones. I jumped around the reception and began heading towards them, sweeping past what seemed like hundreds of wide, self-contained desks on either side.
“Sir! Stop! Security!”
I ran faster, clattering into chairs and sending papers and stationary flying.
“Thom! Stop him!”
“What’s going on?”
“He’s some crazy drunk, get him out of here!”
Someone slid out on a wheeled office chair, blocking my path. I grabbed the back of his chair and tipped it aside, spinning him out beside me.
“Rob! Rob!”
“Where’s the other security guard!?”
I felt my coat shrink, someone had grabbed it from behind. I stamped my good leg backwards, missed, turned slightly, and stamped it again. It hit his thigh, just above his knee. I whipped my arm around just as he fell, breaking his grip and smacking him back-handed into a photocopying machine. Two nearby girls shrieked and backed away.
The glass doors was frosted at head-height, impossible to see through. I hit it shoulder first, the doors swung open lightly, sending me stumbling forward into a corridor of even more frosted glass. Printed across a large double door at the end of the corridor, in simple white letters, was the name Caroline King.
I kept my speed, bowling through a number of people who had littered the corridor to try and stop me. Hitting the double doors shoulder first again sent a tinkling thud into the air, and a slam of pain into my body. I pulled back a few steps, and attacked the doors again. Again they thudded, and the click of something cracking under duress spurred me on once more. I raised my foot, and with an instinctual roar brought it down with all the force I had in me. The doors split open, one of them disconnecting from a hinge to sharply jut forwards and hang limply.
Another hand grabbed my shoulder. I turned my head and bit it.
“Shit!”
“Fucking animal! Stay back!”
“Call the police!”
I ran through the broken doors into King’s office. A low, black leather couch set off a wide glass table and matching chair to one side. On the other, a simple black shelf of books and a series of large prints, jarring and bright. Directly in front of me, beyond a gulf of space in the middle of the room, was a simple, black desk. Two wide, thin monitors, a few papers, and behind them a big, black leather chair. Empty.
I rushed forwards, grabbed at the papers, saw they were blank, and tossed them aside. Sweeping around, sure I had missed something, I saw a mass of people begin to enter the office. They approached me slowly, fanning out at the other end of the room.
“Do something!”
“Take him down!”
They stepped closer cautiously, fronted by a couple of security guards.
“Calm down there. She’s not here.”
“Get back! Don’t come near me!”
“You’ve got nowhere to go now. What you gonna do? Just calm down.”
I turned back to the desk, put my palm against one of the monitors, and swept it as hard as I could at the crowd. It flew up, just missing the head of the security guard who had spoken, and smashed against the ceiling. Strips of light metal and glass shattered onto the crowd.
“Jesus!”
“He’s fucking crazy! Get out! Leave him here!”
“Everyone get out!”
“No! Take him down! Rush him!”
“Just stay here. The police are on their way. Just don’t let him escape.”
They backed away slowly. I paced around the room, looking for something to help me get out. Behind the desk was another frosted window. I slapped my palm against it. The clunk was deep, the window was inches think. I turned back to the crowd, they were about four deep at the doors now. I braced myself to run through them.
“Oh shit, he’s gonna fight!”
“Don’t move! He can’t get through.”
“Stop! Stop! Let me through!”
The last voice came from the girl with the plastic flower. She squeezed past the crowd and emerged in front of them. The room went silent.
“I have Ms. King on the line.”
She held the phone to her ear, and pinned a finger in the other.
“Yes. He’s in front of me now. Yes. In your office. He broke the doors, nobody could stop him. I tried to te—yes he wanted to see you. No, he called before but—”
She looked at my arm.
“Yes, the right one.”
She extended the phone towards me, stretching as much as she could to keep as far away as possible.
“She wants to speak to you.”
I took the handset. The girl snatched her arm away and stepped back into the crowd.
“Joseph?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Caroline King. I—”
“Where the fuck are you?”
“If I’d have known I would have stayed there. I’ve been meaning to speak to you for a while now.”
“Better yet, why don’t you come here?”
“Just tell me where. I’ll be there in seconds.”
“No need, Joe. I’ll send a car. That alright?”
“Don’t call me Joe.”
“Whatever you say.”
I threw the phone back towards the girl. She didn’t move, her eyes still fixed upon me, and the phone tumbled at her feet. A security guard beside her picked the phone up and brought it to his ear.
“Ms King? It’s Jorg Shulze, security administrator. You shouldn’t get close to this man, he’s—yes I know. Yes, Ms King. I understand, but we’ve contacted the—Yes. Of course, I’m sorry.”
He meekly handed the phone back to the flower girl who brought it quickly to her ear.
“Yes, Ms King. Right away.”
She clicked the phone off and gestured to me.
“Come with me then.”
The crowd parted and I followed the girl through it, out through the offices, and towards the entrance. Her phone beeped, and she glanced at it for only a second. She kept her eyes forward and walked briskly. We reached the entrance, and she held the door open for me, standing consciously out of arm’s reach as I passed through it.
A sleek, black car, expensive and German, with blacked-out windows and the understated elegance of a resting puma, pulled up in front of the entrance. Its engine let out a soft, comforting hum. Within seconds of it stopping, a suited, dark-skinned man had left the driver’s seat and was holding the passenger door open.
“Mr. Williamson.”
“Yeah?”
He said nothing, but his manner encouraged me to step inside. Before I had even settled, the back seat door was closed, and he was already in the driver’s seat again, pulling out into the road.
There was something pacifying about the car. It’s soft, large seat felt better than my couch, and the interior was made of elegantly finished leather, chrome, and a few wood panels. The ride was smooth, barely noticeable. I gazed through the blackened windows, the world seeming dimmed and distant through them.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to Ms. King’s conference room.”
“Where’s that?”
“The city, sir.”
Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller Page 25