Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller Read online

  295

  Delete-Man

  by Johnny Vineaux

  Chapter 1

  I tore the carpets up from the edges of the room but found nothing underneath. Then I broke off all the legs from the desk and chair—still nothing. I tore the mattress apart, broke some of the bed frame, and ripped open the pillows. Slammed the window open to the cold November gusts that came in off the street and felt around outside under the windowsill.

  After a while, I didn’t need the pretence of looking for something. I punched the walls until my fingers were raw and limp. I threw myself around and kicked at the furniture—put my foot through the window.

  Then I ran outside. I ran forever. Everything appeared to me in various shades of black. I only felt my gasping breath and pounding feet. I ended up in an alleyway by some bins and collapsed to my knees.

  Everything faded. I hadn’t lost focus like that since I was a kid. I lost my sense of time: of reality. I felt like a speck in some vast blackness, grasping for thought.

  Maybe I could have dropped dead right then, extinguished my bare sliver of an existence through decision alone. Perhaps I could have given up. Become cold and impersonal to life, but still somehow living. I don’t know, because I didn’t do that.

  Instead I chose to return to reality. To refocus, gather my unravelled thoughts, and relinquish that unreal moment. I came back, but I brought with me a knot. Deep in the pit of my gut. It twisted inside me. A perpetual, overbearing sense of something unresolved.

  The school doors opened and kids came running out of them like freed animals. Vicky skipped towards me, all flapping arms and dirty-brown locks. She was a cute girl. Her killer green eyes made me think she would grow up to be a heartbreaker, but her gangly, awkward way of moving hinted otherwise. She was only a few years away from puberty, so I would find out soon enough.

  She took my hand and we joined the parade of homeward-bound families. As we walked she repeatedly threw her head back, puffed out her cheeks, then bowed her head down as if bobbing under water. She screeched weirdly from her throat.

  “What are you being?”

  “I’m a dolphin.”

  “Ah, nice. What kind of dolphin?”

  “A fast dolphin.”

  A young boy from Vicky’s class pointed towards us. I glanced at him just before his mother pulled his hand down and dragged him away. Vicky noticed and dragged me in another direction, making the screeching noises even louder.

  “Eeegh! Eeegh! Aaeegh! Do you know what I just said?”

  “What?”

  “I said your name in dolphin.”

  “You speak dolphin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you teach me?”

  “I don’t know. Depends if you do your homework.”

  I laughed, pushing the pang of defensiveness to the back of my mind. It had blown over, mostly. The whispers of ‘one-armed bandit’, the diverted glances, and the kind of brazen attention unique to children that I used to get. I had been picking Vicky up from school for over a year. The fascination had worn off for most of them.

  When we arrived home I went straight to the kitchen, a small area segmented from the living room.

  “Are you hungry?’ I asked.

  “Yes!”

  “Do you know what dolphins eat?”

  “...”

  “Fish.”

  “Ewww! But they are fish!”

  “Dolphins aren’t fish.”

  “Yes they are!”

  “No.”

  “What are they?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  “Tell me!”

  “You’ll have to find out yourself.”

  Vicky scrambled to the computer in the corner of the living room and turned it on. If there was one genetic trait we shared it was the need to understand things. Neither of us could stand secrets. I used her curiousity all the time to get her to learn, although she probably knew it was a trick.

  Half an hour later she gave me a full lecture on the definition of mammals, the birth process of fish, and the games dolphins play, then asked me if we could have one as a pet. I told her I’d look into it. I warmed up some grilled sardines and we ate them with vegetables and rice in front of the TV.

  In the middle of a cartoon the phone rang.

  “Hello, can I speak to Joseph please?”

  “Yeah that’s me. Who is this?’

  “O my God! Have you lost your mind?! The landlord just saw what you did to Josie’s room—”

  “Monika?”

  “—and is asking me to pay for the damage. Three hundred pounds, Joseph. You’re gonna have to call him and sort this out.”

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry about that. I’ll pay.”

  “He’s going mad. I’ll give you his number so call him as soon as you can.”

  “I’ll just come by sometime.”

  “Call him, Joseph. He’s angry and has just spent the past two hours here taking it out on me.”

  “I’ll sort it out. I’ll come by Friday. I want to talk to you as well.”

  “I’m busy all this week, Joseph.”

  “I’ll bring the money.”

  “God. You’re such a pain... I’m going out on Friday. Come round about five or six then. Can you get three hundred pounds by then?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry.”

  “Ok, I’ll see you then.”

  “Bye.”

  After lunch, I worked out with a dumbbell and ran for an hour whilst Vicky occupied herself with books and the computer. I pushed my body harder than usual but a sense of frustration remained. There was a fog over my thoughts that wouldn’t clear. I let my mind wander, and it kept turning up the same idea. I spun it over and over in my mind, wondering what Monika would make of it when I told her.

  Vicky was asleep by eight—or at least pretending to be. I knew she would sometimes read by torchlight or listen to her cd player under the covers. After wasting a few hours in front of the TV I slung on my coat and went out.

  Was it synchronicity that put those memorial flowers by the lamppost? The flattened pigeon, the ambulance, the murder story on the news board. Everything seemed somehow imbued with death, as if the world had felt the loss as much as I.

  I walked aimlessly, lost in thought, finding myself by the river Thames, along one of the quiet alleyways along the north side where people rarely go but there are still benches. It was cold. November winds in full flow. On warmer days, Josephine and I had passed along the north bank a couple of times. I remembered comfortable silences, affectionate grasps, and silly conversations. Like Vicky, she’d always walk on my left so I could hold her hand.

  We’d spoken about suicide once. She had thought about it before, she said, but could never have gone through with it. I was surprised. She pulled up her sleeves and showed me the marks. Blushing slightly, she referred to being ‘stereotypically teenager’. I had joked about my own arm and we left the subject. Death was nowhere near us then.

  I remembered it with a flinch of regret. I had said suicide was weak and selfish. Something only idiots with no responsibility did. Maybe I had taken her for granted. I should have spoken less, and listened more.

  I tried to imagine her in that room, sitting on the bed with the bottle of pills in her hand; thinking. What would she have thought about? Me? The picture didn’t feel right.

  ‘Was there anything in particular troubling her?’ the policeman had asked me, and the question still echoed inside my head, because it was something I felt I ought to know—that I did know. ‘She had no reason to kill herself,’ I replied.

  *

  I rapped my knuckles and waited, feeling a little strange to be outsid
e her house once again. Monika opened the door in a towel. She was almost six-foot. All long limbs and sharp features, but there was something unrefined about her that hinted at a tough upbringing. London was full of girls like her; Eastern Europeans born and raised in places with little money or prospects, who came to London and found themselves by way of having thin bodies and sullen good looks in the right place, with the right opportunities. Suddenly thrust from one end of society to the other.

  She said hello and turned back into the house.

  “Do you want something to drink? There’s a beer in the fridge, or you can have tea.”

  “Yeah, tea would be great.”

  I followed her into the kitchen. We knew each other, but only barely. We had had brief, superficial hallway conversations, eaten meals together, and the occasional lazy Sunday morning or tired weekday evening in front of the TV: Her, Josephine, and me. There wasn’t much about Monika that interested me. Josie had sang her praises often, but to me Monika was a regular girl with good looks.

  I was also reminded, as I took a seat in the kitchen, that Monika was someone who could not remain still for more than a few seconds. In the kitchen a radio blared, a pot was exuding some hot exotic aroma, and upon the table, amongst some jeans that she was apparently altering, there lay a whole basket full of make-up. She leaned over a mirror on the counter and meticulously applied foundation. A few touches later, she swiftly moved from the counter to the cooker, put the kettle on, then grabbed the jeans from the table and began deftly jabbing a needle into them whilst talking.

  “It’s nice to see you again, actually. I didn’t think I would. How have you been then, Joseph?”

  “Not bad. How about you?”

  “O God. Busy. Work is crazy right now. I’m going to a store opening tonight—ugh.”

  “Is that for the modelling company?”

  “The agency? Yeah, kind of. I’ve been doing more admin work for them than modelling recently though. I’m a bit tired of it to be honest.”

  “Yeah, I know. I hate being objectified for my looks, too.”

  It took her a few seconds to see I was joking.

  “Funny.”

  “Are you saying I’m not good looking?”

  She laughed immediately this time.

  “No, you’re fine looking. Your clothes are a bit drab though. So you don’t have a job still?”

  “Not now, living off disability benefits. Who’s going to hire me anyway?”

  She stopped stirring the pot on the stove and turned to look at me properly for the first time since I’d arrived.

  “I don’t want to sound funny, but there are a lot of jobs you could do still. And a lot of places actually try—”

  “—to hire guys with one arm, yeah. To fill quotas and get tax cuts. You think I want to be some token for a company? Like I said, I don’t like being objectified.”

  She winked sympathetically at me.

  “Good point.”

  I picked up the cat that had begun clawing at my jeans. Monika left briskly, clutching her bath towel above her breasts. She returned holding a small make-up pencil and went back to applying make-up. A tacky song began playing on the radio. The unspoken subject hung in the air, neither of us comfortable enough yet to introduce it.

  The electric kettle clicked.

  “I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”

  I pulled cups and teabags from the cupboards, just as I had done before for Josephine in that same kitchen.

  “You want one too?”

  “No. I’m fine, thanks.”

  I sat back down with my tea and played a little with the cat, who was now perched on the table and playfully boxing my thumb. When he got bored and left I pulled the money out of my pocket and put it on the counter.

  “Here’s the money. Sorry about what happened.”

  Monika shot me an embarrassed look before taking the money and placing it inside a cookie tin.

  “Thanks. I’m sorry about that, but our landlord has been hassling me every day since he saw the room.”

  For a second I almost drew attention to her saying ‘our’.

  “What were you thinking, Joseph? That room was destroyed.”

  “I don’t know. I mean... I just...”

  Monika turned the stove off and sat down next to me.

  “It’s ok, Joseph. Never mind.”

  “When is the funeral?”

  “Next week. Sunday, I think.”

  “I’ve not even been invited.”

  “That’s her mum. You know what she’s like.”

  “Yeah. But still, the funeral isn’t about her. It’s about Josie.”

  “You want me to talk to her?”

  I shook my head and sipped my tea. Monika watched me.

  “I can’t even think properly these days. I spent the other night walking up and down the Thames remembering random things like some madman.”

  “I remember things all the time. I lived with her for over a year, Joseph.”

  “It’s like I’m on drugs or something, numb all the time. I remember things, and it’s nice, but then I always have to come back to reality, and that...”

  “I know, Joseph.”

  “Aren’t you confused? It only happened a few weeks ago. How can you not be as confused as me? Do you know something I don’t?”

  I gestured to the make-up and the jeans.

  “It doesn’t look like you’re affected at all.”

  Her face hardened, and I noticed a glisten in her eyes.

  “Well I’m not going to go around smashing things, am I, Joseph! That doesn’t change anything!”

  “It’s hardly the time for parties though, is it?”

  “What should I be doing then, Joseph? Walk the streets at night howling at the moon? Is that what you’re going to do? You’ve just got to get on with your life. That’s all there is.”

  “You don’t even understand. You’re too cold.”

  “Fuck you, Joseph!”

  She spun out of her chair but I grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re...”

  “I’m an idiot, I know.”

  She began to tremble and wipe at her eyes. I realised why she could not stay still for more than a few seconds. I let go of her arm and she went over to the mirror.

  “I loved her too, Joseph.”

  “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  I left quickly. Monika would appreciate a few seconds alone to wipe her tears. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who broke down easily. I took my time, splashing water onto my face and washing my hand thoroughly, then returned to the kitchen.

  “Oh, I forgot to ask, how’s Vicky?”

  “She’s fine. At home.”

  “On her own?”

  “Yeah. I was going to bring her, but you’re a bad influence.”

  “Hah! Better than you!”

  “Probably.”

  “Ok, I’m just going to go get dressed. Take some food if you want. I won’t be long.”

  She took the jeans and make-up then left the kitchen. I grabbed a bowl and served up some of the couscous. I had nearly finished when Monika returned, wearing an outfit that made the kitchen seem somehow too small for her extraordinarily long legs and towering physique.

  “Very nice.”

  “Thanks. You like it? I got it for free.”

  “I meant the couscous. But the outfit’s nice too. Are you going to eat?”

  “No I don’t want to make a mess. This is for lunch tomorrow.”

  As she stretched and bent around the kitchen, putting things away and storing the couscous in the fridge, she accentuated various angles and curves of her body. I watched her shifting muscles while a detached eroticism cindered in the root of my mind. I suddenly felt guilty, and reentful.

  She glanced at the clock.

  “I should get going in about half an hour. Thanks for bringing the money, Joseph.”

  “I’m not leaving
yet. There’s something I want to ask you.”

  Her eyes widened expectantly.

  “Sit down.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just listen to me. I’ve been thinking about the suicide since it happened.”

  “Not now Joseph. This isn’t the time.”

  “Just let me say something. It’s important. You’re the only one I can tell this to.”

  Her eyes rolled sympathetically.

  You know, as much as I do, that Josie didn’t seem capable of committing…of doing that.”

  “And?”

  “And…so, I don’t think she did. I think there’s something more to it.”

  “Like?”

  “Like, what if she was murdered?”

  “Oh God, Joseph. I know this is tough, but that’s just stupid. Don’t think such things. Give it time and move on. Go home, rest, and take care of Vicky. I’ve really got to go. We’ll talk some other time”

  “Wait! Come on, Monika. Think about it.”

  “Think about what? I found her, Joseph. On her bed with the pills on the table. How can that be murder?”

  “What were the pills? Where did she get them? Where was the suicide note? Come on, you know Josephine. There’s no chance at all she would commit suicide like that, even if she was thinking about it, which I still don’t believe.”

  “How can you know that, Joseph? We don’t know everything about her.”

  “Maybe not everything, but nearly everything. I shared my whole life with her these past few years, everything. You knew her for even longer, didn’t you? Don’t you think it’s strange for her to have done that? Honestly?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes you do. And you owe it to her to at least question it.”

  “Look, Josie was always complicated, and strange. That’s why I loved her. To be honest, yes, I can imagine her committing suicide. There was a lot about her we didn’t know, a lot that you didn’t know. Let’s leave it at that. I really have to go. I’m already late. Sorry Joseph.”

  She stood up. I rose with her and grabbed her arm.

  “What do you mean: a lot that I didn’t know?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Joseph! Let me go!”

  I held her tightly, willing her to divulge what it was I didn’t know. I stared into her frightened brown eyes, searching for some clue in them. She froze, mouth gaping. I realised what I was doing, let her go, and collapsed into my chair.