Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller (6 page)

“Hey! I wanna show you
something. I showed Josie this, too.”

He threw a loose red shirt over
his wiry frame, and picked up a few small radios—as well as a
handful of biscuits—then led me outside.

“Where are we going?”

“Not far. Trust me, if you’re
anything like Josie you’ll love this. She went crazy for it.”

I anticipated something
underwhelming as I followed him out into the quiet streets. We
walked for over twenty minutes, leaving all traces of the wealthy
neighbourhood behind, and found ourselves in a typical high
street.

“Not far now.”

He spoke as we walked but I
wasn’t really paying attention. Eventually we reached a high rise.
Sewerbird buzzed the intercom, said a few words and opened the main
door. We took the lift up to the top floor, and despite going
towards any of the apartment doors, and Sewerbird then led me up a
few more flights of stairs until we reached the roof access
door.

“Shit. It’s locked. They usually
never close the padlock. Bastards.”

“You can’t open it?”

“Don’t think so. I could go ask
my friend on the 8th floor if she has a key. Or I can ask the
landlord, but I really doubt it. Fuck! Sorry, man.”

I looked at the door.

“Wait a second,” I said, looking
around. I got lucky and found what I was looking for: a discarded
drink can. “Ok, I can probably open that padlock.”

I checked my jacket and found my
small pocket knife, then held the can steady by putting my foot on
it, so I could cut the metal.

“You know how to break open
padlocks? Where did you learn that?”

“I spent a few months in a
detention centre when I was a kid.”

“Haha! Cool.”

“Here, give me a hand. Fold this
bit over, so it’s flat.”

After a few more minutes I had
made the shim.

“Not perfect, but it should
work.”

I spat on the shim, and slid it
into the small gap where the padlock’s hook met the padlock itself.
With my two lower fingers, I continued to push, whilst with my
thumb and forefinger I pulled the hook away at the top. I felt a
little give, but not enough.

“Rusty,” I said, then took the
shim out and spat on it again.

This time, with a bit more
pressure, it worked, and the padlock separated in my hand.

“Oh shit! Nice one! You got to
teach me how to do that!”

“Weren’t you watching?”

We walked through the door out
onto the roof of the high-rise. There were cigarette butts and beer
cans on the tarmac. The wind seemed faster and stronger up this
high, almost as if it could carry me away. Beyond the waist-high
fence that lined the roof, London’s grey, damp sky went on
forever.

I walked to the edge and looked
down. The shimmering puddles and distant sounds made everything
look ethereal. I swayed over the fence, feeling the three beers I
had drank earlier. For a second I felt what it was like to float
over the city.

“Hey, check it out,” called
Sewerbird.

I turned and walked over to him.
He was holding one of the radios and kneeling, the others laid all
around him.

“Listen,” he told me, as he
tuned the radio. He settled on a station. “Can you hear it?”

Clipped sounds emanated from the
fuzz of the feedback.

“I hear something. What is
it?”

“Wait.”

He tuned the radio again, to
another station. The same staccato noises with no discernible
pattern. He turned to me and grinned.

“I still don’t get it,” I
said.

Three more times he tuned to
different frequencies, each time finding similar, meaninglessly
random sounds. I looked at him. I was losing my patience but he
continued grinning.

“Ok, ok man. Now watch
this.”

He put the radio down, leaving
it on one of the frequencies. He picked up one of the other radios
and began tuning that.

“Different frequency.”

One by one he tuned each radio
to each of the frequencies with the random noises. As he did so,
they began to complement each other, forming complete words. I
strained to make out what they were saying. He tuned the fifth and
final one, then set it down. With all the frequencies being played
at once, a repeating message could be heard clearly:

Jump and fly. Jump and fly.
Magic pieces. Flip, jump, and fly magically. Elegant seconds when
you kick out. Geared speeds when you lean forward. Jump and fly.
Jump to fly. One with you. Fly. Jump. Magic. The wheels are
yours.

I listened to it a couple of
times.

“What does it mean?”

“No idea, man. Ain’t it freaky
though?”

I pulled out a notepad and pen.
Balancing the pad on my knee I wrote down the message.

“What did Josie say about
this?”

“Josie? She loved this, man.
Said it was just what she was looking for. Asked me where I found
out about it.”

“Where did you find out about
it?”

“Oh, man, can’t tell you.”

“You told Josie though, didn’t
you.”

“She already knew about most of
that stuff. More than me anyway.”

“If you’re worried about me
revealing your ‘secrets’ then don’t. All I want to know is what
happened with Josie before she died. Do you want to help me or
not?”

“Yeah, I wanna help you. You’re
alright. But some things I just can’t tell you, man. I told you
what me and Josie talked about, showed you this—that’s enough.”

“No. It’s not enough. Where do I
go from here? All I know is she was interested in this radio stuff,
and in your art for some reason. I need a name, someone who can
tell me what Josie was trying to find out from all of this.”

“I told you. She was interested
in why I was successful. She’s not the first girl who came on to me
like that.”

“Came on to you?”

“No offence, man.”

“What a fucking egotist you are.
Josie was looking for something—the root of these messages
probably. Or this ‘delete-man’ you mentioned. What’s that?”

“Don’t lose your head, man. I
was beginning to like you.”

“I don’t give a shit if you fall
in love with me. All I want is to know what you’re not telling
me.”

“Whatever. We’re done here. I
got things to do.”

He knelt to pick up the radios.
I grabbed him by the shirt. He pushed my arm away.

“What the hell do you think
you’re doing?”

“Tell me!”

“Get lost!”

He threw a punch which
half-caught me on the shoulder. I threw one back that connected
with his side. He backed away, then jumped at me, grabbing me in a
headlock. We tumbled around for a while, each straining to get the
upper the hand. I quickly realised he was tougher than he looked. I
wasn’t going to force it out of him.

“Alright!” I shouted. “I’m
done!”

He released his arm lock, and I
took my arm away from his throat.

“You’re crazy, you know that?”
he said, leaning over and panting. He offered me his hand, and I
let him help me up.

“I just really need to know what
you’re not telling me.”

I helped him pick up the radios,
and we walked back to the roof entrance.

“Some things you’re better off
not getting involved in, you know,” he said, as we walked.

“Maybe.”

As we drew close to the
entrance, I suddenly sprinted ahead, passing through the door and
closing it behind me. I snapped the padlock shut just as he thumped
into the door on the other side.

“What the fuck?! Open the door
man!”

I leant against the wall.

“Come on, man! This ain’t funny.
We both know you’re not gonna leave me out here.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because soon as I do get out
you wouldn’t last ten seconds.”

“Where do I live?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll fucking
find you.”

“What’s my name?”

“Fucking arsehole, that’s your
name.”

“Hahaha.”

He thumped and kicked at the
door.

“I’m going to leave now,” I
said, “but if you tell me what I want to know, then I’ll mention
you’re up here to someone before I leave.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ok, I’ll drop by tomorrow
morning to see how you’re doing perhaps. Maybe you can catch a
pigeon for dinner.”

“Fuck you! Don’t you dare go
anywhere, man! I swear I’ll kill you!”

He kicked and thumped at the
door even harder, swearing and screaming.

“Ok! Ok! I’ll tell you, man!
Fuck! You there?”

“I was just leaving.”

“Wait, I’ll tell you.”

“Go on.”

“What do you want to know,
arsehole?”

“What’s this delete-man?”

“It’s a symbol.”

“What kind of symbol?”

“It’s supposed to have some kind
of power, some sort of effect that nobody knows about.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s what it is.”

“What does it look like?”

“It’s…well…a kind of stick man,
but…no, more like a crucifix, with a…”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Fuck you. Of course I know.
It’s…like a crucifix, but with a diagonal line through it, squiggly
line… or another cross over it. Or it can be a, man-thing, sort
of.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very
powerful symbol.”

“That’s what it is, now let me
out.”

“Ok forget the delete-man. Who
told you about the radio signals?”

“This is ridiculous! I’m a
fucking famous artist! Do you really think you’re gonna get away
with this shit? Fuck. You’re a criminal man.”

“Go on, tell me who.”

There was a long pause. During
which I took out my notepad. I tore off the top sheet, the one with
the message on it, and put it in my pocket.

“Claude Packard.”

“Where can I find him?”

The pause this time even longer.
I could hear Sewerbird quietly cursing to himself as he evaluated
the situation.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you
any of this.”

“Why would I?”

“There’s a design bureau called
Mixed Sources. He works there.”

“All of this seems very tame.
Why were you so afraid to tell me about it?”

“You don’t understand. Even I
don’t understand it. But the delete-man is supposed to be some
really heavy shit. Only a few people know about it. Nobody knows
where it came from, but any time it comes up, it’s always linked
with some pretty messed-up stuff, man.”

“What stuff?”

“Demons and stuff. They say even
if you just draw it, you summon some powerful shit. Like, powers,
man. Powers that could tear the world apart.”

It was my turn to pause. I
wondered if he was playing with me. It took me a few seconds to
realise he wasn’t joking.

“Hahahaha! What?! Are you
serious? Is that what you were so worried about telling me? The
most pathetic, childish conspiracy ghost story I’ve ever
heard?”

“You’re the one who wanted to
hear it. There it is, man. You’d better believe it though. For your
own sake.”

“If it’s so scary, why were you
gonna build big delete-men everywhere as your art?”

“I just said that to Josie. Just
trying to impress her.”

I leant against the wall,
chewing it over.

“You gonna let me out now or
what?”

I knelt down and slid the
notepad and my pencil under the door.

“There you go. I hope you know
how to make paper aeroplanes.”

Neither Vicky nor Monika was
home when I arrived. There was a note on the TV, and eight missed
calls on the phone, as well as a message. The note was written in
tall, loopy, elegant-but-rushed handwriting. It read:

Joseph, where the hell are
you????

Going to my place B

Bringing Vicky with me.

Call me ASAP!!!!

X

The missed calls were from
Monika too, as well as the message on the answering machine. I hit
the button to call her back, and she obviously saw my number,
because she answered the phone almost mid-sentence.

“…eight…no, eight-thirty,
Joseph! Christ, what the hell were you doing? Did you forget about
Vicky or something? Or were you just expecting me to take care of
her all night? I’m serious, I actually thought you had run off and
left me with her. I’ve been panicking all day.”

“I’m sorry. I lost track of
time. What’s that noise? Music? Where are you?”

“I’m at home with
friends—waiting for you to come pick Vicky up so we can go
out.”

“You’re boozing it up with Vicky
there?”

There was a menacing pause
before Monika spoke again.

“I swear, Joseph. If you was in
front of me I’d rip your other arm off. You’ve got no right
to—”

“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean it
like that. I’m sure you took great care of her. I just got held
up.”

“Whatever. How soon can you get
here?”

“Twenty minutes, max.”

Monika let out a long, tired
sigh.

“Ok. Get here fast, Joseph.”

I put the phone down and left
the house, jogging to the tube station. I got lucky with the trains
and found myself on an almost empty carriage heading towards
Monika’s place.

The stops seemed to take
forever, and the spaces in between dragged on. I picked up a
newspaper lying a few seats down and browsed it.

After skimming the football news
I flicked my way to the front of the paper. It was one of those
free papers; the kind with day-late news and not enough space to
properly write about any one thing. One headline in particular
caught my eye:

WIFE SENTENCED FOR MURDERING
HUSBAND

Judith Klepick, 29, was
sentenced to life in prison for the murder of her husband last
Friday. Gary Klepick, 38, died of suffocation in October under
highly suspicious circumstances. Early reports by the police
believed it to be suicide.

Mrs. Klepick’s sentence came
despite her plea of temporary insanity. She told the court she had
no recollection of killing her husband, or of the days surrounding
his death. She claimed to suffer from severe, prolonged blackouts
during which she was neither aware nor in control of her actions.
However, the court dismissed her plea as ‘a desperate attempt’ when
later information revealed she had conspired to run away with a
lover, with whom she was alleged to have had an affair.