Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller (20 page)

“How do you know?”

“Think about what you’re saying.
You’re saying someone planned to kill Josie, did it in such a way
so as to make it look like suicide, and got away with it. It
doesn’t make any sense. That doesn’t happen.”

“It does happen.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

“How?”

“Because I’ve done it
myself.”

I watched the tortoise shift its
weight again and settle. It reared its head up high and scanned
around slowly. I looked at Monika, her face was blank. She was
still processing what I had said. I waited for a look of
understanding to enter her eyes, but her expression was frozen
stiff.

“I’ve done it. I’ve killed
someone before. I had a reason, I planned it, and I carried it
through. Nobody ever even got close to me. Don’t tell me I’m crazy
to think Josie was murdered, because I know more about it than you.
I know how fucking easy it is to kill someone. Really, fucking,
easy.”

Monika put a trembling hand over
her shaking face.

“I don’t know… That’s not funny…
Joseph… Tell me you’re joking.”

“Monika,” I pulled her hand away
from her face, “look at me. Do I look like I’m joking? You know I’m
not. I’ve never even told anyone that before, but it’s the
truth.”

“I don’t… How?,,, Who?...”

“Do you really want to
know?”

“I don’t even know.”

I looked for Vicky. She was
ambling around a few displays further down.

“You ok, Vee?”

“Are you finished?”

“Were you waiting for us?”

“Yeah, let’s go see the monkeys!
Come on!”

“Let’s go then! Lead the
way.”

I turned to Monika and put my
hand on the small of her back, ushering her forward.

“Come on.”

We headed down more rain-soaked
paths and eventually saw the monkeys. Monika was detached and quiet
for the rest of the day. The monkeys were either hiding away or
soaked. The cold seemed to have dampened their spirits. After
investigating a few more areas we left the zoo.

Evening drew close and the rain
showed no signs of letting up. Vicky wanted to eat at every junk
food place we passed, and though I was tempted to get out of the
rain as soon as possible, I wasn’t going to feed her that crap. I
caught site of a noodle place I had been to before and suggested we
grab some to take home.

“No thanks. I should get going
anyway. I’ve got to get up early tomorrow for the… you know.”

“What? Now? It’s barely past
seven. You’ve still got time.”

“Mon! You can’t go! You still
have to…”

Vicky pulled Monika’s arm so she
bent over, then she whispered something into Monika’sear. Monika
smiled, looked at me, then shrugged.

“Today?”

“Yes!”

“Ok.”

I had no idea what they were
talking about. I gave Monika a questioning look.

“Are you eating with us
then?”

“Sure.”

We ordered our food then made
our way home in the cold. There was still a tension between Monika
and me. She could barely look me in the eye, and I kept catching
her staring into space. Vicky seemed excited about something
however, and the return of her giggling energy displaced the
anxiety a little.

Within minutes of entering our
apartment, the noodle boxes were sprawled on the coffee table and
we were devouring their contents in hungry silence. I opened a
cheap bottle of wine we had picked up and handed a glass to
Monika.

“Here. You look like you need
it.”

She took the glass solemnly and
downed it in one. I poured another. When the noodles were almost
entirely gone, and we were all sprawled out and sleepy—Monika and I
on the couch, Vicky opposite us on the floor—I suggested turning on
the television.

“No!” said Vicky, jumping up in
front of us. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“Just say if you’re ready.”

I looked at Monika.

“I don’t know. Ready for
what?”

“Come on! Are you ready or
not?”

“Well I don’t know what—”

“Ok, you’re ready. Stay there.
Just wait.”

Vicky ran out of the room into
her bedroom. I turned to Monika again. She smiled at me for the
first time since we had left the zoo.

“You’ll like this, Joseph.”

“What’s this about?”

“Just wait and see.”

Vicky ran back into the room and
stood in front of us. She was carrying a scarf, a couple of her
cuddly toys, the sunglasses Monika’s friend had given her, and
various other accessories.

“Ok. Now. This is a play that I
wrote, produced, and act in. It’s called the Attack of the Dolphins
by Victoria Williamson. Are you ready? Act one, scene one…”

She put the sunglasses on and
proceeded to tell a story in which she acted the parts of all
characters, occasionally referring to her cuddly toys for support.
It was a ridiculously over the top story about vacuums, lawn
mowers, and other household appliances becoming giant titans that
terrorised New York. Somehow, this also caused global warming to
accelerate, putting half the world underwater. In an attempt to
fight back, humans enlisted the help of the dolphins, who defeated
the giant appliances by finding the plug socket and turning
everything off; resulting in complete darkness, and an ending
monologue about saving the world.

It was hilarious. I laughed
until tears fell from my eyes, and when I stopped laughing the
tears were still there. It was like watching Vicky grow up years
beyond herself instantaneously. She knew just how to make me laugh,
and hammed it up with all the self-awareness of someone three times
her age. I was blown away; beyond proud. When she’d finished, and I
had exclaimed how impressed I was, I excused myself to go to the
toilet. I returned, and she was eager to do it all again. I was
more than willing to oblige, and laughed just as much the second
time round.

“That was brilliant, Vee.”

“Did you like it?”

“I loved it! Why didn’t you tell
me you were making a play?”

“I didn’t know if you’d like
it.”

“Of course I liked it! I had no
idea you were doing that. You’re a little superstar!”

I had almost forgotten Monika
was there, until she chimed in also with her praise. We ended up
chatting about it for a while. Apparently, Monika and Vicky had
both already spoken at length about Vicky’s little play, and about
how she would go about becoming a Hollywood star. At times I felt
like I had been away on holiday and missed out on a lot that had
happened, what with the way they referenced things they had spoken
about already.

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.”

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.