Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller Read Online Free PDF

some
kind of proto-anarchist, Crowley-loving protester; essentially just
a junked-up screwball who had gained a bit of local celebrity
through creating art installations (a mountain of shopping carts in
the middle of a road somewhere being the most newsworthy), and
having more than the usual junkie’s turn of phrase. Despite that,
it also seemed like he had had quite a few violent run-ins with
various festival-goers and locals from small towns in England.
    More searching revealed a few
pictures. The most striking showed him in full flow as he prepared
to lob a rock through a bank during the annual May day protests. He
had a gaunt, bony look about him. From his blond-stubbled face a
wide slit of a mouth revealed barely half his teeth remained. His
head was shaved on one side, while on the other greasy locks hung
like tattered gold wallpaper. Above the neck of his duffel coat
could be seen a dramatic but tired tattoo of some sort.
    It didn’t surprise me that he
seemed dangerous and unappealing; Josie had always been interested
in such things. I could imagine the revulsion she might have felt
only inspiring her to question him further.
    Eventually I stumbled upon
something tangible; a news article from a few months earlier about
a squat in south London. The article reported an unoccupied grand
house in a wealthy area, worth over two million pounds, had been
adopted as a home by Sewerbird, a couple of other
famous-but-homeless artists, and even some rich kids looking to rub
noses with danger without straying too far from home. Via the legal
rights of squatters, and some disputes concerning the ownership of
the house, they had been allowed to stay for the past six months.
It seemed that the place had become some sort of haven for all
sorts of young, alternative, kids from the area, and whoever they
found entertaining enough to adopt.
    I noted the address and slapped
the laptop shut. Then I closed my eyes, and sank into sleep.

    Fifteen minutes later the phone
woke me up. I reached over and fumbled it to my ear. It was a
familiar voice.
    “I’m sorry to call so late,
Joseph. I just don’t know who to call, all my friends are bitches.
I can’t stay in this apartment tonight; it reminds me of her all
the time. I’m so scared, Joseph.”
    She wasn’t crying, but almost.
As soon as I heard Monika’s exasperated, pleading tone, I knew
where it was leading. I gave her my address and got up to make some
coffee.
    I was dirty from the party,
emotionally exhausted after arguing with Vicky, eager to sleep in
preparation for going to the squat tomorrow, and my headache still
hadn’t cleared up. All I wanted was sleep, but for Monika to ask me
for help, after what had happened between us, she must have had
nowhere else to go.
    After about an hour of flicking
through dull, late-night TV Monika arrived. She looked nowhere near
as good as the last time I saw her. She wore ill-fitting jeans, an
unwashed t-shirt, and hastily applied make-up that distorted her
natural looks more than it helped them.
    I gave her permission to the
kitchen and as she investigated the fridge and cupboards, eating
anything that she found interesting, she told me a drawn out and
overly descriptive story of irrational hatreds, sex, and confused
emotions. From the myriad of names and stuttering chronology I
deciphered that she had been sleeping with someone she shouldn’t
have been, which had led to a lot of gossip about her at work, and
culminated in her being dumped by both an on-off boyfriend and her
illicit lover. It was enough for me to imitate interest; Monika was
giving herself permission to be self-absorbed and really just
wanted to sound off. It was only when she eventually spoke of how
the apartment had felt scary to her since Josie’s death, and how
she had tried to spend every night since then with other people,
that I felt like I finally understood.
    Monika could have buzzed around
my kitchen saying the same thing different ways all night.
Eventually