Free Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller by Johnny Vineaux Page B

figured out how to access the messages, and read them
intently. They were mostly just messages about meet ups and
times—nothing of any worth. I pulled out the notebook. More foreign
writing. I threw it at the TV in frustration and stretched out on
the couch.

    I didn’t sleep so much as zone
out, coming to my senses when I heard screams around me. Vicky had
brought Sandy’s two boys to the apartment, and they were running
from room to room with toy guns. Shouting nonsensical words they
had probably picked up from some cartoon or video game.
    One of the boys ran into the
room with Vicky and hid behind the couch I was lying on.
    “Vicky. Keep it down. I’m not
feeling well.”
    They carried on screaming as
they fired soft foam bullets at each other over my head.
    “Vicky! Stop it!”
    They carried on, my shout lost
amidst their own excitement. A foam bullet hit me on the face, and
though it didn’t hurt, it was close enough to my new scar to make
me jump.
    “Enough!”
    I got up and grabbed the
colourful plastic gun from Sandy’s boy, and threw it against the
wall. It shattered in two.
    “Take your brother and go home,
Davy. You can’t play here today.”
    He looked at me for a few
seconds before hanging his head and running out of the room. When
the door clattered shut, Vicky glared at me, red-faced and
tempered.
    “I fucking hate you!“
    She ran to her room and slammed
the door three times.
    I grabbed my jacket and checked
that the psychiatrist’s address that Monika had given me was in the
pocket, then left—slamming the door myself.

Chapter 7

    As I approached the tube station
I pulled the scrap of paper out of my pocket. In that tall, elegant
writing Monika had scrawled the name Dr John Hughton. Below it, his
number and address. I realised that I had no idea where the street
was, and decided to call. I found a telephone booth just outside
the station.
    Inside, a beefy guy in a hood
was leaning up against the glass, uttering only a few words every
minute. I checked the time and waited. It was getting late. The sky
was darkening, and rush hour just beginning. The sporadic groups of
people emerging from the station gradually increasing into a steady
flow. I wasn’t aware of how psychotherapists operated, and I wasn’t
sure if they kept office hours, but I felt adamant that I had to
see him today. I didn’t want to risk visiting too late, and knew I
had to get there fast.
    The occupant showed no signs of
life, let alone finishing his call. I knocked on the booth and when
he glanced around I held up my watch. He calmly resumed into his
original posture and continued. I began to pace around the booth,
keeping my eyes fixed on him. While I knew was aware of my
presence, he seemed not to care. I guessed he was deliberately
taking his time, and almost certain that he wasn’t paying for the
call either. Eventually I yanked open the door.
    “Are you kidding me? I’ve been
waiting for twenty minutes.”
    “Close the fucking door.”
    “I only need it for half a
minute.”
    “Are you deaf? Close the fucking
door.”
    We were staring at each other
for all of two seconds before he grabbed the door and slammed it
shut. My blood went hot. The scar on my face began to sting, and my
knee throbbed. I closed my eyes and breathed. I took one last look
at him and turned towards the station.
    I was almost at the entrance
before I realised I had no idea where I was going. I spun on my
heels and walked straight back towards the phone booth. I swung the
door open, grabbed a handful of the guy’s hood, and shoved him face
first into the phone. It hit him somewhere in the nose and I heard
a crack. He dropped the phone and brought his hands to his face. I
let go of his hood and punched him stiffly beneath the ribs.
Winded, he slumped over in the phone booth; coughing and spitting
blood. I shoved him to the side so I could make the call.
    After a few rings a message
played.
    “Hello, this is the office of
Dr. Hughton. Dr.