Notorious - John Jones (read after .TXT) 📗

still standing, still occupied. Just a slight fracture of the law would alleviate his curiosity and urge to develop the gift he knew he had.

 

Depending on how long it would take to commune with them, he was sure he wouldn’t be there long, but how to go about it. If he was caught, he wondered, then that might dent his future career. It might damage his credibility. A criminal record would hinder his path to fame, yet, may also create publicity for him that could have a positive effect. After all, publicity was publicity, and being caught communing with twins in a gymnasium was hardly crime of the century. He would obviously try and not get caught, but if he was, no kudos lost.

 

This seemed like too good an opportunity to miss. It was simply a small break-in, which probably happened all the time. Yet, he knew he could not purchase a crowbar, because if he did, that might link him to the crime. A security camera may picture him buying it at the counter, and then that may correspond with the incident, and then there would be a knock on the door from Constable Bobby, he had guessed, but creating publicity for himself by advertising the fact that he had done it would not create too much in the way of positive regard, because he knew his star was not bright enough to warrant such a reputation.

 

He was a Z-list ‘celeb’, and would maybe be laughed at for being so blatantly obvious as to declare his little foray into the world of crime. He decided he was definitely going to do it, but there was no way he would relish being caught. This was all necessary in the path to fame. Slight risk taking for good results.

 

He knew that nobody got anywhere by following the rules. Those who did follow, who didn’t make a sound, who kept their heads down beneath a metaphorical radar, where soon forgotten, where soon confined to the attic in a few photographs in a shoe-box to be looked at by future generations.

‘Who’s that mummy?’ little Chantelle would say on a rare attic clearance foray, pointing at a picture of a man, who may be looking at the camera as if to say: ‘What are you doing? Are you taking my picture?’ They would never be camera friendly, always awkward with painted smiles, frozen in time, a small testament to their existence, a little window into that world at that time, captured forever, but fading in the memories of those related to them, at the person who never made a mark.

 

They may well have had children, and continued their bloodline, but there wouldn’t be anything else. Memories would fade in their future grandchildren, and their graves would go untended. They would make no impact on their generations. Nobody would know who they were, and even if they did, would probably barely think of them except when come across in a photograph.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Chantelle’s mother would say. ‘He might be your Grandad’s brother, or something’. Next picture. No way, thought Curio, not me. Okay, Okay, I haven’t got any kids yet, but if I get famous, then I…no, when, I get famous, I can feel it, women will be begging for me to give them children, and why not spread my seed far and wide? He nodded. Yes, the children will automatically be born famous because of me. That was good, he thought, have as many kids as possible, widen the bloodline. He hugged the book to his chest, closed his eyes, lounged back in his seat, and listened to Jerry Altkin’s experimental bebop infused jazz recordings from 1956.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

18

 

 

The mobile phone rang, and Anthony stared at the little screen that said: ‘Tom calling’. Was he calling from prison, and knew he had told the police of his excursion in to Ryvak? He knew he had to answer it, had to face up to him at some time. Why not get it over with now?

“Hi, Tom”, he said, sombrely.

“Ant, I did it, I got the address, and I hacked in. It’s fine now, I’ve just got to wait. The place’ll probably never open. Anyway, I’ll tell you about it later. You’re in this avvy, right?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll see you then”. He ended the call, and stood still on the pavement for a few moments. Shoppers passed by him without giving him a glance. He had decided to browse around the shops for a while before heading into university. He crossed to a low wall, near a bus-stop and sat down. It didn’t work, then, he thought, his call. It was rather scant and brief.

 

He had called ‘Crimespy’ and simply said: ‘There’s going to be a break-in at Ryvak tonight’, and put the receiver down. He was paranoid about his call being traced, and if it was, then others may find out and he would then be labelled a ‘grass’. He had thought afterwards, that should Tom have been caught, and given a caution, he would then maybe hack into the police records and find out where the call was made and at what time, maybe even hear a recording of the call. There would be no denying it then. No excuses.

 

Having not specified where the break-in would be, he wondered if he should have dared to mention more detail about who was breaking in, and at what location. He wished he had, but fear had made him rush the sentence and slam down the receiver. For all he knew, Ryvak might have hundreds of buildings across the country, or even world-wide. He hoped they assumed it was the new place, but nothing had seemed to come from it, so his information was obviously too scant for Tom to have been greeted by the police already there. He wondered if he should give Ryvak a call: ‘I know who broke in the other night, and I know that he’s hacked into your database. I know what he’s doing, why you think you’re losing money’. Then he thought that perhaps a letter would be easier.

 

No calls, no e-mails, no way of being traced. All he had to do was write it down. His mother had an old typewriter collecting dust in the shed. If he could produce a letter on that, then travel to a different postal district, post it to the police, then that would be less traceable, certainly by Tom. He decided there and then that he was going to do it. Yet, he still didn’t want to lose Tom as a friend. If they find out he’s hacked into that company, then they may find out about his bank siphoning, which may then in turn, link to him. Was it worth taking the risk? he wondered.

 

If he could keep Tom as a friend, then he would be unlikely to turn him in. It shouldn’t be a case of: ‘If I’m going down, you’re coming with me’. Or maybe he should just forget the whole thing. What’s done is now done. If Ryvak loses business then so what! it doesn’t affect me. I’m not going to notice anything different. The world isn’t going to stop spinning. Why should I care?

 

Yet, he did care, because it was a research company. Maybe they will come up with all sorts of wonderful cures and remedies. They were only there for the benefit of humans, for the progress and advancement of medicine, medicine which may well have taken a path via a few rats, rabbits and monkeys, but ended up on the chemist’s shelf, selling by the bucket load because it was a new wonder cure for any aches and pains and symptoms that would persist without the sacrifice of a few animals. Who cared about a few rats? The monkeys had no emotional attachment to any humans, and besides, it was all behind the scenes. Out of sight, out of mind.

 

It was the same with burgers at fast-food outlets. The cow wasn’t killed there and then. There was no choice. ‘Choose your cow sir,’ was not something ever said. They were killed behind closed doors, and then presented as ‘nice’ as possible in the packages and on the plate. So Anthony could not feel any regard or attachment to the animals. If they had to die to further human progress, then so be it. Ryvak could not close. The workers could not lose their jobs.

 

What if one rat had to die to further medical research? Who’s going to shed a tear? Not me, thought Anthony. What if Tom’s meddling cost people the chance of a cure for their ailments? Innocent people whose pain may persist because of his concerns over animal cruelty. One man’s meddling, who cannot see past the animal’s suffering for the cause of medicine, could simply cost lives, lives that I may be able to save if I stop Tom.

 

It basically came down to two types of pain. Either the animals suffered for the human cause, or people continued to suffer because Ryvak could no longer continue. There was no choice. It’s my moral duty, he thought. How can I do nothing? How can I have the knowledge of who is causing them ruin and not do anything about it? Yes, I have an obligation to medicinal advancement.

 

I’ve got to stop Tom in his blind crusade against them. He wondered if he could use his hacking skills to somehow prevent him, but then decided against it. Tom may somehow find out. Even an e-mail to Ryvak would be out of the question. Tom would easily find out who sent it, and from what computer. There was only one way he could see that he could do it without being traced, and with Tom remaining a friend of his, none the wiser. He would write the letter and hope that the police would act upon it to stop Tom’s interference.

 

He stood up and walked past a telephone box, glancing at a leaflet attached to one of the windows: ‘MISSING. Have you seen Jake Ingram? Please call this number or the police’. There was a picture of him looking stern. It was probably his passport or bus pass photograph. There was a number to ring, but Anthony paid it no attention, lost in his own thoughts, in his world of concern and fear.

 

19

 

 

He was one of three people to step off the train, and as he shrugged on a rucksack, walking towards the exit, he realised that this must have been the station where Milla had left for the school. A warm, tingling feeling ran through him and he smiled. Walking out onto the pavement, he knew where the school would be, as he had bought an A-Z featuring it, but still ended up walking along a road which was not in its direction.

 

At one point he thought about asking somebody, but eventually the map started to make sense again and he found it after twenty-six minutes, when it should easily have took him ten. It was 18:09, and Curio stood outside locked gates to a wide path that led up to the school which was obviously much still in use. On either side of him, thick, granite walls that were obviously built to last spanned away. They were just about too high to climb, and if he was seen trying to clamber over, then that would do his reputation no good whatsoever.

 

He had to find another way in, so walked along the wall to the right, hoping for a gap. After a while, it turned left and became a fence, beyond which were high, untended bushes that had been left to grow wildly. Continuing along, the fence eventually stopped at the corner to a field behind the school. This was obviously where they played their sports as there were a few traffic cones dotted around, and large patches of mud where goal mouths must have been. He walked onto the grass